I exit the bathroom to find Ian’s mom waiting for me. Without words, she opens her arms and wraps me in a hug I didn’t even know I needed. My eyes well up with tears and I blink them back, unable to find the right words to say.
But Ian’s mom doesn’t mind. She releases me and pats my cheek. “We’re so glad you’re here, honey.”
And you know what? I’m glad I’m here, too.
Chapter 22
Ian
Finals areright around the corner, and I’m helping my boyfriend study. It’s not a hardship, though. We’re at the fountain on campus, sprawled out on a bench and soaking up the early May sunshine.
“You ready for the next one?” I ask.
His head is in my lap and he smiles up at me. “Hit me.”
“Ok, here goes. The term inferential statistics refers to what?”
“Easy. Those are stats that allow you to make a prediction.”
“Good. That gets you another kiss.”
He reaches up and leans into my touch, hungry for more contact. His lips cover mine and nothing has ever tasted so sweet. I’m losing myself in the kiss, even though we’re in public. We’re hardly the only couple at Bainbridge who’s kissed at the fountain, and I’m not worried about what any other students think. When Booker’s body is close to mine, it’s like the whole world melts away.
That’s why it takes a moment for the shadow looming over us to register. That’s why I don’t hearBooker’s name until the man in front of us is practically barking it.
“Dad?” Booker says, sitting up. “What are you doing here?”
“Your mother and I are here for a luncheon. We came to campus to visit with friends and other donors, not to find our son in the lap of some…man.”
He says the word with such disgust, and as Booker winces, my heart breaks. But his father’s not done.
“Out in public, for God’s sake. Flaunting yourself in the middle of the day? What the hell is wrong with you, Booker?” As his angry words register, I reach for Booker’s hand.
“Don’t touch my son,” his father’s vitriol is directed at me, but I can handle it. His face is red, a vein protrudes in his neck. His fists shake at his side and it’s only now that I realize he’s not alone. Standing a few feet behind him is a woman, pale and fair. She has Booker’s eyes and his sister’s build, but the pain she wears is all her own.
“Grant, please,” she begs, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Let’s not do this in public.”
“Let’s not do this in public?” he scoffs, turning his anger on his wife. “Really, Kim? You’re scolding me when our son is flaunting himself in the middle of campus? Lying with a man in the goddamn daylight, Kim? Your son just kissed this…this…manfor the world to see andI’mthe one in the wrong?” He’s shouting now, drawing attention from students on the lawn, but he only seems gratified to have brought his wife to tears.
Just as I’m about to stand and get Booker the hell out of here, my boyfriend speaks.
“Dad—” he begins, but his father’s words cut him off.
“Think very carefully about your next words, Booker.”
“Dad—” he begins again, his voice softer now, more broken.
“You’re coming with us, Booker,” his father’s tone brooks no argument, but Booker’s hand remains in mine.
“No, Dad, I’m not.” Those four words cost him, and I feel an ache in my chest. “I’m staying here, with Ian. Here, on campus. Here, with my team. Here, with my best friends.” His voice gains courage with each word, but the look in his father’s eyes is pure disgust.
“Are you sure about that?” His voice is quiet, calm, lethal. “Think about your decision. You can walk away now, and we can put a call in to Pastor Adam. Soon, this phase of yours will be behind us. Or you can stay. But just remember this, Booker: that house you and your friends live in? I own it. The tuition that keeps you here? I pay it. Without that money, there’s no more hockey, Booker. Play time,” he looks derisively at me, “will be over. And if you think you have a chance in hell of seeing your sisters after this flagrant display? Think again.”
A chill runs down my spine. Suddenly, I’m no longer in the middle of the Bainbridge campus. I’m fourteen years old again, hiding under the bleachers at a football game, listening as PJ scares off the bullies who taunted me. I’m sixteen again, at the farmer’s market, watching as a woman spews slurs at my mother, ranting that she won’t patronize Meadowbrook Farms because she can’t condone my “lifestyle”. I’m seventeen again, sitting in a classroom, listening to my peers debate whether or not people like me deserve to get married.
I break out into a cold sweat, the memories flooding my brain, as I let go of Booker’s hand.
I love Booker Zabek. So I have to walk away.
