by Cooper Davis
I watch them, feeling thankful for our breakthrough, and that’s when it happens. Phillip clasps my shoulder, giving it a surprising squeeze and says, “Hunter, when do you leave tomorrow? Early?”
“Yeah, we’re rolling out of here right after breakfast.”
“Well, maybe you could have that breakfast at our house,” he offers quietly. “I mean, if there’s time.”
Max steps apart from his mother, his mouth falling open. For a moment he says nothing, the golden eyes just kind of darting between his dad and me. I know my Maxwell and what he’s thinking, because I see a spark of anger flash in his eyes. Maybe it doesn’t make sense, not with the obvious overture his dad’s just made, but it’s there nonetheless. Don’t say it, baby. Just don’t, I think, willing him not to react out of anger. Not to say what I know is coming next.
“Oh, so we’re invited to your house now?”
Damned telepathy. Guess it doesn’t work no matter how much you love your soul mate. “Hunter and me both?” Anger tinges every word.
Phillip kind of coughs, frowning at his son because there seems nothing else he can say. So I say it for them both.
“Yeah, that would be great, Phillip. We’d love to come by for breakfast tomorrow. What time you have in mind?”
The look of relief in his father’s eyes stirs something strange inside of me. Relief and gratitude, that’s what I see in his weary expression because as bizarre as it is, I’ve become a connection of sorts for him. A tenuous link to the son he obviously loves very much, even though he’s made scores of mistakes with him.
“How’s eight?” Diane chimes, slipping her arm around Max’s waist.
I glance at Max, and he gives a tentative nod, gratitude flickering in his own eyes, maybe even despite himself. “Good, we’ll be there,” I say.
Phillip extends his hand then, taking my own firmly. “Merry Christmas, son,” he says to me and for some really weird reason, I fight the urge to cry right on the spot.
Max is a nervous wreck. He circles the bedroom, checking things, zipping and unzipping the suitcase. I haven’t seen him so worked up since we came home to Winchester last time. Hell, I’m getting nervous just being near him. “Will you stop it, Maxwell?” I finally sigh in exasperation.
He turns to me, all innocent and unaware. “Stop what?”
“This. This nervous fidgeting shit. It’s making me crazy.”
He becomes still, right there in the center of the bedroom, raking his hands over his dark hair. “Max,” I say, soothing him with my voice. “It’s okay. Really.”
“What if he’s asked us there to gang up on us or something? What if he’s going to try and talk us out of the wedding? What if it’s all a set-up?” He’s talking madness, so I just draw him into my arms, holding him close.
“You know that’s not what it’s about, man.”
“No, Hunter,” he says, wrestling out of my grasp. “I don’t know that at all.”
“Why’d you get so angry at him last night?”
“What?”
“He’s making a peace overture, Maxwell. Don’t you get that? The bread machine, the invitation to the house.”
“It’s too late for opening his home to you.” The steely voice makes me glad he’s on my side.
I get quiet as he moves back to the suitcase, heaving it onto the floor. “No, it’s not,” I say. “Not at all too late.”
“Oh, Hunter, I don’t want you as my voice of reason on this,” he nearly thunders, throwing his hands into the air. “Since when did you and my father get so cozy?”
I roll my eyes, starting to get a little pissed. “I’m on your team, don’t forget that.”
“Huh, funny. I don’t see it that way.”
“He gave you a goddamned bread machine, for crying out loud!” I shout, not caring what Leah or John think. “He’s trying to make things right, but you’re as stubborn as he is.”
All that observation earns me is stony silence and a withering glare from the love of my life. Great. Fucking great. “I’m gonna go pack the car,” I say, huffing past him toward the hallway.
“Hunter, wait.”
I turn back and see that tears have filled his beautiful eyes. “I’m scared,” he admits, staring down at his loafers. “Scared that I’m getting my hopes up again for nothing.”
I drop the bag in the hallway, then step back into the room, closing the door behind us. “You know, for somebody who’s got so damned much, how can you expect so little?”
“I don’t get it.”
“You’re amazing, Maxwell. The best person I know, and you deserve their love.”
“I-I never thought I didn’t.” He shoves his hands into his pockets with an offhand shrug.
“No?”
Our gazes lock for a moment and I know he’s working at something, an important thought when he says, “I’m not sure my dad thinks I deserve his love.” Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.
“Why not?” I ask, using the most derogatory word I can think of to drive my point home, hard. “’Cause you’re a faggot?”
He nods, the tears obviously threatening again as he just stares down at the floor. “Yeah, well you’re definitely queer as they come, sweetheart,” I say, using that endearment on purpose. “So fucking what? Your old man’s gonna have to deal if he wants you in his life, and he obviously does.”
“How can you be so sure?” he asks, anguish in his quiet voice.
I step close, stroking my fingertips over the short, bristling hair that I love so much. “He ever give you a cooking utensil for Christmas before?”
“No.”
“Okay, well you think a homophobic dad typically does that? Chooses something off his queer son’s wedding registry, for chrissakes?”
He blinks at me, processing what should be so easy for him to see, then after a long moment, he begins to giggle. Kind of girlish, definitely relieved. “God, I’m an idiot,” he says. “Aren’t I?”
“He hurt you. Really damned bad, and that’s tough to get past.”
“The thing is, I want them to love you like I do,” he says, stepping near and wrapping his muscled arms around my neck.
“Baby, that’s never gonna happen. I’m your lover, not theirs.”
“Well, I want them to get you. To understand why I love you.”
“Yeah, well that’s fair enough, but it starts by opening up to them, despite the bad history.”
“I have a present for them, too,” he admits, turning toward the bed and I see a small gift tucked beside his briefcase. “I lost my nerve in giving it last night. I was going to leave it with Leah for them.”
I’m burning to know what it is, but I don’t ask. I give him space to share in his own time. “You gonna bring it then?”
He picks it up, handing it to me. “You give it to them, Hunter. I think that would be great. Perfect, as a matter of fact.”
Interesting that he doesn’t tell me what it is, just sends me off to the car, wondering what in the world we’re giving his folks.
“Come on in!” Diane says, giving me an affectionate hug. “I’m so glad you came, Hunter.” She pats me on the cheek again, like last fall, and any barriers I had against this sweet woman definitely crumble a little bit more. She’s just way too Aunt Edna for me to keep resenting her.
“Smells great,” I say, sniffing the air. Eggs and bacon hold a special place in this farm boy’s memory bank and this morning’s no exception. Their siren call draws me right toward the Daniels’ family kitchen. My feet assume a life of their own, zigzagging me right to where the good stuff’s cooking up.
“Good morning, Hunter.” Phillip looks up at me from where he’s preparing the eggs on the stovetop. Surprise number one—I had no idea that Maxwell’s dad liked to cook at all. Max follows on my heels and gets another bright greeting out of his f
ather. “Son, good morning. You sleep well?”
It’s almost as if we’d stayed right here, the way his father’s talking to us. Somehow I get the feeling he wishes we had.
“Yeah, Dad, it was good. Leah’s got a great guest bedroom.”
“Rolled out the red carpet for us.” In a shared bedroom. That’s what we’re both implying and it doesn’t even earn us a blink from his father. Instead, he proceeds to show us the fresh juices on the counter, the coffee in carafes. It’s a great spread he’s laid out for us, so I don’t waste a minute availing myself of it and reach right for a buttery pastry.
“Cool, is that skillet a Le Creuset?” Max asks, stepping close to his dad.
“Leah gave it to me for Father’s Day last year. I haven’t used it much.”
“Well, Dad, you really should. They’re great for all kinds of things.”
Then they start chitchatting about all the cookware’s potential uses, the joys of a skillet made by artisans in northern Italy, while I lean against the counter, listening in surprise. Surprise that they have this to share between them. That is, until Diane joins me, holding her mug of coffee close between both hands. “Almost like when Max was a little boy,” she says, just for me to hear.
“How’s that?” I ask.
“Well, Phillip used to make breakfast on weekends and he always got Max to help him. Would put him up on top of the chair and let him stir the eggs. Let him pop the bread into the toaster. That’s how Max first learned to cook. With his father.”
I can’t fucking believe it. No way. I could have guessed a million different possibilities and never once realized that Maxwell’s most beloved hobby comes right from his own father.
“Maybe they’ll find they have more in common than they think,” she says on a sigh, sipping her coffee. Listening to them talk endlessly about the damned skillet, I can’t help but hope she’s right.
So after all these months, I’m back at the family table again, sitting right beside Maxwell. Only this time, he talks and gestures with his hands and nobody’s paying a damned bit of attention to his ring. His parents are being great, asking loads of questions about his job, our apartment, even the plans for the spring. Max gets withdrawn when they ask about the inn where we’re holding the service, kind of clamming up a little. It’s not that he’s punishing them; I understand that. He just feels protective of what he holds most dear.
“Well, are you having music?” his mother asks after several of his shorthand answers, obviously trying to get him to open up some more.
Max kind of coughs, sipping his coffee, and so I answer for him. “A band, yeah. For the reception. The whole thing’s going to be a blast from the get go. Lots of food, booze, dancing. Not to be missed, I can tell you that.”
Uh, oh. Shit, shit, shit.
Nobody says anything for a moment, and I’m just grateful that the whole room hasn’t imploded because of my tactless comment. Without meaning to, I just created some kind of expectation for them to respond. To explain why they aren’t coming, precisely, if we’re throwing such a damned good shindig.
“I’m sure that’s true.” That’s his father’s reply, as he stares down at his plate of food, anywhere but at either of us.
“You could still come.” Max’s voice is quiet, gentle. Not accusing or desperate like it could be and I close my eyes, bracing. Bracing for the hurt to come, the rejection that I really don’t want him to experience yet again.
“Son, I don’t think that’s what you want. Not really.”
“Of course it is,” he blurts, leaning forward, hands flat on the table. “You know I’d kill for you to be there.”
There’s a long silence, but then his father blows my mind with what he says next. “Max, I should never have told you Hunter wasn’t welcome here for Christmas. I owe you both an apology for that. I’m, well, just very sorry.” Phillip glances eagerly between us both, then folds his hands into a neat little pyramid, as he continues. “Hunter, you are welcome here in our home any time. Any time, son. You and Max, please know that.”
I swallow hard, nodding. My voice is nowhere to be found, so I don’t bother with speaking. It’s Max that does so instead. “Thanks, Dad. I appreciate that. We both do.”
“I’ve been a little crazy about all this,” he admits, looking at his wife.
“Does this mean you’ll consider coming? To Vermont?” Max presses again, but I don’t have time to become hopeful before his father shakes his head.
“I can’t, son. I wish that I could.”
Max stares over his father’s shoulder, at some unseen point across the room. Maybe he’s staring into his past, at a teenage boy in drag, confused. I’m not sure, but he tilts his chin upward, proud, and says. “Yeah, Dad, I wish you could, too.”
We’re halfway back to Los Angeles, when I remember the present Maxwell had for his folks. “Damn, baby.” I glance beneath the airline seat in front of me. “We forgot your parents’ gift.”
“I didn’t forget,” he says with a vague smile. “Just wasn’t ready to give it after all.”
“So what’d you get them?” I squint into the winter sunlight, bright outside the plane window.
“It’s a picture. Of you and me out at Long Beach.”
“That one Brian took?” I ask, pretty certain I know the shot.
“Yeah.” He grins sweetly. “That’s the one.”
In the picture, I’ve got my arm right around him, holding him close, the ocean wind whipping my long hair until it clings to my face. His own short-cropped hair is sexy and tousled, his hand around my waist. That one picture says a lot about our relationship. We look married in it, in love. Like two people who’ve found the rest of their lives. It’s a couple snap shot, the kind proud parents might put on their mantle if they were supportive enough.
“Maybe some other time,” I suggest with a knowing nod. “When they’re ready for it.” I’m thinking about our wedding and that it’s still not too late for them to come.
“Maybe. If they’re ever ready, yeah, it’ll make the perfect gift.”
No, I think with a wistful smile. That wouldn’t be the perfect gift, at least not to me. My perfect gift would be Diane and Phillip Daniels there in the front aisle on wedding day, sitting with Aunt Edna when we’re joined in civil union.
But maybe gifts are like that—best when you’re only dreaming about them, not opening them up to discover what’s inside. At least that’s always been Max’s philosophy; it’s all about the unknown and the possibility of what still remains to be discovered inside the box.
So that’s how I think I’m gonna take this situation with his parents and my secret hopes for our wedding day. Kind of think that the best just might be yet to come.
Chapter Sixteen
I’m dreaming about water. Warm, salty ocean water, and it’s lapping around my bare waist. And Max is with me. He’s with me, just standing in the middle of the waves, naked and beautiful.
I lift my hand to his chest and slowly trace my fingertips down the length of him. From his nipples to his navel, I have to touch it all. Especially the rippled muscles of his abdomen, sculpted tight in a way that I’ll never be disciplined enough to achieve.
Then his hips, narrow and perfect, they fit right within the palms of my rough hands. He’s just my size, just what I need in a man.
I draw him much closer, until our chests press together, until my mouth tastes brine on his lips.
Waves push and draw against our bodies, urging us closer together, then easing us apart. Warm, like summer rain, like the way it feels to be inside of him.
I need this, I murmur into his mouth, as he opens to my kiss. All of this.
The sun is low on the horizon, and I know that the day is nearly done. A quick glance at the beach shows that we’re all alone, thrust close within the rolling waves.
Take me, he
cries, warm hands closing tight around my thighs, until we’re so near that his cock brushes against mine. Until I’m moaning into his mouth, kissing him as deeply as I can.
Not here, baby. Not just here, I protest.
Then the dream skips ahead by a few absent moments until we’re on the beach, adrift on the wet sand. Bare, completely bare in one another’s hard arms. Muscles and sinew and tendons wrap together, until I work him beneath me.
Until his slender body quivers below mine, frantic for fulfillment that I can’t seem to give him. Gritty sand burns my knees as we writhe and beg and ache to join our bodies.
But we can’t have one another, not completely.
At least not here on the beach, not in the open, where anyone might see.
Wait, I suddenly realize. Anyone can see.
That’s when I spy Leah and Phillip, off to the side, just watching us in what seems an offhand manner. Not disapproving precisely, despite the fact that they’ve discovered me buck naked atop Maxwell. I stare down into his eyes, panicked, but he only smiles at me, a little conspiratorial.
Baby, would you look? I advise, nodding toward his family. Now his mother’s there, and Veronica. Shit, Ben and Louisa, too. It’s getting worse by the moment, but despite the way I’ve begun shaking, Max seems so freaking relaxed.
It’s okay, he assures me, not even glancing toward our gathering spectators. Hunter, you’re okay.
But, but…I’m sputtering because now Julie Bernard is there. She’s the first girl I ever kissed, at a dance in eighth grade and she’s whispering with Aunt Edna and Marianne Langley. I lost my virginity to Marianne in a barn behind her father’s house when I was barely more than fifteen.
Max lifts his hand to my cheek, cupping it within his palm and says, They all know.
I don’t want to be this out!
Max points at the crowd studying us there on the beachhead. They stare like we’re a pair of odd starfish washed up on shore, not gay lovers tussling together in the foamy waves. But, Hunter, he explains. Nobody cares.