The Fiancé (It's Just Us Here Book 6)

by Christopher X Sullivan

  “Jordan,” Karen warned. She touched her husband on the arm, then turned her attention to me. We shook hands. “Karen,” she said firmly. She was a small, but not petite, woman with dark brown eyes and thick black hair courtesy of her Syrian heritage.

  “Chris,” I answered.

  “Mark,” Mark said, pointing to himself.

  I rolled my eyes and held in a smile. It was plain to see what he was trying to do and it wasn’t going to work—I wasn’t going to loosen up. I wasn’t!

  Mark reiterated his plan to drag me here next Sunday. Karen reiterated that I was always welcome to take Communion or to take part in community events.

  I didn’t ask what she meant by ‘events’. If any of these kooks thought they were going to get me to evangelize for them—to market and pimp myself out for them—they had another thing coming! I glanced at Mark and knew that he was too far into this cult and would be utterly irredeemable. Hopefully, this ‘church thing’ was a fad, but I could already see the difference in the way Mark held himself.

  He was more relaxed around me. He wasn’t constantly hovering around or trying to ‘claim his territory’. He wasn’t a completely different person from the Mark I used to know, but he had evolved.

  Only time would tell if it was for the better.

  We separated from the Dunworthys. “I’m always open if you need to talk about anything,” the priest said.

  Like Hell I’m doing Confession! What do you even talk about in there? Oh, I had a nasty thought the other day. Oh, I sat at my computer and wrote an erotic story about a man abducted by Sasquatch. Oh yeah, I was ready for Confession. Let’s do this shit. Father Dunworthy would never be the same after he talked to me! Which voice living in my head did he want to talk to? Which personality?

  “What are you thinking about?” Mark asked as we got in our car.

  “Nothing.”

  He sighed. “I hate when you do that. You always used to do that. Nothing. Nothing. I can see the wheels turning, you do know that.”

  Mark drove through the streets of Chicago, going slightly over the limit at every opportunity.

  “I was wondering what your priest would think if I bared my soul in confession.”

  “Oh, I don’t think you want to do that.” Mark laughed. “You’re a little shit. You better not be making up any stories.”

  “I’m not!” I said, affronted. “I would never lie to a priest! I don’t lie in general.”

  “Liar, liar pants on fire,” Mark declared.

  I tried not to lie, but lies of omission were still lies. If I really valued the truth, then telling my parents that I had settled down with a man as a significant other wouldn’t be painful... it would be the only thing to do. I wouldn’t weigh my options because it would be the only option.

  “You’ve read some of my erotica. I wonder what the punishment is for writing something like that?”

  Mark held in his laugh. I could see it sitting in his throat but he refused to let it out. “We don’t believe in shaming. Confession is supposed to unburden the soul. It’s not about getting punished. It’s about connecting you to God.”

  “Oh.”

  “If you need punishment, we can work something out in private. Maybe incorporate some spanking? Light spanking?”

  He didn’t deserve a response to his banter. I looked out the window to cover for my discomfort. Mark had gone the whole week we had been together without devolving into sexual innuendo—so it had been an amazing week. Why couldn’t every week go by without me worrying about keeping him sexually satisfied?

  “We’ve been through a lot,” I commented.

  “That we have. You wanna go running in the park tomorrow? It’s supposed to rain.”

  “We’ll get it in between showers. And I love racing the rain.”

  WE RAN THE NEXT MORNING and got drenched. It was overcast when we started our jogging, though it looked like it was going to clear up. Then a dark cloud swooped in. I raced Mark to our car, but we weren’t quick enough and ended up soaked.

  I had two towels ready for us so Mark’s seats didn’t get wet. I was always prepared and thought through everything, which was why I had been so uncomfortable in that church. It was similar to what I knew of the Catholic church, but it was also so, so different. Too informal.

  Those people were trying too hard, I decided. That’s what made me so uncomfortable... the church people were trying to make me like them.

  Mark dried himself in the confines of his car, ‘accidentally’ touching me, then ‘accidentally’ pinching me. He was trying too hard to make me like him, too. If I was honest with myself, I would have realized that I was doing the same for him.

  “I wonder what the next week will hold?” I asked innocently.

  “Don’t know. Do you think it’s a good omen or bad that our second week started with a shower?”

  “I love running in the rain,” I replied. “It’s a good sign.”

  “Okay then, here’s to week two!” He gave me a steamy kiss. Both our chests were damp and shirtless.

  “Not here,” I said, pushing him away. “Let’s go home, I have work to do.”

  “Me too. I have to go in to the office for a few hours.”

  That was the beginning of our new routine. Mark would leave me alone until after lunch. Then if he didn’t have to work in the office, he would come home and pester me and I would allow myself to be bothered. He kept me focused so that I got the majority of my work done in the morning... just in case he came home and surprised me. Then in the afternoon I would go visit the coders in my old apartment—usually with snacks for the team to eat. Then it was dinner at Mark’s.

  Tuesdays were reserved for dinner with my parents at my parents’ house. Thursday nights were always a meal that my mother dropped off for me to heat in the oven. Always.

  And that Thursday was no different.

  Except for the fact that Mark kind of... accidentally... yanked me out of the closet in front of my dad.

  Thursday's Home Cooking

  OUR SECOND WEEK HAD been going so smoothly that I should’ve known it wouldn't last. Mark and I went to the gym on Thursday afternoon so that I could be at my old apartment when my parents dropped off the weekly dinner.

  Then my mom and dad stopped by with the food and it was just like any other Thursday. The three of us chatted with Nick and Travis. My mom wondered how Suhail was doing with his girlfriend. It was pleasant.

  There was nothing out of the ordinary about those conversations. Absolutely nothing to warn of the storm that was to come.

  I placed the meal my mom had prepared into the oven and told her that my friends and I would eat it immediately. My parents left before dinner—as they did every Thursday. Then Nick and Travis left because the guys knew I had invited Mark over for a romantic dinner for two.

  So I set a fancy tablecloth over our small kitchen table, then brought out a tall candlestick and lit it for the corny ambiance. I tossed the salad that my mother had prepared. The lasagna cooked in the oven. All I had left to do was wait for my guy to roll in.

  Mark showed up. He was dressed in all black as he usually did when he wanted to look his best. I couldn't get over how handsome he was. His hair was done perfectly and his chest was pumped from our earlier visit to the gym. I had changed into a dark blue shirt with small white polka dots and my pants were a light brown corduroy. Mark had gotten me these clothes and I wore them with pride. He approved of my appearance.

  I welcomed him into my apartment with a kiss. We giggled like children. I couldn't believe how normal it felt to welcome Mark to my place and to share a meal.

  “What do we have to eat?”

  “It's my mother's specialty—gluten-free lasagna. She's made it for me at least once a month.”

  “It smells amazing. And it looks like you set the table for us.”

  “It's a romantic dinner for two,” I informed him.

  “Why do I get the feeling you're giving me a hint that you like
these kind of dinners more than mine?”

  “You shouldn't even have to wonder about that. Of course I like a home-cooked meal more than going out to eat. Here I feel like I'm completely myself... like no one is watching.”

  Mark opened his bottle of wine and ran it through the aerator he brought. He plugged in his Bluetooth speaker and asked me what kind of music I wanted to listen to. I told him something romantic, so he played a jazz playlist. Something Italian flavored, like what you might find in a fancy, old-school restaurant. It did feel romantic.

  We settled in for dinner. I served Mark his plate and then got one for myself. He reminded me that we would clean up the mess together. “I don’t mind,” I said. “Don't worry about it. My mother made the food... all I did was stick it in the oven.”

  “You don't have to do everything yourself,” Mark said between mouthfuls. “We can do some stuff as a couple, can't we?”

  What a dangerous question, Mr. Mark.

  I gave in and agreed that we could clean the kitchen together if that's how he really wanted to spend the evening. I found myself staring into his eyes... at his hands... his lips... frequently throughout the night and couldn't tear myself away. He looked so happy and handsome and perfect. I was, once again, overwhelmed by the idea that we had reconnected—that this was all really happening. It shouldn't have been possible. Yet there we were... and I was as happy as I've ever been.

  The candle flickered between us. We said romantic things to each other. I commented on how this was the kind of meal we’d be having for Tuesday dinners, except my parents would be sitting on either side of us. He professed how he couldn't wait until that moment became reality.

  “We're working towards it,” I promised.

  There was a knock on the door. “That's got to be Nick,” I said. “Or maybe Travis. I'm sure he cut out early. He doesn't like going out.”

  “I don't like you hanging out with Travis.”

  “You don't have anything to worry about,” I assured him with a goofy smile. “You know you’re my number one man.”

  “That's right. I better be your only man.” He reclined into his chair and took a swallow of wine. “This is a great vintage.” He smacked his lips.

  I rolled my eyes and showed off my backside while walking to the door (I may have shimmied my ass a little). There was a second knock, this time more insistent. “I'm coming.... There's nothing going on. You can use your own key.” I opened the door halfway with a smile, which froze on my face and slowly slid into a grimace.

  My father was standing in the hallway.

  “Dad,” I gasped. Mark! Get out! Oh shit! Mark! These two people can’t be here at the same time.

  My brain short-circuited.

  “Your mother forgot the dessert. She told me to bring it, and I didn’t, so now I’m here. You know how she gets.”

  I stuttered and took the dessert out of his hands. “Thanks for stopping by.” My diaphragm was frozen and I didn’t know how my voice had any depth at all. How hadn’t I fainted? I kept the door halfway shut in order to conceal the evidence of my romantic dinner with Mark. How can I get rid of my father? I can't very well tell him to leave after he drove fifteen minutes to see me.

  “Thank you for dropping this off,” I said, still searching for a solution. “You didn’t have to.”

  “Of course. Your mom wanted me to, so I did. I'll be out of your hair in a minute after I use your restroom.” He didn’t ask a question, he just wanted to take. Take, take, take... like he had taken for so many years right after I graduated college. And he took my summers during college and made me work instead of letting me do summer internships which would have helped me land a better job.

  Shit. He’s coming in. “Yeah I guess you can,” I said meekly. The door opened the rest of the way.

  Dad walked in. Mark was sitting there at the kitchen, as plain as day. He hadn't moved since I’d been talking at the door. Why the hell didn’t he go hide in my room! The only thing of note was that he’d drained his wine glass.

  Mark stood, wiped his hands on a napkin, and smiled warmly at my dad. Then he half-waved. “Hello, sir.”

  Oh God, this is the end of the world. How is this going to play out? How have I never thought this one through? Of course my dad is going to realize what this means. A romantic dinner for two. Oh shit.

  Mark walked over to me. I was still holding the door and reeling like my life was officially over. I watched, horrified, as my lover and my father shook hands. Mark was excited—I could tell.

  “Just a quick bathroom break and then I’ll be out of your hair,” my dad said, like my brain wasn’t about to permanently fracture.

  He walked through the kitchen and into the bathroom. I waited until the door shut before I started hissing at Mark.

  “Oh my God! What the hell are we going to do?”

  “This is fine,” Mark said. “It was going to happen eventually. You need to relax and act calm.”

  “You stay calm. We're having a fucking candlelit dinner.” I moaned into my hands loudly enough that it wet my fingers. Then I extinguished the candle and placed it in the sink. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  “You and your potty mouth,” Mark admonished.

  “Don't give me that. You're the one who made me this way.”

  The bathroom door opened. Mark was scrunched up behind me and I was hyper aware that he was in my personal space. I took two steps away so that it wouldn't look like we were a couple, but I knew immediately that it was too late. We were bickering; we were sharing glances. My father had to know what was going on.

  “Thanks for the dessert,” I said stiffly.

  “Who's your friend?”

  “This is Mark,” I said honestly.

  “I know that,” my father said like a jovial buffoon. “We shook hands earlier. He gave me his name. Does he have more than a name? What does he do?”

  “He's a consultant,” I said. “In a marketing firm.”

  “Newly-minted,” Mark added, finishing my sentence. “I just graduated with my master's.”

  “I often wondered if Chris would ever get his master's, but it's looking less and less likely.”

  “Dad, I moved out of the house so you don't need to keep harping on old topics.”

  “Your mother and I just think you're too smart not to use it, that’s all. We're very proud of you for what you've accomplished, but it feels like you're taking the hard way.”

  “I agree completely,” Mark said, like a simpering dunce.

  I held back my glare and Mark held back his chuckle. We both knew there was going to be a couple comments about that particular statement when we went to bed, but for now we had to get through this performance.

  “Don't be a suck-up,” I warned Mark. “My dad doesn't like suck-ups, does he?”

  “I don't,” my dad agreed.

  “Why don't you stay for dessert?” Mark offered. “You made the trip. We've gotta have a couple beers around here somewhere. Unless you would like a glass of wine?”

  “Don't try it,” I suggested. “It's probably like a two hundred dollar bottle of wine, knowing Mark.”

  “We’re celebrating my promotion,” Mark countered. “I’m allowed to splurge.”

  “What promotion?” my dad asked. I glared at Mark because there was no ‘promotion at work’. Mark just grinned at me through the lie.

  “Nothing much to brag about,” Mark said with a shrug. “Just something I've been waiting for for a few months... you know how it goes. Office politics.”

  “I've never been an office man, myself. Always worked with my hands. You'd have to talk to my wife about that. Oh how she complains. It makes my head hurt just to listen to her.”

  “I'm sure your wife and I would get along just fine.”

  That was too on-the-nose for my liking so I wrapped up the conversation as quickly as possible and tried to escort my father to the door. “Would you like a beer and some of this pie... or do you want to get home to Mom?” I asked t
he first question in a rush and then the last one slowly because my dad could be easily fooled like that.

  “She's in one of her moods, you know? Maybe I'd rather hang out here with you guys for a few, if that's alright.”

  No, that’s not alright! Ah! Me and my stupid mouth! Why did I even give him the option! Why am I so deferential?

  “We could watch the game?” Mark suggested.

  “We don't have cable.”

  “We can just stream it,” he answered. Mark knew I didn't like to do things illegally.

  “We could put the radio on,” I conceded. “That's how we always used to do it. Right, Dad?”

  So I found an old alarm clock radio and tuned it to the proper channel. My dad sat at the kitchen table across from where the candle had been. Meanwhile, the candle was sitting innocently in the sink and giving me panic attacks. It had been so stupid of me to use a tablecloth and fancy glassware. Surely my father was going to comment on the eating arrangements?

  But he did not.

  Dad talked about the game. When he found out that Mark was a former baseball player and played in college with the dream of going into the minor leagues... that was all it took for my dad to become Mark’s latest fanboy. And Mark hammed it up perfectly, so much so that he was rapidly becoming my dad's best friend.

  Dad wanted to know everything about the minor leagues and how close Mark had gotten to them. “I was drafted in the seventh round,” Mark said. “But I gave it all up to go for a modeling contract.”

  “Modeling?” my dad laughed. “Modeling?” He looked at me askance as if to say, can you believe this shit? “Are you serious? That's the funniest thing I ever heard.” He laughed and snorted into his beer.

  “You know... that was the same reaction your son had when I told him about my job.”

  “That's not true,” I said

  “No... you laughed harder and longer and it was way more embarrassing. But I took it like a man.”

  “Modeling,” my dad said, still shaking his head. “I guess to each their own.”