Hard Truths

by Alex Whitehall

“Nothing.” I sighed. “Mom, if we get happily wedded off, it’s still not guaranteed that you’re going to have grandchildren anytime soon. If at all.”

  She gaped at me as if I’d ritualistically slaughtered a puppy in front of her and was now eating the entrails. If the puppy was her hopes and dreams, it was sort of true. Sue didn’t disagree with me, but she didn’t come to my rescue either. I couldn’t blame her. I already regretted telling Mom the hard truths.

  “Why wouldn’t you give me grandchildren?”

  Roe and their English degree could probably dissect that sentence into an entire thesis, although it likely would require help from Jenna’s psychology and sociology research. I had the benefit of none of these and, honestly, I didn’t want to think too hard about the fact that Mom only wanted us to have kids in order for her to have grandchildren, not for us to experience the delights of child-rearing.

  “Some people aren’t meant to be parents,” I told her.

  “You can always adopt.”

  As if pure physical capabilities were what would stop us. “I’m sure we’ll keep it in mind. I’m just saying that you shouldn’t hang all your hopes on grandkids, okay?”

  She didn’t appear very happy with this pronouncement, but she let it go—although she favored Sue in all conversation after that. Which, really, wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened. I escaped into the living room with Dad, and we watched a rerun of a football game from 1978. I kid you the fuck not. But at least he didn’t care that I spent the whole time texting, as long as my notifications were on silent.

  Eventually we had cake and ice cream and gave him his presents. Then I got my shirt back and Sue and I escaped.

  By some magic, I got home in record time. And by home, I meant Logan’s place, since that was where he was, hunched over his drawing tablet, headphones on. Thankfully he heard me knock on the door of his office, because sneaking up on him would probably result in being stabbed with the stylus.

  Instead he threw down his electronics and swooped me up in a hug.

  He lifted me easily with his bulging muscles, and I laughed as he spun me around once. I hooked my arms around his neck and met his lips for a kiss, grateful for the warmth and familiarity there. God, how wonderful would it be to be greeted like this every time I came home?

  Or, my mind not-so-helpfully supplied, he could have joined you for the entire day and you wouldn’t need to crumble into his support now.

  I pushed aside the thought. Not ready. Not yet. Right now I simply wanted to enjoy the strength he was wrapping me in.

  We were both a little breathless with kisses and laughter when he set me down again.

  “Welcome home,” he murmured against my lips.

  I kissed those perfect lips. “Glad to be home. Did you have a good day?”

  “I went for a ride, worked, got frustrated, went to the gym, worked, got frustrated, went for a ride.”

  “Texted me constantly to keep me from committing, um, patricide but both parents.”

  “Parricide.”

  I quirked my brow. “I’m not going to ask.”

  “It was on Jeopardy.”

  “What, today?” When he shook his head, I gaped. “Your memory is impressive.”

  “I had a vision that I would need the word sometime in the future.”

  “Ha-ha.”

  He kissed my nose, then pulled back so he could wrap an arm around my shoulders and lead us out of the office and into the living room. “It sounded like you had a shit day.”

  I sighed. “It could have been worse. They actually handled my tattoo and piercings pretty well. My dad was only completely disgusted, not horribly disgusted, and Mom just felt like I’d mutilated my body and no one would ever love me.”

  Logan growled, manhandled me to the couch, and seated me sideways so he could sit behind me. At first I wasn’t sure why, since this wasn’t comfortable for the snuggling—and sex—I wanted, especially since he’d left a good amount of distance between us. Then he leaned over and kissed the faint brownish-red stain on the back of my shirt. “We need to get you a new shirt.”

  “Uh, sure?”

  He nipped at my neck—at least, I thought that was what he was doing. Then I felt him take the neck of my shirt in two fists. In movies, you always see the guy rip his shirt off to reveal his rippling, bulging muscles. I’d read somewhere that ripping shirts like that is actually really hard, so I expected Logan to try and then us to have a laugh, and I’d take my shirt off like a normal person.

  Riiiiiiiip.

  There was a reason ripping off shirts was so popular in fiction. It was fucking hot—even if it choked me a little when he first pulled. Suddenly the cool air was brushing my skin, the tattered edges of the shirt tickling me as he reached the bottom and dropped the two flaps.

  Holy fuck. I wanted to turn around, straddle his waist, and ride his dick. Like now. Immediately.

  Before I could begin to put my plan into action though, his lips touched the top of my back, on my spine, where my circuit-board tree tattoo began.

  “This is beautiful.” His warm breath whispered against my skin, and I broke out in goose bumps. “It’s not fucking mutilation.”

  I shivered and closed my eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. “You might be biased, Mr. Full-sleeves.”

  He traced a line of the circuit board with his tongue, then kissed the tip of the “leaves.” His words blew gently on the wet skin. “I’d rather be biased than bigoted.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he continued tracing the lines that made up my tattoo, wiping away the hate it had been plastered with today and painting it in his kisses instead. It was so fucking cliché, and yet I could feel the weight that had dragged down my shoulders all day slowly falling away with each caress.

  When he kissed the last root circuit, I exhaled deeply. The stress was gone. “You’re magic.”

  He kissed my shoulder, my neck, then gripped my chin to draw my lips close enough to meet his. I was pulled backward, so my skin was against the cotton of his shirt, and he wrapped his other arm around me, holding me still as he claimed my mouth. I felt defenseless and laid bare, and I wasn’t afraid in the least.

  I was free.

  The hand on my chin stroked down my neck to my chest, pinning me to him. His forefinger teased over my nipple, trailing back and forth and catching on the stud as he deepened the kiss. I moaned, pushing off the couch, arching up into the contact.

  The finger strumming my nipple stopped, and the hand slid down, hooked around my side, holding me secure. I didn’t want to seem needy, but his strength was so easy to fall into, to be comforted by. Plus it never made me feel weak. My whole body sighed contently, knowing here I was strong in relying on his strength.

  When my muscles relaxed, my whole body softening in his embrace, he finally broke the kiss. “There you go.”

  “Magic,” I repeated.

  He hummed and shifted us slightly so we could both lie comfortably on the couch. His words were more solemn, though, when he spoke. “I know they’re your family, but you hate visiting them. They’re horrible to you. I don’t get why you’re so afraid of losing them.”

  I tensed, but his arms tightened. Not trapping me, but holding me close. Like it was a promise that he wasn’t starting a fight but was telling me what he was thinking. He didn’t want to argue; he wanted to understand.

  “They’re my parents. My family.”

  It was probably a weak excuse, but it was the only thing I had.

  “So? They don’t treat you like family should.”

  I sighed. I didn’t want to argue about this, not right now. I didn’t even want to talk about it. “But they’re the one I’ve got.”

  He opened his mouth, but must have seen something in my expression, because he closed it and kissed me instead. “Welcome home.”

  A smile broke the tension that had started to form. It didn’t matter that we weren’t sharing a place, that this wasn’t my home. Bec
ause I was in his arms, and that was enough. “Nowhere else I’d rather be.”

  “I can’t believe you abandoned your boyfriend at a party in order to come hang out with us.”

  I looked up from the little skull cookies I was arranging on a platter. Jackson was retaping some orange streamer that had fallen, although I wasn’t sure why. Why he was fixing it, that was; I was pretty sure gravity was the reason it had fallen, since Rosa definitely couldn’t get up that high. “You mean why I’d want to come to a party that everyone else bailed on, where I’m going to be hanging out with my two friends and their daughter and handing out candy, instead of going with my super-hot boyfriend to an adult party where I could be getting drunk and making out with said super-hot boyfriend?”

  “Well, when you put it that way . . . Yes, why the hell are you here?”

  I set the cookies on the table with the other food that was meant to feed six and would be feeding three. I saw leftovers in my future. “Part of it is because I said I’d come here first and I felt bad that everyone else bailed on you. Also, Emmett promised me his special deviled eggs. But! The real reason is that Logan’s friends have been having drama again. I got the impression he was going to their party to keep the peace and would rather be here with me. He insisted I come here. I think he’s going to use me as an excuse to bail if things get bad.”

  Emmett must have heard me, because he laughed as he came down the stairs with Rosa in his arms. “So he’s using you to bail on a fun party and come to a party that everyone else bailed on because it wasn’t fun?”

  I frowned. “This party is going to be rockin’—by which I mean, rockin’ the baby to sleep, but . . .” I snapped a cookie in half. “I can’t believe everyone else ‘had another party to go to.’”

  “Yeah,” Jackson said. “I thought at first you guys were all getting together without us—because hanging with a baby is so not cool—but then you were still free, so I guess I was wrong.”

  My frown deepened. What if everyone was having a party, but they hadn’t wanted to invite me either? I shook my head, trying to clear that thought. “We’ll have to send them pictures from all the fun we’re having and make them jealous.”

  “Well, least the decorations look good,” Jackson said, climbing down from his stepladder. “Oh, and the food smells great! Although are you going to eat that demolished cookie or continue poking its eyehole?”

  I stared at the cookie I had broken into quarters, then popped one of the pieces into my mouth. “Eat.”

  Jackson rolled his eyes and took Rosa from Emmett, who then went to pull the last few items from the fridge, including the promised deviled eggs made with sriracha, which I immediately swiped from his hands so I could help myself to one.

  “Your addiction to those eggs is a little terrifying,” Jackson said.

  “You’re just worried my love of them is going to make me want to woo Emmett away from you, and then you won’t have any eggs for yourself.”

  Emmett snorted. “So both of you only love me for my eggs?”

  I snorted in reply. “Obviously.”

  “No,” Jackson said, going over to kiss Emmett’s cheek. “I also keep you around to do the dishes.”

  They pretended to bicker back and forth, so I stole another egg and went around the house to turn off all the house lights (and to turn the porch light on). The living room was cast in an orange glow from the strings of lights framing the windows and the seemingly thousands of candles—most of them battery powered—scattered around the space.

  “Nice mood lighting,” I called to them.

  “I figured it’d be good for telling”—Emmett did something weird with his voice, dropping it and making it waver—“spoo-ooky stories.”

  “And have Jackson sleep-deprived from being unable to sleep for a week?”

  Jackson came in, Rosa in his arm, a plate in the opposite hand. “I think he meant baby-appropriate spooky stories. Unless he wants to sleep on the couch.”

  “Did you just call yourself a baby?”

  Jackson gave me an unimpressed look, and I smiled, all earnest good boy, but it must have been lost in the dim lighting. He shook his head. “Emmett, can you bring my beer in?”

  He set his plate down on the coffee table, then Rosa on the floor, before joining her, pushing the plate as far from her grasp as possible.

  I stopped by the kitchen and loaded up my own plate, then joined everyone in the living room. Despite there being plenty of seats, we all were on the floor so we could play with Rosa as she teeteringly walked around. It was strange to think that a year and a half ago she’d been a wrinkly bean that hadn’t been good for much more than screaming, eating, and pooping. Now she tried to steal the food off our plates, despite not being quite up to eating most of the things. Cooked vegetables? Yes. Raw whole veggies with ranch? No.

  She definitely kept us on our toes.

  “So how is Logan?” Jackson asked. “I feel like we haven’t seen him in ages.”

  I smiled, thinking about the last few months. After the fight about coming out to my parents, things had been good. We still hadn’t moved in together, but more and more of my stuff was at his place—and his at mine—so that I’d go days without seeing my own apartment. He still visibly struggled every time my mom called, but he hadn’t pushed me to come out again, and I hadn’t pushed to move in together.

  But I was feeling a lot closer to being able to do both.

  Jackson cleared his throat. “So, how’s Logan?”

  Heat flashed across my cheeks all the way to my ears. I must have zoned out. “He’s good.” I took a sip of hard cider, then stared down the neck. “It’s serious.”

  “We got that,” Jackson said, and I could have sworn there was pride in his voice. “And I’m glad.”

  “Yeah. I want to move in together, but . . . he won’t until I come out to my parents.”

  Emmett grunted, and I looked up. He and Jackson were doing some silent communicating, the married equivalent of eye-fucking. Emmett grimaced, Jackson’s lips twitched, and then they turned their eyes to me and I wondered if I should apologize for eavesdropping, although I had no idea what had been said.

  “That’s a little . . .” Jackson paused, as if considering the words carefully, “manipulative. He’s trying to force you to—”

  “No. No, it’s not like, ‘I’ll dump you if you don’t come out.’ He’s afraid I’m not serious about us. Like, I know he knows I am, but he feels like he’s being hidden away and cut out from part of my life. And if my parents were actually a threat—like financially or physically—I don’t think he’d consider it.”

  “Still feels underhanded.” Emmett grunted.

  “Yeah. But I—I said when we first met that I’d come out to my parents when I met someone who was worth it. So I think he feels that because I’m not coming out, then that means he’s not worth it.”

  “Oh, Zack.” Jackson clambered across the floor—and toys—to wrap me in a hug.

  It felt unnecessary, but I rested my head on his shoulder anyway while he gave me a firm squeeze.

  “I understand how he feels,” Emmett said while the hug went on, “but you shouldn’t feel obligated to do it for him. Do it when you’re ready. If you do it for him, you might end up blaming him for anything that goes down.” Emmett slapped his fist into the opposite palm playfully. “Need me to let him know that?”

  “Are you threatening to beat up my boyfriend?”

  Jackson whispered in my ear, “That’s a fight I’d pay to see.”

  Yeah, thinking about it, it would be hot. Except for the part where one of my best friends and my boyfriend would be beating the shit out of each other.

  “Only an emotional bashing,” Emmett said, smirking.

  I gently broke the hug and sort of pushed Jackson toward Emmett. “Go restrain your husband.”

  Jackson shrugged and instead went to grab Rosa before she got to his drink. “There’s no stopping him. Sorry.”

  Thank
fully we moved on to other topics after that. They seemed to get that I wouldn’t cave because of Logan’s pressure, although part of me wondered: what was stopping me from telling Mom and Dad? I knew, logically, what I said was stopping me, and it was stopping me. But I’d told him that if someone meant enough to me, I’d tell my parents.

  Logan meant enough. More than enough. Yet here I was, resisting at every turn. So was he right? Was I not committed and that was the real reason I didn’t want to? Or had I underestimated my desire to not change the status quo, to not rock the boat, to not face the change that seemed almost inevitable? If that was the case—and I was becoming increasingly terrified and sure that it was—then what was I willing to lose in order for things to remain the same?

  A knock at the door snapped me from my fretting, and since Emmett was changing a diaper and Jackson had disappeared into the kitchen, I grabbed the candy bowl and opened the door.

  In black leather chaps that hugged his thighs and framed the bulge of his crotch, a leather jacket, and with a helmet tucked jauntily against his hip, the man on the stoop was a little old to be going around begging for candy.

  “Trick or treat,” Logan said, a dangerous grin curling the corners of his lips.

  I held the candy bowl behind my back. “Yeah? And what kind of trick are you going to pull if I don’t give you candy?”

  He stepped forward, plastering his body against my front as his arms wrapped around me. His lips brushed mine with every word and sharp inhale. “I didn’t say it was candy I was after.”

  He covered my mouth in a kiss as his hands rooted through the candy bowl. It was difficult to fight him when his tongue was making delicious promises in my mouth. His hard body, a solid wall denying any escape, was hot—a sharp contrast to the cool October air that backed him.

  “Close the door—you’re letting the heat out!” Jackson ordered.

  “And giving all the families a show,” Emmett added.

  Logan grabbed something from the bowl and secured his arm around my waist, doing a fancy dance step to spin us inside and close the door. “Happy?”

  “Thank you. Hi, Logan.”