Growing Pains

by Cass Lennox

  Everything was suddenly just better.

  Brock put his arms around Gigi and hugged him tightly. Oh man, his familiar hard body and distinctive Gi smell. Brock had missed this.

  He’d also missed the way Gigi squawked breathlessly and how he always hugged back.

  “I think we’ll be okay too,” Brock said to him.

  “Damn right we will. But I have a requirement.” Gigi leaned back and gave Brock a very serious look. “We’re having sex in my room tonight.”

  Brock laughed. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The walls are super thin though. What is your family going to think?”

  “So be quiet— Oh my God.” Gigi sat up abruptly. “The wedding!” He spun around to look at the dashboard clock. “Five minutes. We have five minutes. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

  “Really?” He still wanted to go?

  Gigi opened the door and clambered off Brock, who had to rejigger the lever to get the seat back upright. By the time he’d done that, Gigi had returned to his door and given him his bag. Brock blinked at it. “What is this?”

  “You’re coming to the wedding, right?” Gigi’s face was flushed.

  Brock stared down at the bag. His outfit was in there. And he knew if he really didn’t want to, Gigi wouldn’t make him go.

  However, they were here together. And this was Gigi’s sister. And Gigi was right—even if he felt like shit, it would be okay because Gi had his back.

  Plus—and maybe it was down to clearing the air—but he finally thought the wedding sounded kind of fun. “I guess. But what about these bruises? I don’t want to show up looking like this.”

  Gigi waved dismissively. “I brought foundation that’ll cover those.”

  “You did?”

  “Uh, yeah? How do you think my skin has been so flawless around my family’s cooking? Get in the back and change. I’ll drive.” Gigi rounded the car and launched into the driver’s seat. “We’re showing up late and smelling of sex. God, she’s going to kill me. And you. But mostly me. I think my family likes you more than they like me. Omigod we’re so late.”

  In the end, they were only ten minutes late, and people barely even noticed because most of the bachelor party were also late on account of severe hangovers. Alan, to his credit, wasn’t one of them, but even so, Sophie was visibly annoyed. She managed to smile and wave at them when they came in, so Brock assumed they were forgiven for being late.

  Once everyone was there, the wedding went off without a hitch. Well, without many hitches. Brock noticed Grandma falling asleep during the couple’s lengthy vows, then it turned out the official photographer was just a friend who had been instructed to take “authentic candid pictures,” and the family mothers decided this was an outrage and that there needed to be at least a few formal family portraits (which Brock was dragged into, making him extra glad he’d let Gigi put makeup on him). Then an entire roast lamb and roast pig turned up during the wedding reception, which caused Sophie to yell about disrespecting veganism and prompted a few red faces. Brock had no idea what the hell was going on, but it was food, so whatever. Despite no one owning up to ordering them, everyone tore them to pieces—while also savouring the vegan spread. Which was actually really tasty, though Brock suspected saying that to the older generations of both families would get him an annoyed lecture about millennials.

  Really, by the time the party got under way, Brock was glad he’d decided to stay. It was way more fun than driving home in a sulk, especially once he’d started dancing and found himself spinning with Gigi in the middle of the dance floor.

  “This is fun!” he shouted over the music.

  Gigi beamed. “I knew it would be!” He glanced around and wrinkled his nose. “Oh my God, the décor though.” Sophie and Alan had chosen red flowers, white runners across otherwise plain oak tables, vintage settings, and a mix of lanterns and fairy lights in mason jars for lighting. “Rustic chic was over like two years ago.”

  “You don’t say.” Brock thought everything looked pretty cool, actually, but he had no clue about wedding decorations. Had never thought about it.

  Gigi got the far-off expression on his face that said he was daydreaming. “I do. Our wedding isn’t going to be anything like this. I have taste for one thing.”

  Their wedding? Was he talking about . . .?

  “It’s gonna be way nicer than this,” Gigi rattled on. “Like, with lights on the tables. And not in jars for fuck’s sake. Drinks would be served in proper glasses, not jars. No jars at all. And no tempeh. None. Or kombucha. The strong colour would be an accent, not a main feature. And we’ll be somewhere that’s not nature.”

  Oh my God. He was talking about them. “So you wouldn’t want to get married here?” Brock asked, somehow managing to keep a straight face.

  “No! Hell no. Would you?” Gigi’s outrage was priceless.

  Brock grinned. “Nope. Gi, is this a proposal?”

  Gigi actually stopped dancing and gaped at him, then whacked his shoulder. “No! No, it’s not! I’m not that tacky! You think I’d propose to you at my sister’s wedding?” He scoffed. “Like I’d propose to you at all. That’s not how this works. I don’t propose to anyone. You propose to me.”

  Brock was laughing too hard to dance.

  Gigi made a frustrated noise and pulled Brock’s arms back around him. “Stop laughing at me.”

  “I’m not laughing at you.”

  “You totally are.”

  Brock drew him in closer. “You’re right, I am.” He felt slightly breathless, though he wasn’t sure if that was entirely from laughing. “So I’m proposing to you?”

  Gigi was almost as red as his hair. “Yes. But not now. Oh my God, we’ve only been dating for like a year. There’s a time frame for this stuff.”

  “Got it.”

  Gigi burrowed in close, resting his head (or possibly hiding his face) against Brock’s neck. “And it has to be a surprise. And romantic.”

  “I think the surprise is kind of ruined now.”

  “No, it’s not! This is a discussion, Brock. There’s a difference.”

  Brock started laughing again.

  Gigi pulled him tighter. “Shut up.”

  Brock squeezed him as hard as he could. “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  They drifted in slow circles for a while, Brock’s head turning over the fact that Gigi could see them married. Them. Somewhere deep in him, his sixteen-year-old self was cheering. In the now, his happiness was completely filling him up, pressing uncomfortably against his skin like his body was too small to contain all this joy.

  Brock hadn’t even thought that far ahead. Not to marriage. Or anything beyond that like—his brain began to fizzle around the edges—kids. Holy shit. No. He hadn’t thought about any of that yet. Fuck, he couldn’t; it had all seemed way too far away and intangible. Like it wasn’t really meant for him. But somehow it was? Or it could be? Everything suddenly seemed a lot more possible.

  And actually, he had been thinking about his future with Gigi, hadn’t he? Not something huge like marriage, but something a little less scary and absolute. Still big.

  He cleared his throat. “Gi. You said there’s a time frame for this kind of stuff.”

  Gigi pulled back enough to look at him. “Uh-huh.”

  “How do you feel about moving in together?”

  Brock was exceptionally glad it was the weekend because it had been one long, long week. Work wasn’t as nuts as it had been in the lead-up to the holiday season, but it was still crazy trying to get as much done as possible before the break. Plus, his order of a certain pair of rings had finally shown up, and he’d stopped by the store to collect them right after work. Not that he was actually going to use them anytime soon—he just liked having them on hand. Ready for when he and Gigi were. It had only been a few months since that mess of a weekend in Maney, and Brock wasn’t sure he was totally recovered from that, let alone ready to plan a proposal a
nd do it. But he liked being ready.

  As he walked through the snowy streets to the apartment he now shared with Gigi, he considered good hiding places for the rings. Anywhere in the kitchen was a bad idea; Gigi watched what he ate like a hawk and knew the contents of everything in the kitchen. Ditto with the bathroom, but for other reasons. The living room was a slightly better idea: plenty of boxes full of random crap Brock had collected on his travels and games and DVDs and just stuff. Problem there was they were still unpacking, and Gigi could definitely be counted on to have a cleaning spree one afternoon and finish the boxes in the living room.

  Bedroom, then. In some of Brock’s old T-shirts, the ones Gigi hated? No, because he kept threatening to throw them out. Maybe some of LaMore’s out-of-date outfits, though that seemed risky too. Or Brock could pack a box of clothing and put it in the wardrobe? Argh, no doubt Gigi would go looking through that too. Endlessly curious. Or nosy, depending on who was asked.

  Just as he reached the apartment building, he had it. The shoebox.

  They’d rediscovered it in the car on the way home from Maney. Brock had chucked it down when they’d had sex in the car, and both of them had forgotten about it in the ensuing madness of getting to the wedding on time. So when Brock’s foot had knocked against it the following morning as they drove out of Maney, he’d been surprised, then slightly apprehensive.

  “Open it,” Gigi had said, focused on the road.

  “Here?”

  “Yeah.” His mouth twisted. “If we have to throw it out, I think the middle of the goddamn forest is the best place.”

  Brock sighed. “Littering’s wrong.” He pulled off the lid.

  What met him were report cards. All of his school report cards. Tucked in with them were some school certificates, a few drawings, some sports medals, and medical records. He listed each thing as he pulled them out, and Gigi’s jaw tightened with every word.

  As Brock worked through the box, he found a stack of photos under the school things. All him, from when he’d been a baby to when he’d reached about ten.

  Gigi looked over when Brock mentioned them. “Baby pics? Omigod, I wanna see! Let me see those!”

  “You’re driving.”

  Gigi tsked. “I guess.”

  “Later.” Brock paused. “There aren’t many of them.”

  “Really? Didn’t they take lots?”

  “I don’t trust your definition of ‘lots.’ But no, I don’t think so.” He couldn’t remember a camera coming out for any vacations or important occasions. All the pictures he held now were . . . well, were from when things had been better. “I guess they did for a while.”

  “And now they gave them back to you?” Gigi shook his head. “Babe. Babe. I’m going to take so many selfies of you and me from now on.”

  “You take a million selfies of us as it is.”

  Gigi shifted in his seat. “Is there anything else?”

  Not really. A few small toys that tugged at early memories, a paperback he’d left in his room before going to Indonesia (only to come back from abroad and find they’d cleared everything out so his room could be a guest room), an ancient Game Boy—and right at the bottom, a rusty razor blade.

  He went slightly numb as he picked it up. Wow. His parents had gone over his room with a fine-tooth comb if they’d found his stash of these. He’d left a few in a hiding place under the bed, along with antiseptic and bandages for afterwards.

  Gigi glanced across. “What is . . . Fuck! Throw it out!”

  Brock blinked and looked over at him. “What?”

  “That thing. Stop touching it. Throw it out! Now!”

  “But we’re in the middle of the highway! It’s dangerous.”

  Gigi’s eyes blazed at him. “Not as dangerous as I will be if you don’t throw it away right the fuck now.”

  Brock dropped it back in the box. “I’ll get rid of it properly when we stop somewhere.”

  Gigi seemed to be struggling to breathe. “Put the box in the back.”

  “Gi, seriously—”

  “Do it!”

  So Brock closed the box and put it in the backseat. And once he faced forward again, Gigi reached across and took his hand. “I’m never letting you shave again.”

  Brock rolled his eyes. “Gi, I told you, I’m done with those. I’m fine.”

  “I don’t care! I don’t want to see you touching one, ever.”

  Brock rubbed his thumb against Gigi’s skin. “It’s okay.”

  “Did your mother”—Gigi was practically spitting now—“seriously, seriously put a fucking razor blade in a fucking box full of your childhood shit as a fucking good-bye present? Or did I make that up?”

  He sighed. “She did.”

  “Then it is not okay, Brock.”

  Brock pressed Gigi’s hand between both of his. “It’s not a surprise to me.”

  “It should be! I can’t believe this!” Gigi glared at him with suspiciously shiny eyes. “Your parents are dead to me. Dead.”

  Whoa. Hey there, melodrama. Brock tried to reassure Gigi that he really was fine, that this was kinda typical of his shitty family, but Gigi hadn’t calmed down until they’d stopped at a gas station and Brock had thrown it out (safely taped in cardboard, of course). Brock had dug through the box to make sure there weren’t any more, then handed the baby pics to Gigi to help him relax.

  Brock had kept the box because he didn’t see the point in throwing it out. Yes, it was painful to see it and to be reminded of how he’d gotten it, but the stuff in there was fascinating to him. He liked seeing his old report cards and pictures and remembering some of the good times he’d had in Maney. There had been some. And this was proof that, on some level, his parents had cared about him. They’d cared enough to track his progress through childhood, to document and observe it, then keep those things as mementos. He would never be able to replace this stuff.

  So he kept the box.

  And Gigi had refused to touch it since.

  Therefore: perfect hiding spot. Maybe he could add a few more things to it—ticket stubs from his travels through Southeast Asia and Europe, pictures from university, and so on—to mark other major points in his life. In that sense, the shoebox really was a perfect hiding spot.

  When Brock got home to their apartment, he took off his winter gear, then headed straight to their bedroom and the corner of the wardrobe where he’d stashed the shoebox. He crouched down and opened it. Gigi had taken the pics out, but the school stuff was still in there, and there was plenty of space for a small ring box to nestle inside.

  He paused, then pried open the ring box to look at them just one more time. Bright silver nestled within dark velvet, catching the light as Brock angled them. They were pretty basic—no huge fancy rocks or engravings or anything. But they were titanium and had this really nice matte finish that Brock thought looked kind of awesome in a subtle way. His friend Katie had helped him pick them out, and she said they were classy—so if Gi hated them, it was totally her fault.

  Brock didn’t think Gi would hate them though.

  After all, they meant this big life decision Brock and Gi had made to each other, to be with each other. Brock had never bought into this marriage stuff before, but honestly? This shit was so cool. Knowing Gigi was totally on board with spending their lives together was the best feeling ever. Why wouldn’t they want to show that off?

  He snapped the box shut and tucked it under his school reports. Just as he put the lid back on the shoebox, he heard the front door open and close.

  A pause, then Gigi called, “Honey, I’m hooome!”

  Brock quickly shoved the box back into its corner spot and stood up. He left the bedroom and found Gigi unwrapping his scarf, coat on, cheeks still red from the outdoors, dance bag at his feet.

  Right, he’d had a dance thing tonight. Brock hadn’t been able to make it due to work and because he’d planned to pick up the rings.

  “Hey,” he said.

  Gigi smiled. “I saw
your boots. You’re home early.”

  “I managed to leave earlier than expected. Sorry I missed the performance.”

  A shrug. “It wasn’t the best. Hardly anyone was there. Stupid snow.”

  He looked super cute with red cheeks and his favourite reindeer toque. Argh, adorable. Brock stepped forward and pulled him into a hug. He still smelled all wintery, that crisp, cold scent that came from being outside in Canada’s worst season, but underneath was his familiar scent. He’d sweated while dancing. Mmm.

  He must’ve been hugging hard, because Gigi squawked, but in a pleased way. “Happy to see you too.” He bussed Brock’s cheek, then wriggled out of the hug. “I have to shower before Tyler and Evie get here. You get the wine?”

  Brock froze. Oh. Shit. He’d completely forgotten about that. Tyler, Evie, takeout, movies, and wine. Which he was supposed to have picked up on his way home.

  Gigi pulled off his toque and fixed him with a knowing look. “I freaking knew it.” He bent down to his dance bag, opened it, and pulled out two bottles of red.

  Oh man. “You got it anyway?”

  There was a resigned but fond expression on Gigi’s face. “I know what battles to pick. How much do you love me right now?”

  A few months ago, this would’ve resulted in a fight. But right now, Brock was just blown away. Gi realized Brock would forget the stupid LCBO run and did it for him anyway. How well did Gi know him? Embarrassingly (but also awesomely) well, clearly. “I love you so much right now. But I’m sorry I forgot.”

  Gigi rolled his eyes. “Just get food ordered. I’m freaking starving.”

  Ah, fuck it. He reached forward. “I have something you could eat.”

  Gigi snorted. “Oh my God. Lame. So lame.”

  Then Brock shut him up by kissing him fiercely and sliding his hands down Gigi’s body until he melted and kissed back. Gigi didn’t touch back because his hands were busy, which left Brock free to grab his ass firmly and pull him flush from mouth to knee. Oh. There was a hardness against Brock’s hip that felt promising. Brock rocked his hips as he ground them together, and Gigi made one of his small gasping noises that Brock loved so much.