“Of course. You told me when you asked for donations for that 5K you ran.”
“But that was one time over a year ago,” Tate says.
“And you have that picture of her on your desk, next to your stapler.” I love glancing at it whenever I pass his desk. It’s of him and his grandmother at his high school graduation, Tate smiling proudly in his pimply-faced glory, a boy who wants nothing more than to make his grandmother proud.
“How do you remember all of this?” Tate creases his forehead.
“Because it’s you,” I slip out, maybe the most intimate thing I’ve shared this evening. In the office, Tate doesn’t talk about his personal life much. He’s very professional. I gladly hoovered up whatever details he would share. I had a deep desire to know more about him.
He bites his lip and looks at the wall.
“You’re the boss. You’re not supposed to care about your assistant,” he says.
“I guess I’m not a good boss then.”
“You’re the best boss I’ve ever had.” He glides a hand across my chest. His eyes burrow into me.
I scoop him into a kiss. Our lips touch softly, and I savor the salty taste.
“I miss her everyday,” Tate says, his eyes getting glassy. He picks at a stray thread on the comforter. “My parents were between jobs a lot of the time, so she basically raised me. She was so proud when I graduated high school. Ridiculously proud. She kept a wallet-sized copy of that photo on my desk in her purse and loved showing it to people. I finally said to her one day, ‘Grandma, it’s just high school graduation. Literally everyone graduates high school.’ But she didn’t. She told me she had to drop out to work when her father died. She got married soon after. ‘When I see you in that cap and gown, I see you living the life I never got to.’ Cancer got her a year later. She didn’t get to see me graduate college. That would’ve blown her mind.”
I give his arm a squeeze, finding myself incredibly touched by the story. Tate has never opened up like this to me, and I want to be here for him in every way I can.
“My grandmother made the best pierogies from scratch. I have the recipe, but it never tastes the same. At least when I try, the kitchen smells like her, and I’ll close my eyes and picture her there.” A wistful smile flits on his pert lips. “She was taken too soon. Working at Seneca Bio is me trying to help all the other moms and grandmas out there in my own little way.”
“I get it. Home and auto insurance isn’t saving lives.” I kiss his shoulder, another intimate touch I can’t resist. Tate’s story about his grandma makes me want to hold him against me and tell him everything will be okay.
“She’d like you,” he says.
I beam with the compliment. I’ve never met the woman, but I hold her in very high regard.
Tate snorts a laugh. “A gay man gushing over his grandmother. Perfect post-coital conversation. Yikes.”
“I like getting to know you.”
He drifts a finger down my chest as if doodling on me. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“Are you close with your family? You never mention them. You don’t even have me send birthday gifts.”
The familiar anvil that sits on my chest returns at their mention. There’s a reason I avoid talking about my family, but a magic is in the air between us right now. There are no boundaries, only freedom.
“Well, my dad is dead. And my mom and I don’t talk.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Both are kind of good things. My dad was an asshole growing up. He was angry and had a drinking problem. A bad combo. I bore the brunt of a lot of his anger. Mom acted like everything was normal. She wanted the world to know we were a happy family.”
Tate puts his hand to his chest. “Bill, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. Thank God I had hockey. It was the perfect outlet for my anger and a place where I could escape my folks. Dad got drunk one morning and fell down the stairs when I was away at college. My first reaction was relief.” I am still ashamed about feeling that, despite our tortured history. Why was I admitting it to Tate? Because Tate’s face was so open, I could tell him anything.
“Mom remarried a year later, and we lost touch. She moved to North Carolina with her new husband and stepkids, stopped calling. I think I was too much of a memory of my dad, and she wanted to leave that era of her life behind completely. And history fucking repeated itself when my ex-wife ditched Rowan and me.”
Fuck. I rub a hand over my face. This is why I don’t like talking about these things. It sucks all the air out of the room. How did we go from talking about pierogies to my drunk dad and vanishing ex-wife?
“I’m sorry, Bill,” Tate says, his voice a light in my sudden cloud of darkness.
