by Kelly Jensen
“You two look really good together,” Josh said.
“Heh.”
“What, you don’t like the picture?”
“No, I do, just… I don’t know. Isn’t it kind of creepy?”
“How do you mean?”
“It’s like everyone in the world is watching us kiss.”
Josh laughed. “Not everyone in the world, just half of Manhattan.”
“Oh, right. Well that makes me feel so much better.”
But it didn’t—not at all—and Dillon couldn’t figure out why.
Chapter Five
Lang braced himself as the bright blue door flung open and a woman half his height shot out, arms extended. Hana Lee didn’t care who was first—she was going to hug everyone on her front step twice or maybe three times.
“I think you got taller,” she said as she wrapped him in a grip that instantly cut off circulation to his lower body. Then it was Dillon’s turn for a squeeze and several kisses, and then it was Lang’s turn again. After his second hug, Lang decided not to wait for an invitation inside, and nearly tripped over a second small woman in the doorway. She offered a traditional bow, and he returned the greeting with a smile and a bow of his own.
“Umma, you remember Dillon’s partner, Steilang?” Hana asked.
“I am old, not stupid.” Bora Lee said, grinning.
The first time Lang met Dillon’s grandmother, he’d been taken by surprise. He was used to Hana not being typically Korean, even for a woman who’d lived all her life in America. He’d imagined Dillon’s grandmother might be more old-fashioned. Her cheeky smile suggested she was not.
Dillon did offer his grandmother a bow, though, before pulling her into his arms for what Lang fondly termed a “Lee Hug”—a cross between being crushed and loved.
“Do’Yun,” Bora crooned, using Dillon’s Korean name, before covering his face in kisses.
Lang couldn’t help his smile. No wonder Dillon was so free with his affections. He’d been raised in a loving environment, the absence of his father notwithstanding.
Shoes were left by the front door. Dillon shuffled into a pair of slippers his mother kept for him. Lang wriggled his toes inside his socks, warm enough because Hana Lee’s house was always cozy. Dillon had offered to buy her something larger, but he hadn’t tried very hard to persuade her, and Lang could understand why. Small, scrupulously tidy, and always smelling of food and flowers, the cottage said “home” in so many ways—ways that couldn’t possibly be moved or replaced. Every room was painted a different color, doors and window frames included. But there was a theme that seemed to flow from space to space, as though a sun rose through the front part of the house and set in the bedrooms. Light to somber and restful. The kitchen sat at the very heart, overlooking a courtyard decorated with planter boxes and trellises that promised a riot of color and scent in spring and summer.
Lang set the box of chocolates he’d brought on the crowded kitchen table. Clucking, Hana plucked it right back up and shook her head. “I told Dillon you didn’t have to bring anything.
So it began.
Lang smiled his most benign smile as they went through the discussion that had become as familiar and dear to him as waking up beside Dillon every morning. Hana inspected the chocolates, insisted they were too much, had probably cost more than all the rest of the dinner put together (they might have), said the box was pretty and she’d find a use for it, ate one and proclaimed it too rich, but conceded maybe they’d go with coffee, because, of course, she’d already made dessert.
She snuck another chocolate as she transferred the box to the antique sideboard behind the kitchen table, and patted the ribbon before turning to ask what everyone wanted to drink.
“I’ll have tea,” Dillon answered.
Hana turned from the fridge, two bottles of beer already in hand. “Tea? Aren’t you feeling well?”
Bora immediately pressed her hand to one of Dillon’s cheeks. “He feels a little flushed.”
Dillon jerked away from her touch, lifting a hand to fend his grandmother off. “I’m fine.” He tugged at his collar. “Is it warm in here?”
Lang narrowed his eyes, as though squinting at Dillon would provide a clearer picture. Dillon had seemed fine that morning, cuddly and easily aroused—not that it was ever hard to get him going. Lang smiled at the memory and felt his smile wilt as Bora Lee turned her gaze to him.
“It’s all those windows in your apartment. Do you keep them closed at night?”
“Windows,” Lang repeated dumbly.
“Sit,” Hana instructed, pushing a glass and a bottle of beer in front of him.
Lang decided not to ask for tea.
Dillon sat next to him. “I’m fine, Mom. Hungry, probably. Got a bit dizzy.”
The kitchen table sat only four, giving them each a side of the small square with Hana closest to the stove, Bora to her left, then Dillon, then Lang.
Lang reached under the table to squeeze Dillon’s knee. “Are you sure that’s it?”
Dillon had complained about being dizzy a couple of days ago, and he’d been a little weird all week. Tired, but not able to sleep. Hungry at odd hours. Last night, Lang had found him sitting at the kitchen counter, staring at the arm he had resting on the surface while he traced a finger up and down. Lang had formed the distinct impression Dillon was imagining the arm wasn’t his. Then he’d blinked, and it had just been Dillon doodling on his skin, his expression tired and a little lost.
Now, Dillon shot him a quick smile. “I’m fine. It’s probably nerves. School starts tomorrow.”
“You’ve been working too hard getting everything set up,” Hana said. She turned to Lang. “You should let him sleep tonight.” Her sage nod was lightened by the slight uptick of her lips.
Blushing, Lang withdrew his hand. “Yes, ma’am.”
Hana began carrying plates and platters to the table, and Lang’s stomach groaned. The skewered chicken smelled delicious, as did the piles of noodles and vegetables and the small bowls of broth she set in front of each place. They all declared how much they would eat, and, as was tradition, Bora was served first. When it came to Lang’s turn, Hana insisted he hadn’t taken enough food—as was also tradition. Then eating replaced conversation for a while after that.
Aside from appreciating being treated as one of the family by Dillon’s mother and now his grandmother, Lang enjoyed visiting Hana’s home. He’d read up on Korean culture before that first terrifying visit at the end of the summer, and had been both disappointed and relieved to find the Lee home more American than expected. Hana hadn’t dispensed with her Korean heritage, she seemed to incorporate aspects of it seamlessly into her life, and Lang liked that. She was comfortable with who she was and where she was. After all his struggles to settle on Earth as a human, Lang appreciated her way of doing things.
Between helpings, conversation started back up again.
“I’ve had two phone calls about your father this week,” Hana said, glancing at Dillon.
Dillon waved a dismissive hand. “Probably for the background check.”
“For your new school?” Lang asked. “I thought that was already done.”
Dillon shrugged. “The father-grandfather thing tripped them up. I got a call on Thursday.”
“They called me on Friday,” Hana said. “The other man, he asked many questions about you, too, Lang.”
If Lang’s ears could prick, they would. Instead, the skin behind them tingled. “What man?”
“He said he was doing a story on you and Dillon. I told him I had no comment, like they do in the movies.”
“Probably a good idea,” Dillon put in. He turned to Lang. “What was the name of that reporter we’re supposed to be talking to?”
“Wesley Kohen,” Lang answered.
Hana held up her spoon. “That was him. So I should keep saying ‘no comment’?”
“Yes,” Dillon said.
Lang scrubbed the back of his neck. “I’m so
rry. I’m meeting with him tomorrow. I’ll tell him not to contact you again.”
“I don’t mind.” Hana smiled. “Is he the one who took all those pictures?”
Dillon groaned. “Ugh, you’re still looking at those?”
The photos had been reposted so many times, Lang had had to pause his Google alert. The nice one of them showed up the most, but the second-most popular one bothered him. It was of Dillon with his eyes clenched tight, hands bright and white in front of his face. Not for the first time, Lang wondered if the photos had anything to do with Dillon’s odd mood. They’d discussed the photos briefly, both of them obviously trying to be lighthearted about the whole thing. Lang had assured Dillon that their notoriety would wear off soon, and Dillon seemed happy to take his word for it. So, Dillon’s mood probably had little to do with Lang. He was not the center of Dillon’s universe.
Oh, but I would like to be.
“I want a copy of the one where you are holding hands,” Bora said with a sweet smile. “Very lovely.”
“I could arrange that,” Lang said, hoping to put an end to the conversation.
“How about if…” Color suffused Dillon’s cheeks as he shot Lang an earnest look. No, a silent plea framed in softness. “We could take a better picture.”
Lang’s lips quirked up as the idea caught hold. “Yes. We could.” Dillon snapped something he called “selfies” all the time, usually hooking a slender arm around Lang’s neck to pull him in close before encouraging him to “smile!” Perhaps they could stage something a little less candid, but personable. A picture of them appreciating life.
Lang glanced in Bora’s direction and mentally added: a picture where they weren’t about to kiss.
“I can think of a good occasion for pictures,” Hana said, her small round face creasing with her smile. “Though maybe you should wait for spring, when the flowers are blooming. They host lovely ceremonies at Birch Grove.
“Mom!” Dillon made a small choking sound. “It’s only been six months.”
Lang glanced from one Lee to the other. “What ceremony?”
Bora reached across the table to pat Lang’s hand. “When you two get married. It’s all legal now, you know.”
Dillon wanted to crawl under the table, and then keep crawling. Through the floor, the basement, the dirt beneath. If he tunneled for long enough, he’d pop out in the Indian Ocean and could swim for the west coast of Australia. Not that he really wanted to run away. Not from Lang, anyway.
His embarrassing family? Very much so at the moment.
“Mom, please. Can we just eat lunch? There’s plenty of time for Lang and me to talk about, um, our future.”
Lang was giving him a curious look—and trying not to interpret it was giving Dillon another case of stomach knots. He put a hand on his gut. His stomach hadn’t been happy lately. He kept having dizzy spells, too, mostly when he was with other people. Maybe he was coming down with a bug. That would explain the restless dreams that had plagued him the last couple of times he’d managed more than two hours’ sleep.
His grandmother was holding an iPhone the size of a raft, encased in pink gemstones. After swiping the screen a few times, she showed it to Dillon and there it was, the picture his mom had texted the link for earlier in the week.
Dillon had tried not to look at it more often than necessary. He’d been busy for a start. The rest of the furniture had arrived and it had taken him, Josh, Micah, and Lang the most of Friday and Saturday to assemble and set it up, leaving Dillon little time for mooning over a stolen moment. It was weird, though, knowing millions of strangers were looking at the same image. Sometimes he imagined they were all somehow in his head—all their thoughts and feelings crowding out his own wants and desires until it seemed as if he was cowering at the back of his skull. His only respite had come late at night when Lang was either working or asleep and Dillon could roam the apartment on his own, grateful for the feeling it was only him in his head for a while.
He was way too keyed up about the school opening tomorrow.
His grandmother touched the screen and smiled. “Very lovely, like you’re married already.”
“Have you thought about kids?” Hana asked.
Had he ever been thankful his family never questioned his sexuality? Moaning, Dillon pressed his hand closer to his gut.
His mother immediately returned to the Dillon-is-not-well spiel. “What did you have for breakfast? Have you been feeling like this all week?”
“I’m fine. I’m just not ready to talk about everything in my life.” Dillon put both hands flat on the table, palms down. “Listen, I can’t tell you both enough how much I adore you, and I’m so lucky to have a family that cares about everything I do.”
“We’re still not certain about…” His mom touched a few places on her face, indicating his hardware.
“But you’ve always let me be me.”
His grandmother reached over to his hand. “Of course.”
“So let me do this my way as well.”
He shot a look at Lang, who seemed a little pale. Should he do a little Bora-style hand patting? Nope, she’d beaten him to it, and Lang was awkwardly trying to pat her hands in return.
Dillon’s mom was studying Lang’s fingers, all three of them, with a thoughtful expression. They’d used the birth defect story, and she’d never mentioned how many fingers Dillon’s father had, but Dillon knew it’d have to have been three also. Three and a thumb, like all clan.
She glanced up to meet his gaze, and as always, her eyes flickered back and forth as she studied his features, including his new eye color. Would there come a point when the questions piled up high enough that she would start asking them?
Please let it not be today. Or this week.
Next year would work.
Hi mom smiled and Dillon smiled back. Then she asked, “Are your eyes bothering you?”
“I’m fine, Mom. I’m excited and maybe a bit anxious about the first day of classes tomorrow, that’s all.”
Her smile widened. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Thanks.”
His mother and grandmother poked at the marriage thing a few more times throughout the afternoon, but with such good nature, Dillon was able to convince himself they were sharing a joke. All except Lang, who seemed quieter than usual, meaning very quiet. As Dillon drove them back to the city in the small Toyota hybrid he’d bought last year, he pondered Lang’s solemn mien and wondered if he should be worried.
“I’m sorry about my mom and my grandmother,” he offered.
Lang turned to him with a small smile and shook his head. “They love you very much.”
“They also love embarrassing me very much. I’m going to stop texting pictures to them.”
Lang chuckled. “But they enjoy sharing your life with you.”
What about you?
Keeping the question to himself, Dillon paid attention to the road for the time it took him to decide none of the lanes queuing up for the Lincoln Tunnel would make it to Manhattan any faster than the others. He rubbed at the crease between his eyebrows.
“Are your eyes bothering you?” Lang asked. “I could drive if you like.”
“Ah, no. The world would have to be ending before I’d let you drive.”
Of all the unexpected things about Lang, that he was the world’s worst driver had been the most surprising. He had no concept of road rules or speed limits.
Lang laughed. “I thought perhaps you could use the distraction.”
“No kidding.”
Sobering a little, Lang asked, “Are you sure everything is okay?”
“Yeah. I haven’t been sleeping well.” Dillon peered over at Lang. “I’ve been having really vivid dreams.” Similar to the being-squashed-out-of-his-brain feeling he’d been wondering about earlier, with disturbing visual elements. “Do you think it’s because I’m trying to keep a human sleep schedule?”
“Perhaps. Or maybe it’s anxiety.” He caught Dillon’s
free hand in his and drew it into his lap. “Tomorrow will go well.”
“I know. It’s only two classes.” Dillon squeezed Lang’s fingers before loosening his hold and glanced over. “You’re good with how things are between us, right?”
“Very good.” Lang’s smile held a question, though. “And you?”
“Very good.” Dillon flashed a grin. “No pressure, right? We’ll do what we want to do, in our own way.”
“I have explained how bonding works among clan,” Lang said.
Because they grew their offspring in womb-like tanks, bonding was less formal than human marriage. It wasn’t expected. Clan children did not grow up dreaming of tall cakes and white doves, but most did hope to find a partner to bond with, either in a familial way—as a sibling or cousin—or a romantic way as a lover. As with marriage, though, a bond was a legal agreement made for the purposes of protecting assets, titles, and succession. But while gender didn’t factor into their legal arrangements—sexuality was broad and inclusive among the clan—their respective bloodlines did.
“We wouldn’t be allowed to bond on Jord”—the clan home planet—“so I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” Dillon said.
“We could ask for special permission. Bonding between clans does happen on occasion, and given my circumstances, I would think it would be allowed.”
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
Lang made an expression that fell somewhere between smile and grimace. “I don’t like it when you answer my questions with vague questions of your own.”
Dillon rolled his eyes. “Okay, let me ask you this, then. Why are we talking about clan bonding?”
Lang seemed to ponder this for a moment before shrugging softly. “Honestly, I don’t know. I—” His brow crinkled. “—sought to offer reassurance that I was content in our relationship. Happy. I know we’re very different and…” He trailed off in a very un-Lang-like manner and turned to gaze at the converging traffic.