“That’s just it. I’m not in his class. My dad pulled me a couple weeks ago when he found my textbook and read the word ‘sexuality’ on the cover. I kept going to class because, well, I just couldn’t stay away. But I swear, I’m not his student. He’s not my TA.”
The table breathes a collective sigh of relief. “In that case? Congratu-fucking-lations,” Ollie hoots. “We should do shots to celebrate.”
Santos orders a round, and the conversation turns back to our upcoming game. I take a sip of water, grateful that my heart rate is returning to normal. My team accepts me, like I hoped they would. It occurs to me that a couple months ago, I was paralyzed by the idea of anyone discovering my sexuality. I couldn’t even say the word aloud, at least not in reference to myself.I was so afraid of what my dad would say and how it would affect my life, that I buried it deep. I’m still dreading that conversation with my parents, but I’m holding out hope that my dad loves me enough to see past his own bigotry.
* * *
Ian
Life could not be better. There's a hot man in my bed at night. The coffee shop is busy, but good. Delilah is pitching in from the downtown store, Theo is a shift manager now, and we have three new hires. My classes are going well and I'm on track to meet the deadline for my thesis.I have offers from a school in Miami and one in Raleigh. I’m really hoping to do my doctoral work in D.C., but that news hasn’t come through just yet. Still, life is pretty damn fine at the moment. And did I mention the hot guy in my bed each night?
I look in the mirror and straighten my tie. Then just as quickly, I unknot it, pull it off, and toss it on the bed. I undo my top button. That’s better.
I shouldn’t stress over what I’m wearing. God knows Booker will be in his usual uniform of sweats and a t-shirt, as will his roommates. The girls will all be comfy too. But it’s the first time I’ve been invited to Sunday dinner, and I want to look good. Sure, I’ve had dinner at The Chapel before after dropping off Rose or hanging out with Booker, but this is different. This is a family dinner. It feels like I’m meeting the parents, to be honest. With Booker’s family situation, I don’t know if that day will ever come, but I’d rather sit through dinner with Knox Gallagher than with Booker’s dad.
I undo one more button and call it good. Grabbing a tray of brownies from the counter (store bought, so sue me), I grab my keys and head out. Phoebe said the gang loves brownies, and though I didn't have time to bake, I think the double chocolate frosted ones from the Stop n’ Shop will do.
Two hours later, I realize I was worried for nothing. The food is amazing, the conversation is as ridiculous as I expected, and Booker said I looked hot. It’s a good night.
“Let’s make brownie sundaes,” Lucy announces, strutting into her boyfriend’s kitchen like she owns the place. And Whit looks all too happy to have her there.
“Did you serve my child lasagna, Whit? Or just dump a jar of sauce on her? Because honestly, I can’t tell.” Knox shakes his head as he lifts Rose from her highchair.
“Shut your mouth. I do not use sauce from a jar.” Whit hollers.
“I’m on bath duty,” he declares, holding Rose at arm’s length and making her giggle. A chime sounds, and Ty gets up to answer the door. I step into the kitchen to grab a cloth and some spray to wipe down Rose’s chair, but when I return, I see a young woman in tears.
It takes me a minute to realize this must be Fallon. Same blue-gray eyes as Booker, same blond hair. In a second, my boyfriend is out of his chair, signing rapidly. He speaks out loud for our benefit. “What did he do to you?”
She signs back, and he shakes his head. “This is not nothing. You drove all the way here and you’re still crying. What happened?”
Whit has left his post in the kitchen, and we’re all gathered around the table, even though it’s pretty clear that Fallon wishes she didn’t have an audience. I suspect she signs as much to Booker when he replies. “They’re family, Fallon. No one here will judge you. You know that.”
“I know,” she signs, as Booker interprets. “But I just don’t want to talk about it. It was dumb anyway. A fight about the length of my skirt. And mom’s at dance with Emersyn, so she wasn’t there to run interference. I just want to forget about it.”
She sighs and takes the seat across from me. In seconds, Whit serves her a plate, accompanied by a look that brooks no argument. “Eat up or you’ll hurt my feelings,” he signs and speaks simultaneously.
We all try not to stare at Fallon while she eats her meal, so most of us end up scrolling through our phones to pass the time. I can feel the tension coursing through Booker as he sits next to me, so I thread my fingers through his and give his hand a squeeze. He came out to Fallon last week when she was visiting, and she was really happy for him. She was supportive and attentive and all the things a sibling should be. And I know he wants to support her too. But that’s hard to do when she still has to live under their dad’s roof.
Booker volunteers to help Whit in the kitchen, and though I miss his presence, I get the feeling that he needs to debrief a bit with his best friend.
Phoebe’s showing the girls the cake she ordered for her mom’s upcoming baby shower, so I muster my courage and turn my attention toward Fallon so I can practice a little of the sign language Booker’s been teaching me.
“How’s your food?” I sign, though, more accurately, I think I managed to sign the words food and good.
She smiles and nods, then picks up her phone and gestures for mine. I hand it over, and when she slides it back, I see a notification with her number. Soon, a text appears.
Fallon: You work at the coffee shop, right?
Ian: Yeah. And I’m a TA.
Fallon: That explains the whole hot professor vibe.
Ian: Thanks?
Fallon: Haha. My brother has good taste.
Ian: (blushes)
