by Nell Iris
He rested his forehead against mine. “Thank you,” he whispered.
* * * *
We arrived at his father’s house an hour later. Mr. Cross greeted us at the door with an actual smile, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if Asher had fainted from the shock. Inside, everything was neat and smelled clean. There wasn’t a single unwashed glass in the sink.
We sat down in the kitchen, and Mr. Cross had put out coffee, orange juice, and a plate of cookies for us. Chocolate chip, if my eyes didn’t deceive me.
“I’m happy to see you,” he said.
I almost fainted right along with Asher. Who was this man, and what had he done with His Royal Grumpiness?
“How’s your food supply?” I asked. “Running low?”
Mr. Cross squirmed on his chair. “Yup.”
“I’ll make you some more.”
“You don’t have to,” he protested.
“I want to.”
Mr. Cross nodded, and I was happy I didn’t have to fight him for it.
“How are you, son?” He turned to Asher, who’d been drinking his coffee in silence during our exchange.
“This is so weird,” he answered. I sensed his confusion and hurt, and grabbed his hand, weaving our fingers together. “I spent years being the disgusting faggot. I have a hard time wrapping my head around that I’m not that guy anymore.”
“I understand.” Mr. Cross reached across the table and hovered his wrinkly hand over Asher’s. He was visibly shaking, and Asher squeezed my fingers, harder and harder, until his father made up his mind and laid his hand top of his son’s.
“For what it’s worth, Asher, I really am sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t react well. I’m sorry I was an idiot and didn’t talk to you sooner. I’m happy Cory got here before it was too late. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me, son.”
Asher hid his face against my shoulder. “I’ll try.”
Mr. Cross pulled back, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and nodded. “You wanted to talk to me about something?” he asked.
“Yes.” I held up a finger, asking him to wait a minute, and turned to Asher. Combing my fingers through his hair, I whispered, “You okay?”
He nodded against my shoulder. “Yeah.” After a few more seconds, he straightened. “I’m ready.”
“Yesterday, my mother called me and told me I needed to come back to New York because The Senator was sick.”
“The Senator?” Mr. Cross asked.
“My grandfather,” I explained. “It was a lie. He’s fit as a fiddle. When I got there this morning, I found out it had all been a ruse to get me to come back home. To get me away from Asher.”
“What?” Mr. Cross grunted.
“Are you serious?” Asher growled, and I couldn’t suppress a smile. Sometimes, they were so much alike.
“I’m afraid I am.”
Two sets of green eyes stared at me, burning with rage on my behalf.
“That’s not what I wanted to talk about. An interesting piece of information stood out among all the unpleasantness. Something I need to ask you about, Mr. Cross.”
“What’s that?” He was back to his old grumpy self, but this time it wasn’t directed at us.
“I’ve always wondered why my mother never tried to stop me from being friends with Asher when we were kids, considering she hated him so much.”
One of Mr. Cross’ eyes twitched. It was the tiniest movement, and I would have missed it if I hadn’t been looking straight at him.
“But as it turns out,” I continued without taking my eyes off him, “she did. She tried to forbid us from hanging out. But you wouldn’t let her, Mr. Cross.”
Asher jerked. “Is that true?” he asked his father.
Mr. Cross averted his gaze, scratched the stubble on his chin, and harrumphed an affirmative sound. “You would have made my life a living hell if I’d tried to forbid you to see that boy. I already knew what…” He snapped his mouth shut.
“You knew what?” Asher asked.
“Never mind. I refused, and that’s all there is to it.” His mouth was set in a mulish line, letting me know this time, I wouldn’t be able to out-stubborn him.
“Whatever your reasons were, Mr. Cross, I’m thankful.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He gave me a dismissive wave. “Was that all?”
“No.”
“What else did you want to talk about?”
I turned to Asher. “I intended to talk to you about this first, but this morning changed my mind. Don’t be mad.”
He cocked his head. “Why would I be mad?”
I took a deep breath. It was the right thing to do; I just had to convince two stubborn Crosses about it. “When I turned twenty-one, The Senator turned over control of my trust fund to me. It’s…substantial. And before my burnout, I had a ridiculous salary. Apparently, bribes from ex-senators will give you that.” Even to my own ears, I sounded bitter.
I stood. I had to move around, so I started clearing the table. “I also had an excellent financial planner. What I’m trying to say is…I’m, uh, rich.”
“We won’t hold it against you, son,” Mr. Cross chuckled.
“I’m not trying to brag.” I turned my back at them and gripped the counter, needing to hold myself up for the upcoming part. “I’m telling you this just to let you know that I…can afford the treatment.”
One second. Two seconds. Three, four, five seconds ticked by without anyone uttering a word.
“No!” Mr. Cross refusal was forceful and expected.
I spun around, folding my arms over my chest, and stared them down. “Yes.”
“Cory, I’m with Pops on this. We can’t…accept that money from you.”
“I said no, and that’s final.” Mr. Cross slammed his fist on the table in emphasis.
“We can’t let him do it,” Asher said to Pops.
“Don’t worry, I won’t let him.”
“Would you two stop talking over my head like I’m not here. I had enough of that this morning.”
That had the desired effect. They both shut their mouths and glared in my direction.
“That’s better.” I drew a deep breath, needing to stay calm. Anger was never a successful argument. Returning to the table, I sat next to Asher and took his hand. “Please, listen to me,” I pleaded and brushed away an errant strand of hair from his forehead.
He gave me a brief nod.
“I’ve never had a family.” I was speaking to both of them but didn’t take my eyes off Asher. “I mean, I have parents and a grandfather and something that looks like a family from the outside. But it never felt like a family. I’ve never belonged anywhere. Never been accepted for who I am. Never felt loved.” I leaned my forehead against Asher’s. “Not until you.”
His chin wobbled, and he squeezed my hand. “You’re breaking my heart again, Cinnamon Boy,” he mumbled.
“I didn’t mean to,” I whispered back.
“I realized this morning…” I straightened and checked that Mr. Cross was listening. “…that you two are my family. My family by choice. I’ve read a lot about families like that, but never understood before.”
“Go on,” Mr. Cross grunted.
“I understand you might not feel the same. Either of you, but especially you, Mr. Cross. You hardly know me, after all. For all you know, I’m just this irritating person, bossing you around. But my point is: I don’t care. You can hate me all you want, and God knows I’m used to that feeling, but this is about your health. So I’m overruling your ‘no’ and paying for your treatment. That’s what families do. They support each other. And if you want to repay me, you can do it by never grunting at me again.”
Shit. I hadn’t planned on being so forceful. “Excuse me,” I said, stood, and rushed out of the house.
Asher found me hugging the dead apple tree some time later. “Would you come back inside, please?”
“I miss the tree, Asher.”
“I know, honey.”
“No.”
I gave the old tree a final squeeze. “I’ll never forget you,” I whispered. Then I turned around and took the hand Asher offered and followed him back in the house.
Mr. Cross stood by the window overlooking the front yard. “You always loved that tree. I never understood how you could eat those apples. They were awful.”
“They weren’t so bad.”
Asher walked us over, and we joined his father by the window. “We should cut it down,” he said. “Maybe plant a new tree. With lovely, sweet apples?”
“Maybe.” Mr. Cross sighed.
“Tell him, Pops.”
Old man Cross turned to me and laid a trembling palm against my cheek. “I accept your offer,” he said simply.
Tears welled up in my eyes. “Thank you,” I choked out.
Asher slid up behind me and wound his arms around my waist. “Thank you, honey.”
“We figured it wouldn’t be right if both your families let you down,” Mr. Cross said and swept his thumb under my eyes and wiped away the tears.
“It wouldn’t,” I said.
“You’re really something, Cory Jones,” he grumbled and stepped away. “Wait here, I’ve got something for you.”
I turned in Asher’s arms and looked up at his beautiful, angular face. His eyes were suspiciously shiny. Maybe I wasn’t the only one crying? I stood on my toes and brushed my lips against his. “I love you.”
We separated when Mr. Cross returned to the kitchen. He held out a key to Asher.
“You’d better take this. I got cancer. I ain’t got the energy to get the door every time you decide to bother me,” he grunted. “You remember how to use it?”
“I’m sure I do,” Asher replied.
“Good, good. Now get out of here. I need a nap.”
Asher bit his lip, trying to hold in a laughter, and a quick glance at Mr. Cross told me he did the same. A heartbeat later, we were doubled over, and the kitchen echoed with guffaws.
We laughed until my stomach hurt and my facial muscles ached, and then we laughed some more.
When we’d calmed down, we said our goodbyes. Hand in hand, we walked out the door, but before we reached the car, Mr. Cross stuck his head out the door.
“Come over for dinner tomorrow?” he yelled.
“Yeah?”
“Sure. Sunday dinners, that’s what families do, right?”
Asher nodded. “Yeah.” He turned to me and smiled. “That’s exactly what families do.”
Chapter 17
One year later
It was a waiting room just like any other waiting room in any other hospital, complete with uncomfortable chairs and a television hanging from the ceiling, showing an old black-and-white movie.
Completely unremarkable. And very significant.
Asher and I were the only occupants. Huddled close, with hands clasped and thighs touching, we tried to stay calm. There was no cause for worry.
Right?
His frantic finger-drumming on his thigh and the sharp pinches to my earlobe told an entirely different story.
One year ago, Pops had had his last treatment with the new drug. Over the months, his doctor had gone from weary to cautiously optimistic. I’d never met a more pessimistic medical professional than Dr. Green, who refused to take out even the smallest victory in advance.
Today, we hoped the tests would confirm what we suspected: that Pops could celebrate an entire year as cancer-free.
Of course, we knew better than to say the cancer was cured, and it was a long road ahead to the five-year hurdle. Dr. Green had drummed that into our heads.
I understood. Just like my depression, cancer wasn’t a disease that was easily cured with a magical pill and never returned. On the contrary, we were told to expect the complete opposite: be prepared for a relapse any time.
Secretly, I hoped Pops would be as fortunate as I’d been. I hadn’t had a setback in nine months, and the last one had been brief. Maybe that luck had rubbed off, and we would get good news?
“I’m sure he’s fine,” Asher said.
“Yeah.”
Neither of us sounded like we believed it. We wanted to, but Dr. Green had taught us better. If someone woke up the good doctor in the middle of the night, I’m sure his first words would be ‘don’t get your hopes up.’
“I don’t know what I’m gonna do if he’s not.” Asher and Pops had worked hard on their relationship. It hadn’t been easy to overcome old habits and distrust, but they’d both been more than willing. I was so fucking proud of both of them that half would have been enough.
I got out of my seat and hunched in front of him, putting my hands on his knees. When his furious drumming didn’t stop, I caught his hand. “Asher.”
His eyes met mine, and the fear in them was almost tangible. I wanted to take away all his worries, bear them so he didn’t have to. If only it was possible.
“Somehow, we’ll manage. I’m not saying it’ll be easy. But together, we’ll make it.”
“Yeah.” He leaned forward and cupped my face in his hand. “Have I told you how much I love you?”
I nodded. “About a million times.”
“I’m so fucking happy you came back.”
“Me, too.”
He let his calloused fingertips dance over my cheeks, up my temples, over my eyebrows, and down my nose. “You’re so beautiful, Cory.”
I didn’t object. I’d filled out over the last year and didn’t look like a walking skeleton anymore. Cooking for Asher and Pops—my family—had been beneficial for me, too, and these days, I believed him.
“I’ve, uh, thought about something,” I said.
“What?” His fingers continued their exploration and traced my cheekbone. Found their way down my neck and snuck in under the neckline of my T-shirt.
“You remember our first date?”
“How could I forget?”
“I mean our real first date on the couch.”
“I know which one you meant.”
“Do you remember what we talked about?” His curious fingers made it hard to concentrate on what I wanted to say.
“Mhm. We agreed that our kids would never be allowed to date.” He winked and gave me a smug smile.
“That was not what we agreed on.”
He pulled me closer, leaned down, and rubbed his stubble against my temple. Bastard. He knew exactly how to distract me.
“That won’t help, dummy.” I tried to protest, but it was lame even to my own ears.
“You sure about that?”
“Mhm,” I said and pushed against him, seeking more contact. More scratchiness.
“Huh. I could have sworn you agreed with me.”
“Stop distracting me.”
“It doesn’t look like you want me to stop.” He kissed my cheek, soothing my skin with his soft lips, following up with light puffs of air. He’d made up his own version of ‘blowing on boo-boos.’ First, he rubbed his stubble against my skin and then he blew on it. Drove me crazy every time.
“Unless you want to fuck me right here in this waiting room, you better stop.”
“Oh, I want to.”
“I’ll rephrase. Unless you want Dr. Green and your father to walk in on us as you fuck me, you’d better stop.”
Asher stiffened and pulled away. “Very good point.”
We smiled at each other.
“You asked me about our first date?”
I drew a shuddering breath. “Yes.” I could do this. I could. “You told me you’re a good boy who doesn’t get married on the first date. Remember?”
Asher’s wandering fingers stilled. “I remember.”
“How about after three hundred and sixty-five dates?” My voice was trembling, my lower lip was trembling, and my soul was trembling.
“Oh, my God, Cory,” he breathed, grabbed me by my upper arms, and hauled me into a standing position. “Are you serious?”
“Deadly seri
ous.” I pulled up the hem of his T-shirt and laid my palms against his soft tummy.
He leaned down and rested his forehead against mine. “Then I’d better start writing a new verse for our song. The one about how I marry the boy with cinnamon eyes.”
“Yes.”
I raised my head to kiss him but was interrupted by Pops entering the waiting room. He walked toward us with purpose and a spring in his step. And most importantly: a wide smile on his face.
THE END
ABOUT NELL IRIS
Nell Iris is a romantic at heart who believes everyone deserves a happy ending. She’s a bona fide bookworm (learned to read long before she started school), wouldn’t dream of going anywhere without something to read (not even the ladies’ room), loves music (and singing along but, let’s face it, she’s no Celine Dion), and is a real Star Trek nerd (“Make it so”). She loves words, poetry, wine, and Sudoku, and absolutely adores elephants!
Nell believes passionately in equality for all regardless of race, gender, or sexuality, and wants to make the world a better, less hateful, place.
Nell is a forty-something bisexual Swedish woman, married to the love of her life, and a proud mama of a grown daughter. She left the Scandinavian cold and darkness for warmer and sunnier Malaysia a few years ago, and now spends her days writing, surfing the Internet, enjoying the heat, and eating good food. One day she decided to chase her lifelong dream of being a writer, sat down in front of her laptop, and wrote a story about two men falling in love.
Nell Iris writes gay romance, prefers sweet over angst, and wants to write diverse and different characters.
For more information, visit nelliris.com.
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