by Laura Stone
That was exactly what he would be doing: coming home.
* * *
A charity fundraiser, an award ceremony for his father’s company and a bridge party later, it was finally New Year’s Eve. Oliver had had his fill of talking about so-and-so’s impending wedding, who had just gotten into medical school (Oliver remembered Kyle as having been the neighborhood’s source for weed, so he had suspicions about any prescriptions Kyle would write) and the ever-present questions, “And do you have anyone special?” or “But what is it that you can actually do with your degree?” when they realized his intention was not to become a psychiatrist or a politician.
His parents’ friends seemed to take in stride that Oliver would not be the one to take over his dad’s law firm; that task belonged to the steely-eyed shark on the other side of the room that his father had an arm wrapped around. Oliver was just the spoiled, irresponsible child; evidently, getting a degree in social sciences at the best university in the world was a complete waste of time for this particular crowd of executives and lawyers.
Constantly defending his choices, and the ever-present one-upmanship that came with the Andrewses’ social circles, was exhausting. He had spent the week after Christmas looking forward to the ease at the Larsens’. They weren’t judgmental people. Well, not in the same way. They judged people by their character, not by how much money had been made and how many generations had been able to hold onto it.
He was a bundle of nerves all day Monday, wondering how soon “early” was. He didn’t want to be presumptuous and show up midday, but if Seth had hoped he’d come a few hours early, he didn’t want to arrive at seven-thirty and cheat himself out of one-on-one time with the family.
This is stupid; just call.
He chewed on his bottom lip for a few minutes and stared at the handset. What if, instead of Seth, Mike answered, and he hadn’t forgiven him for breaking Seth’s heart years ago? Besides Seth, the only other person whose opinion of him mattered was Mike Larsen. He was direct, intimidating and absolutely worth having on your side. He didn’t suffer fools; he was honest and compassionate and expected nothing less from the people in his life.
Oliver shook his head, smoothed the front of his sweater with his free hand and dialed. He knew how to be polite on the phone. This was silly; he could do this. It was just a phone call.
“Uh, hello?”
Oliver blinked for a moment, trying to place the voice until he remembered Mike’s right-hand man at the garage, a short, heavyset guy with a thick handlebar mustache. Grinning, he asked, “Is this John Flores, by chance?”
“Yeah? Hey, dude, no offense, but I don’t want to buy anything or do, like, a survey or whatever, so thanks and have—”
“John! It’s Oliver. Um, Oliver Andrews?”
“No way! I almost hung up on you! Those salespeople usually call at dinner, but you never know. How are you? Huh, long time, no speak!”
Oliver leaned against the fridge in the kitchen, trying to catch the last thing John had said. His apparent excitement was the last thing Oliver had expected. Smiling with relief, he replied, “It’s been a while. How are you?”
“Oh, you know, just working hard and hardly working, same ol’ same ol’.”
Oliver laughed softly at the pat response John gave every time he was asked. “Good to hear.”
“Right! Seth told us that he saw you in New York. Pretty cool, huh? Kid’s like a huge star now.”
“Seth’s pretty amazing, you’re right.” Oliver had his eyes closed, and he pictured the kitchen at the Larsens’. The raw oak table with the eagle-footed pedestal that Seth hated with a passion. The baby blue calico chair pads, another sore spot for Seth. The list of foods Big Mike wasn’t allowed to bring into the house that Seth had tacked onto the fridge.
“So, like… what’s up?” John asked, sounding a little confused. True, that was a pretty typical sound from him, but this sounded more like nervousness. Oh. Oliver realized John might think he was being disloyal by their chatting.
“Well,” Oliver exhaled. “Seth invited me to the party tonight; I hope that’s okay with you guys?”
“Oh, sure. I mean—” John shifted, his voice muffled slightly, and Oliver had the distinct visual pop into his mind of John cupping the receiver with his hand so as to not be overheard. “You know that stuff isn’t up to Mike. Seth’s the one who makes the rules.”
Oliver heard the sound of a door opening in the background and John saying, “Hey, man,” before coming back to the call. “But yeah, that would be pretty sweet if you came.”
“Is that Oliver?” Mike. Oliver could hear the sound of the phone moving around. He swiftly crossed the kitchen to sit on one of the bar stools at the kitchen island, worried that he wouldn’t be able to stay standing if Mike sounded angry.
“Oliver?”
He felt like a string about to snap. “Yes, sir?”
“Don’t you ‘sir’ me, are you coming tonight? You are, right? Of course you are.”
Oliver felt as though like he was in the middle of conversational whiplash. So Mike wasn’t mad at him. He slowly let his shoulders relax.
“Yes? As long as that’s okay with everyone. Seth did offer—”
“Okay with everyone? Get your butt in your car and get over here now. I just got back from the store with the stuff to make those fancy sandwiches that you two love. I can’t promise that Seth won’t cut ‘em into shapes, but they’ll be ready and in the fridge before you hit the off-ramp.”
“I… uh.” Oliver pressed the flat of his palm on the cool granite, willing himself not to choke up. He had made a big deal about those sandwiches at Seth’s graduation. They weren’t anything special, but Mike had been so proud of himself for making something from one of Seth’s cookbooks, and Oliver had been raised to be appreciative of any food someone made for him, no matter how simple.
At the Andrewses’ house, there were always more beverages in the fridge than actual food. They ate out or picked things up on the way home from school or work, and his mother abhorred frozen dinners. But at the Larsens’, there was always something to eat. Seth had made healthy sandwiches in bulk and wrapped them to deter his father from fast food drive-throughs, and Mike had always made sure there were plenty of snack foods for the guys from the shop and for Seth and his friends.
Such a silly thing, enjoying the ease of eating somewhere, but it added to the warm welcome that the house already gave. That and the priority Mike had made of having meals together, something the Andrewses rarely did due to everyone’s busy schedules. The Larsen household had filled Oliver in more ways than one.
His smile trembled at the edges as he swallowed around the lump in his throat. “That sounds great, Mike, thank you. I do think I should double check with Seth, though.”
“Have you not talked to him yet? John?” Mike covered the phone, but poorly, as Oliver could hear everything clearly. “What are you doing, not putting Seth on the phone? It’s Oliver,” he hissed. “Kid?” he said, back to him. “Give me just a second to round him up for you. And then get in your car and start driving.”
“Yes, sir. It was…” Oliver cleared his throat. “It was really good to talk to you.”
“Save it for here when I can strong-arm you into giving me a hug. Now let me go grab him.”
Oliver rubbed at his eye with his index finger, unsurprised to feel moisture there. He loved his parents, of course he did. But a huge yawning hole in his soul had longed for a certain kind of affection his entire life. The kind that made it okay to pull someone into a hug, and for mothers to fuss over their children, touching and soothing and kissing them simply because they were close enough to do it. Okay for fathers to be okay with themselves even if they had gay sons and know that hugging their sons was not what had made them gay.
Shoulder claps, back pats. That was the height of affection from Oliver’s father. It was different, he knew that: His father had grown up in a cold house with high expectations. He didn’t r
eally know any better. But Oliver thought about Big Mike, the most stereotypical “guy” Oliver had ever known in his life, and how Mike never hesitated to make sure the important people in his life knew that he loved them and didn’t see anything weak about expressing it.
“Hello? Oliver?”
“Seth, hi!”
“Well, I see you’ve been properly accosted by everyone,” Seth laughed. “Are you still coming tonight?”
“Oh, yes. Um, if it’s still all right with you that I do?” He looked at the digital clock on the microwave: 3:57 p.m. Four more hours until people arrived at Seth’s house.
“Don’t be silly. Besides,” Seth shifted at the other end, his voice dropping in false concern. “I think Dad would drive out there and kidnap you if you didn’t visit.”
Oliver wanted to lay his cheek on the cool granite. Heat was just pouring off of him. He wanted to rush to his car and finally be moving toward them and simultaneously felt nervous about seeing them after all these years. After all the hurt he caused.
“If he has those mint brownies, I would happily let him.”
“Those are atrocious, and you know it. They’re just from the grocery store with Junior Mints pressed into the top,” Seth huffed.
“You’re right,” Oliver laughed. It was so surreal to be talking about these mundane things that were such a significant part of his life way back when. “The ones you make with crumbled Thin Mints baked inside are superior, but don’t tell your dad I said that, please.”
Seth hummed a little laugh. “Deal. So when would you like to come? Dad is shooting me looks from the kitchen.”
Oliver traced an iridescent vein in the stone with his finger up to the place where it fractured into multiple lines that crisscrossed toward the edge. “I… don’t know.”
“Well, what are you doing now?”
This wasn’t happening, Seth casually asking him over. “I’m looking at the clean kitchen where the caterers will be swarming soon and trying not to be bored out of my mind.”
“Sounds fabulous. Well, you could come now, if you want? I… I would like it if you did. If you want to.”
“Yes,” Oliver breathed. “I would.”
“Good,” Seth sighed. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“Me, too.”
“I’ll see you soon?”
“Yes, um, I’m just going to freshen up and then I’ll head out.”
Seth laughed. “Perfect.”
They said their goodbyes and Oliver hopped off his stool, doing a little step-ball-change in his excitement. He was feeling energetic and really, really hopeful.
Mike and John were glad to see him. Seth wanted him to come now. He’d been back at his house for three weeks, but today it felt as if he was really here, as if he wasn’t just bouncing from place to place.
The Larsen house was a place of so much joy. Not static and unchanging as his house seemed to be, but the physical embodiment of a feeling of happiness and support. It felt alive. He couldn’t help but let the hope that he would be welcomed back there flood his entire being. It was enough to make him start singing some old-school love song as he ran across the wood floors, sliding on his socks around the corners before rounding the staircase. He threw open his closet doors, did a little James Brown move and laughed at himself as he picked out an Oxford and coordinating pullover.
It really did feel as though a new year was about to start—one in which he would no longer be afraid to look ahead.
There suddenly seemed to be a lot to look forward to.
Chapter Eleven
Oliver made his way carefully out of the car, trying not to tip the unwieldy platter of cut fruit he’d picked up at the market on his way over. He didn’t want to show up empty handed, and fresh fruit was always a good option, he figured. He bumped the car door with his hip to shut it and carefully made his way up the narrow path that had been shoveled on the front walk. He pressed the doorbell with the edge of his knuckle and tried to keep the platter level while rolling his shoulders and forcing himself to breathe normally as he waited on the porch for someone to answer.
He’d been both excited and incredibly nervous on the drive over, especially as he exited the highway and took the familiar drive on auto-pilot. The streets were the same—except, that wasn’t quite right. The second house on the right before he turned on Seth’s street was gone, a new brick house in its place. The Larsens’ neighbors seemed to have lost their giant maple, the one with the huge silver-backed leaves; he remembered drawing the edge of one along Seth’s forearm one summer afternoon as they sat on the front porch.
“I’ve got it!” he heard, and then Seth was there, looking utterly gorgeous. It took a moment for the ghost of teenage-Seth to fade from Oliver’s mind and let the actuality of Seth as he was now—slightly taller, broader, more relaxed, just more—sink in. “Oliver. Please, come in.”
Oliver ducked his head as he stepped inside. “I brought this; I hope that’s okay?”
Seth smiled back at him warmly as they walked to the kitchen, where Oliver felt both comfortably at home and completely foreign. Seth took the plate from his hands and set it on the pony wall between the kitchen and the living room.
A loud voice called from living room, “Is that Oliver?” John sauntered over, a huge grin on his face. “’Sup, man?” John said, his face open and friendly.
Oliver couldn’t help but match his smile. John somehow managed to look exactly the same as he had years ago: short and broad-chested in his old leather vest with a Harley Davidson tee underneath. His kind, weather-worn face and relaxed manner put Oliver at ease.
“Well,” Oliver laughed. “Not much, I guess.”
John gave him a bro-five and pulled Oliver in for a pound on the back. Oliver wanted to tell John just how much he appreciated being there, that he was thankful John was still being so friendly and open toward him, but that would just make everyone uncomfortable. So instead he pounded John on the back in the manner of dudes, while still worrying that he might actually vibrate out of his skin from self-induced tension.
As John started catching him up on the shop and the “sweet setup in the basement, seriously, Mike’s TV is freakin’ huge,” Oliver checked his periphery for signs of Big Mike, still unsure how he would react to Oliver being here. He wasn’t sure how he would react to seeing Big Mike, either, and just hoped he wouldn’t make a spectacle of himself by being overly complimentary in the hope of putting everyone at ease. Instead, he had the happy surprise of seeing Seth leaning against the door frame, arms crossed and smiling at him as Oliver continued to interject where appropriate in John’s ongoing, one-sided conversation.
“Okay, John,” Seth said. “I am sure that you are the very best shooter person thingy in your favorite game, but I have a feeling that Oliver doesn’t have time to play video games at school.”
Oliver smiled at the ground, huffing out a quiet laugh. “No, not a lot of time for XBox, unfortunately.”
“Man, that sucks,” John said, all apologies. Oliver absolutely loved that John was completely sincere.
“Okay, I’m going to have a little chat with poor, videogame-less Oliver now, John, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh. Okay. You’re sticking around for later though, right? I just downloaded a bunch of Lynyrd Skynyrd for karaoke,” John said, shooting a finger gun at Oliver, who nodded. “Cool.” He gave Oliver one of his half-smiles, the kind that twisted up on one side with a nod, and Oliver realized just how long he’d been out of the country. John was such a… dude. And an American dude at that, he thought, remembering how Janos and his buddies slung their arms around each other easily and had no problem with big, face-grabbing kisses when their teams were winning.
“Come on, I’ll show you the ‘freakin’ huge’ TV.” Seth nodded toward the basement door. “He won’t stop talking about the Super—”
“Well, look who the cat dragged in.”
Mike. A heavier paunch added to his already sizable presence of s
ix-five, there was more gray hair in his beard—no longer in a braid, but trimmed—and the lines in his face were a bit deeper. Mike was a man who played his cards close to the vest and didn’t give away any emotion until he was ready to, so the straight face he gave Oliver now as he stood stock still, big arms crossed in front of himself, had Oliver’s heart lodged somewhere near his Adam’s apple.
“Hello, Mr. Larsen, hi!” Oliver quickly wiped his palm on the side of his pants before sticking it out to shake.
Mike rolled his eyes and tugged Oliver in for a hug. Then he clapped his hand twice on Oliver’s back and held him even closer. Another ball of tension Oliver that had been carrying around dissolved in the tight, welcoming bear hug.
Mike pulled away and pressed his hand against Oliver’s cheek, holding it there and smiling. “You look good, kid.”
“Thank you, sir.” Oliver shook his head a little and gestured at Mike with both hands. “You look great, I have to say. Just like I remembered.”
Mike smiled and ran one hand absentmindedly over his jaw. “Well, got a lot more gray in here,” he laughed, tugging on his beard, “but you know. Life keeps on ticking. This one rides me about eating better, so that should tack on an extra six months at the end.” He chuckled and gave Seth’s shoulder a squeeze.
“Don’t act like you don’t love it, Dad,” Seth said, rolling his eyes playfully. “I bet you love the attention you get at Whole Foods.”
Mike crossed his arms again and leaned back with his feet splayed wide, glaring at Seth. “Hey. We’ll see how you feel about getting checked out by old horny ladies when you’re my age, huh?”
“Gross, Dad.”
Mike shook his head at Oliver, like, “Come on; this guy.”
This type of easygoing, playful banter happened every day in this house. Oliver had watched Seth and Big Mike tease each other—sometimes getting his share of it, too—more times than he could count. It was so normal and so, so long since he’d been allowed to be a part of it. He felt nothing but gratitude to be near them again, however briefly.