“Oh that’s nothing,” Sam said, and my eyes flashed to him, stunned. “My father hated me until his final breath. I probably deserved some of that because the last thing I said to him was that the rapey demons in the eternal fires of hell were going to have a blast with him.”
“You’re too pretty to hate,” I said, aiming for some levity.
“While that is true,” he said, “it didn’t stop him from kicking me out of the house when I was seventeen because—according to him—I was a disgusting homosexual who shouldn’t have been born. If society was still roasting witches at the stake, I’m confident he would have put a dress on me, claimed I cast a spell on our dog, and moved me to the front of the line. He also found great pleasure in blaming me and my siblings for my mother’s death which is absolutely fucking illogical but he never trafficked in reality.”
Okay. So that was why Sam didn’t like talking about his father.
Fair enough.
“Families are really fucking complicated,” he said. “And that’s exactly why you should spend some time with mine. They’re the loudest motherfuckers I’ve ever met, and we give each other a lot of shit, but they’re already Team Tiel.” I gave him a skeptical look but he continued. “All I heard about this week was how much they wanted to meet you.”
“Have they met many of your otherfriends?”
“Don’t do that,” he said, his voice heavy with warning. “You know damn well they haven’t, just like you knowfriendisn’t even close to the right word for you.”
“Then what is?”
I still needed structure and definition. There was evidence suggesting that we were in a committed relationship but I required the words and I wanted them plain and clear, like the ink on his skin.
He shifted, bringing his knees to my hips and squeezing me tight. Leaning down, he pushed the tank aside and pulled my nipple into his mouth and oh, sweet jellybeans of joy, he could whip me into needy, breathless heat in no time at all. If the hard cock nudging my belly button was any indication, I wouldn’t be waiting long.
“All I want to call you is mine,” he said against my breast. “You’re mine, and I’m yours.”
“HEY,” I SAID around my straw. I was mastering the art of walking, drinking, and talking today, all while lugging both my violin and viola down Boylston Street. This was as close to an aerobic workout as I got. “The prepster wants me to meet his family. Explain to me why this won’t end in all sorts of disaster.”
Ellie groaned into the phone. “Lady, why are you calling me before dawn? This is obscene and you need to learn a thing or two about time zones.”
“I need your wisdom and guidance,” I said.
I heard the rustling of sheets and several irritable groans before she said, “All right. Lay it on me.”
Sipping my iced cappuccino, I darted across Hemenway Street. While the college was technically closed today, I knew the studio spaces would be accessible and I was desperate to get in some practice time. I needed to figure things out, and music helped me do that.
“Like I said, Sam invited me to meet his family. Today. For Thanksgiving.”
Ellie coughed and I heard her guzzling a drink. “And why is that a problem?”
“Because families hate me,” I yelled. “He’s The Beatles and I’m The Doors.”
“While that is a lovely comparison, I think it’s worth reminding yourself that your family is simply different. They’re butthurt about a lot of shit, and their reactions are extreme. Most families don’t operate that way, and plenty are very nice.”
“That doesn’t account for Dillon’s family,” I said. “They couldn’t stand me.”
“Ah, the one who shall not be named,” she sighed. “They’re also anomalous. If we want to trot down memory lane, let me say this—they were too busy setting him up to be the next Michael Bublé to let anything get in his way. That was about him, not you. Lightning doesn’t strike the same spot three times.”
“Okay, yeah, but . . .” I slurped the remains of my coffee and immediately wanted another. “But I’m not ‘meet the family’ girl. It’s too, I don’t know, involved.”
“You’re also not ‘freak out over little things’ girl. What is this really about?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I’m not into big families, and Sam’s family is as big as they come.”
Ellie snorted. “That’s a lame non-excuse. You don’t give a fuck about what anyone thinks . . . unless you actually care whether they like you. Or maybe,” she said, “the prepster cares whether they like you, and you care about the prepster.”
My stomach rumbled as I let myself into the studio, and I knew I should have grabbed a bagel with that coffee. “Well,” I said, hedging, “that might be part of it.”
“Can I also mention that your interpretation of the variations between The Beatles and The Doors is based upon extensive analysis, and not necessarily the view shared by the majority? At their core, those are essentially both male-dominated, tradition-averse pop bands that capitalized on the late sixties social climate that embraced anything countercultural. Really,” she said, and I knew I was in for a patented Ellie Tsai random analogy, “they’re peanut butter and almond butter. Very different taste but same philosophy and application.”
“That’s helpful, Eleanorah. Really helpful,” I grumbled.
