Even over the banging of pans, the hum of the exhaust fan, and my own humming—a habit I’d picked up from my mother—I heard the snick of the key turning in the lock. Despite my worries, my body went taut with excitement, a breath caught in my chest, and a smile curled into my cheeks.
“Honey, I’m home,” Logan announced, stepping into the kitchen. He spread his arms wide and let me give him a good once-over. His cornflower-blue T-shirt tracked the curves of his muscles, clinging to his biceps and revealing the art down his arms. He was wearing his heavy jeans and boots, and as I stepped into his arms, I could smell the lingering scent of exhaust. I buried my nose in his neck and inhaled, pushing past that caustic odor to Logan’s.
“Welcome home. You rode your bike.”
His hum rumbled against my mouth as I worked my kisses up his shoulder and neck. “You can tell?”
“You only wear those boots when you ride. Also, you stink like city when you do.”
His arms slid around me, and he tucked his hands into my back pockets. “And yet you’re sniffing me like a tom on the prowl.”
“Maybe I really like those boots.” I dragged my hands up his sides, playing over the spots I knew were a little ticklish, then swooped them around his back to hook them on his shoulders. “Also, I’m looking forward to when it’s warm enough that I can ride with you. Which is not today.”
“No.” He sniffed. “Today smells like something delicious.”
“Shit.” I pulled away and dashed over to the sauce that wasn’t yet burning on the stove. “Dinner will be ready in a bit.”
“Mmm.” He stepped behind me, hands on my hips and crotch on my ass, like he wanted me to burn dinner. “I’m definitely hungry.”
I wiggled my hips in time with the stirring and tried not to giggle as I said, “Good, because I’ve got plenty for you to eat.”
He nestled his lips against my neck, his warm breath brushing my skin like the barest of kisses. “You never leave me unsatisfied.”
“Ohh, someone knows what to say to get lucky,” I teased.
His answer was soft and low, suddenly serious. “I don’t have to get lucky—I already am.”
The kiss on my neck finished the line: because I have you.
I melted like the butterscotch sap I was. “I love you.”
He gave a playful nip on my shoulder, then straightened, simply holding me close, his head beside mine. “I love you too.”
We danced around the kitchen a little more as I put the final touches on dinner, and despite all the potential distractions, it managed to reach the table unburned.
“How was your day?” I asked, feeling like a housewife, even though I, too, had been at work all day.
He shrugged. “Same old. Lug International wants me to design a new logo for them, so that’s exciting.” He chuckled. “Well, as exciting as logo design ever is.”
“But it’s a big name, so that’s huge! I’m surprised they’re going with a freelancer. Don’t they have a whole staff that does that for them?”
“Yeah, but they wanted ‘fresh blood’ to bring ‘new ideas’ to the table. I did some work for one of the suits, it seems, and she was impressed enough to recommend me. Voilà.”
“That’s awesome!”
“We’ll see. How was your day? Big boss still being a fuck-face?” His lips curled in a slight smirk, as if he was concerned but also a bit amused at my struggle. I wanted to kiss that smirk right off him.
I groaned instead. “I don’t know. He gave his directive and then left for vacation. The mini-bosses are all trying to figure out a way to implement it without fucking everyone over, which is nice of them. Of course, that means we’re being called into meetings every ten minutes with ‘Will this work?’ being thrown at us.” I sighed, letting my frustration escape with the air. “We think we have a solution and it’ll be okay. So that’s what we’ll be implementing this week.”
“Least it’s a short one? And you get a long weekend? Isn’t your company off Friday and Monday? I’m sure we can find something to do to make up for a shitty week.”
“Yeah.” I grimaced. I’d been hoping to put the conversation off until later—to avoid spoiling what had turned out to be a pretty excellent meal—but there was no way to change the subject without being obvious. Or lying. “My mom wants me to go there for Easter, though.” I dropped my eyes to my plate and focused on cutting the chicken. “So we won’t be able to spend the whole weekend together.”
There was a definite pause then, and I was too much of a coward to face him. I didn’t want to see the disappointment at not being able to spend the time together, although he’d probably understand. He knew how important family was. And he knew I’d rather spend the time with him than my parents.
When the silence stretched on, I finally forced my gaze up. Logan was staring at me, his thick brow pulled low and taut, his lips a tense line across his face. He looked disappointed, yeah; he also looked hurt. Was it because I was leaving him all alone on the holiday? Neither of us were religious, so I hadn’t thought it would be a big deal. Not like Christmas or something. I mean, I knew lots of people who didn’t get together with their family at all on Easter.
He set down his fork and knife, his eyes still piercing into mine. “So you’re going to your parents’?”
The way he said it was too flat, too crisp to be a casual confirmation. It screamed This is leading to a trap. I licked my lips, holding his gaze, and had to swallow once before I managed to say, “Yes. I don’t want to, but yeah, Mom talked me into it.”
“Alone?”
Suddenly the tension running across his shoulders and straightening his back took on a different meaning. He wasn’t upset that I was going to be gone for one day; he was upset I was leaving him behind.
Shit.
I drew in a shaky breath. “That was the plan.” My voice quivered and nearly broke. I didn’t know what I was more scared of: the disappointment I knew would keep happening or that he’d ask—
“You don’t want me to come with you?”
That.
He had to know how badly I wanted him to come with me. To have him with me. To be able to show him off to my parents as my awesome boyfriend and get my mom off my back. But . . .
“You can’t.” I winced. That wasn’t how I’d meant it to come out.
“I can’t.” His cold repetition of my words made it clear that verbal comprehension wasn’t what he was struggling with. “Just like that. ‘You can’t.’”
Shit. “I . . .”
He waited as I floundered. Panic swelled in my chest, tightening my lungs and turning my stomach into a knot of iron.
“I . . .” I made myself swallow, trying to loosen my tongue and throat so I could speak. “I want you to come with me, but you can’t.” I winced again. At least this time he didn’t say anything. Gave me a chance to try to save myself. “I’m not ready. It’s too soon.”
Jesus fuck, could I use any more clichés? He didn’t look too impressed with them either. “So what you said before wasn’t true?” He must have read my confusion on my face, because he added, “When we met for coffee that first day. After Christmas. You said if you had someone serious, someone you wanted to take home, then you’d tell them.”
The knot in my stomach bloated and rolled over like a beached whale. “That’s still true.”
The lines in his face hardened, not like he was angrier, but like his mask had become brittle. “So I’m not that serious?”
“I . . .” Shit. “It’s complicated.”
“Complicated,” he repeated in that flat tone again. Not good.
“Fuck. Logan.” I pushed aside my plate and slid my hands across the table, palms up, begging him to take them. He didn’t, but I didn’t back down either. “I want to. It’s been so long. But they’re my parents, and the part of me that says ‘You’re serious about Logan, tell them’ is fighting with ‘It’s only been three months’ and I’m not ready.”
My voice cra
cked with a whimper, and I had to lower my eyes in shame and guilt. Because I was a coward, and that was all it was. I was a coward and feared my parents’ rejection more than his love could compensate for and he would see that and he’d know what a loser I was and he’d walk away and I’d lose him and—
His hands slid into mine. My gaze jerked up to him.
His smile was drenched in so much pain that it hurt to see. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
He curled his fingers with mine, his grip tight and only a little shaky. “Yeah. I get it. They’re your parents. It’s hard.”
“I love them. And I love you. I . . .” I was a coward who couldn’t face losing them because of who I was.
“You’re not ready.” He lifted my hands to his lips and kissed a knuckle on each side. “I understand.”
“Thank you. It’s—” I choked out a wet laugh. “Fuck, it’s not you. I’m proud of dating you. You’re amazing. I just want to delay the inevitable fallout.”
“You don’t know it’s inevitable.” He squeezed my hands. “I’m not saying you need to tell them now, but maybe give them a chance. They almost seemed to cope with having Sue dating a brown person.” He said the last bit with a mocking gasp and joined it with an eye roll.
It was my turn to squeeze his hands. “Yeah. But now they’d be dealing with their suddenly gay son dating a suddenly gay brown person.” My smile wobbled. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to put up with my shit or theirs. You picked a bad boyfriend.”
He tugged my hands. “Get over here.”
I let go of him so I could circle the table, and he pulled me onto his lap. I wasn’t tiny, but his muscular thighs held me like I was nothing, and his large arms around me were fucking magical. Like a shield against all the shit in the world. I rested my head on his shoulder and sighed, and he tightened his arms, holding me close.
“I didn’t pick a bad boyfriend. I fell in love with a guy with baggage. We’ve all got it.”
“You don’t,” I mumbled against his neck. “You’re perfect.”
He kissed the corner of my jaw. “I’ll remind you of that when you get pissed about me leaving my clothes on the floor.”
“Not just on the floor,” I couldn’t help prodding, “but right next to the hamper.”
His laugh shook both of us, jostling out the tension. “See, I’m not perfect. And I’ve got baggage too. A wise person once told me that love is accepting all of someone. We’ll work through this.”
I wrapped my arms around his neck and held on tight. “Thank you. I love you. Please never doubt that.”
He nudged my cheek with his chin until I raised my head, and then he kissed me. “I love you too.”
Part of me noticed he didn’t agree to never doubting it, but I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. I had him, and I had a reprieve from having to tell my parents.
Unfortunately, that reprieve didn’t get me out of visiting my parents. Logan kept me company for the trip down—only as a voice floating out of my speakers, but he helped pass the time. It was stupidly hard to say goodbye once I’d parked the car. Eventually we did, though, since my sister was already here and I couldn’t sit in the driveway all day. I’d get in trouble with my parents, and the lost day away from Logan would be wasted.
So I grabbed the pie and headed inside. Everyone was in the kitchen: my dad over a plate of eggs and sausage, my mom bustling to get the ham ready, and my sister leaning against the counter, out of Mom’s way.
In greeting, Mom said, “Take your shoes off.”
I glanced down at my socked feet. “Um, done. You have room in the fridge for the pie?”
She sighed and spun around, reaching to take the pie from my hands, but I stepped back. “No, you’re busy, I can put it in. Just wanted to make sure there was room.”
Turning back to the ham, she said, “If you open the door, you’ll find out.” I could practically hear the eye roll.
“Right . . .”
I shared a look with Sue, who shrugged and mouthed, She’s in a mood. At least, I thought that was what she said.
There was room in the fridge, an almost perfect pie-shaped space, actually. I put the pie in, wondering why Mom couldn’t have simply said yes. But, hey, that was Mom. “How is everybody?”
“You father’s back has been acting up, so I had to do the weeding—did you see the daffodils are blooming rather lovely in the front garden?—and the next morning my back hurt so badly, I thought both of us were going to be bed-ridden! And then where would we be with you two living so far away? We’d have to call the ambulance, is what we’d have to do, or wait hours for one of you, and wouldn’t that be something?”
She didn’t pause for breath—not even pretending that she wanted replies. “But eventually your father was able to get up, and once he fetched me some Tylenol and a heating pad, I was able to get up on my own. Crisis averted!”
“I’m glad you both were okay. You should be more careful weeding, Mom; you know how tough it is on you.” I glanced at my dad, who was still focused on the Sunday paper and his breakfast. “Dad, did you go to the doctor about your back?”
He grunted.
“No, he hasn’t,” Mom answered. “I told him to go as soon as it started acting up, but did he listen? Nope. And then he couldn’t get out of bed until he took drugs, and that’s no way to be. I suggested he go to my chiropractor—you know he’s worked miracles with my pain—but I’d be better off talking to a wall.”
“I’m not going to that quack,” Dad grumbled. “My back’s fine.”
“If you were stuck in bed, that doesn’t sound fine,” Sue chimed in.
“You a doctor now?” Dad said.
“Common sense says pain that interrupts your life means you’re not fine,” I said before Sue could say whatever scathing answer was on her tongue. Judging by her expression, it wouldn’t have calmed the situation any.
Dad grunted again. “It was just a bit sore. Your mother’s throwing it out of proportion.”
“Well, if it keeps bothering you, you should go to the doctor. Weren’t you always saying ‘better safe than sorry’?” My advice would fall on deaf ears, but I couldn’t not say something.
“Sure, sure, if it’s a bother, I will.”
Aka, he wasn’t going to the doctor.
I turned to my sister. “So, Sue, how are you?”
She grinned at me, as if my desperate ploy to change the topic was a little too obvious. “Heartbroken if you ask Mom.”
“Honey, you don’t need to joke about your pain. It’s tough to be dumped. Grieving after having your heart broken is a natural process.”
Sue rolled her eyes at me, as if silently saying, See what I mean? “Mom, I’m not heartbroken. It was a pretty mutual breakup. We’re still friends.”
“Of course, dear.” Mom didn’t believe in men and women being friends, not really. They either dated or were married or they were the friends of the partner/spouse.
I could feel the heavy-duty sigh that Sue was repressing, and wasn’t sure if I wanted to laugh or beat my head against the wall. Interference seemed the best bet. “Well, now you’re free to pursue whoever you want. A good rich man.”
She smirked. “With broad shoulders and bulging biceps and his own company.”
I threw her a glare, but it only made her smirk widen.
“That certainly sounds like a nice prospect,” Mom said, a little too breathlessly for my tastes. Especially knowing that Sue had been referring to Logan.
“Yeah.” Sue winked at me, and thankfully our parents were too distracted to notice. “Too bad all the good ones are gay or taken.”
Mom tutted. “Now, now, don’t forget your brother’s still single.”
This would have been a perfect time to mention that I was taken and gay, then watch the chips fall where they would. Sue even left me a few moments to speak up. When I didn’t, she took the opening.
“Yeah, but he’s not a good one, is he?”
It wasn’t clear if she was oblivious or being willfully ignorant to the insult aimed at me. My dad grunted and shook the paper—his only addition to the conversation. I debated asking him about his latest home-improvement project, but that would probably cause a fight with Mom.
“So did you guys color eggs this year?” I asked in a rather desperate attempt to change the subject.
“I thought we could do that as a fun activity while you and Sue were here.”
Are you fucking kidding me? “Uh, that’s . . . a thing to do.”
Sue rolled her eyes so hard I prepared to catch them. “Mom, is that really necessary?”
“Your father loves his hard-boiled eggs, and I didn’t want to have to make them alone again this year—”
“Doesn’t Dad help?” What I meant was Dad should help if he wants the damn eggs.
“Oh, it’s such a bother to him. But we can sit around and chat while we do it, and it’ll be fun.”
“So we’re going to make a dozen eggs and paint them just so Dad can eat them?” Sue asked.
“Yep.” Mom shut the oven door as if closing the matter, and I supposed she had. We could refuse to help her, but then we’d be bad children and she would never let us forget it. We would be dragged into coloring eggs much like we’d been dragged here. Because she was our mother and we loved her.
I shared a glance with Sue, shrugged in defeat, and once again changed the subject. “How’s your garden, Mom?”
Thankfully that was a safe subject and carried us on to other safe subjects, like movies we’d seen recently—none with guys kissing, so Mom couldn’t complain—books we were reading, and Sue’s new knitting hobby, which made Mom unreasonably excited.
But the topics weren’t boyfriends, girlfriends, or babies, so it was a win.
The egg coloring after dinner wasn’t that bad. Mom realized at the last minute that she didn’t actually have the vinegar or the food dyes, so we broke out an old box of crayons and drew on the eggs, cursing all the while that we hadn’t let them cool down enough. Sue and I slipped in a few inside jokes that Mom and Dad would never get—or we hoped they wouldn’t.
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