Chapter Twenty-Three
It was an odd feeling to wake up in someone else’s bed yet feel as comfortable as if it were your own. Seeing a note on Torre’s side, I stretched out my arm, and smiled when I read it.
He should be here with me right now, I thought, resenting the job that took him away. I gazed down ruefully at my morning hard-on. “I’ll make it up to you later.”
I’d been no less shocked than Torre when we crawled into bed, neither of us wanting anything more than to hold each other.
I’d slept deeply, so soundly, in fact, I hadn’t even heard him get up, shower, and leave, but now wide-awake, I had plans. The few times I’d cooked lately had fired up the itch to do it again and make something special. If I thought too hard, I’d have to wonder why I was doing this, and I didn’t want to spoil the mood.
I jumped out of bed and showered, then pulled on some clothes I found in Torre’s dresser: a pair of sweats and a sweat shirt from when the Yankees won the World Series. Barefoot and with my hair still damp, I entered his kitchen, recipes running through my mind. I tried to remember what he liked best and decided fresh pasta, shrimp, and maybe a rosemary garlic chicken.
Because nothing says love like a home-cooked meal.
“Shut up,” I growled at the devil, who ignored me as usual and continued to whisper in my ear as I prepared to make the pasta and set out ingredients for the sauce.
You’re not kidding anyone. Only yourself. You know he’s different. Presley sees it too. You’re not the same around him. Admit it.
I banged the pot down on the stovetop, splattering water on my hands. “Admit what? What do you want me to say, dammit?”
At the knock on the door, I whirled around, uncertain if I should answer it, but when I saw Maureen’s head in the window, I couldn’t ignore her.
“Good morning,” she greeted me with a smile and breezed inside.
“Hi.”
My face grew hot. It was one thing to see Torre’s mother in a group setting during the day or for dinner, but for her to come here in the morning, catching me alone and barefoot, after obviously having spent the night with her son, I experienced my first taste of embarrassment.
“I was watering my geraniums and heard a noise down here and knew Torre had left for work. I hope you don’t mind me barging in.”
I’d like to yank those damn flowers out and toss them into the trash.
I shrugged. “It’s not my place; of course you can come over. Would you like some coffee? I was about to make a pot.”
“Thank you.” She settled on a stool by the island, and I braced myself for another chat.
“Don’t worry, Frisco. I’m not here to continue our conversation from that night we talked.”
I poured water into the pot and pressed the button for it to brew. “It’s okay. I know most parents are concerned about their children. Mine weren’t. I’m a big boy, and I’ve moved past it.”
“I do want you to feel that you can come to me, though, if you ever want to talk. My sons and I have always been close, and when Mike married Val, she became the daughter I never had.”
I hadn’t had a conversation like this since the time I moved in with Presley, but I knew his family. Maureen was a stranger still. “That’s very sweet. Thank you.” I took a mug and placed it in front of her, careful not to meet her eyes.
“But you’re not interested. That’s okay. I needed to say it to you because I can see you’re a little lost and confused.”
I forced myself to respond politely. “I know where I am and where I’m going.” The machine beeped, and I fled to the other side of the kitchen to get the pot. Then, with my eyes still downcast, poured her a cup. It took all my willpower for my hands not to shake.
“You know, people change all the time. What was good for them in their twenties might not work any longer in their thirties or forties. It’s a sign of growth. Mike was always a hothead, and there were plenty of times he used his fists instead of talking things through, but with Val and Tina, he’s settled down.”
“And Torre?” Inwardly, I groaned, wanting to smack myself. I’d sworn I wasn’t going to get pulled into a conversation about my personal life, but Maureen had a way of casting out her line and neatly reeling me in. I suspected that as the mother of two men, she’d had years of practice, and from the gleam in her eyes, I could tell she knew exactly what I was thinking.
“Torre was always the one to think before speaking. Even as a young child he knew the power of words. When he came out to us, it took him so long to find the right words.”
“And you never had a moment of hesitation or doubt?” Despite myself, I wanted to know these pieces of Torre’s life.
“About what? I worry about my son. I worry about him living in a world that refuses to see him as a human being, equal to everyone else. I worry about him not finding someone to appreciate what a special person he is. But I’ve never once wished he were straight or not my child. He is who he is, and I love him.”
“My best friend’s mother was like that. She never judged, only loved us.” I closed my eyes as a wave of grief enveloped me. Why did I get so emotional when I was with these people? For years I’d kept the pain of their loss tucked away, but today it overwhelmed me, almost as fresh and agonizing as the night Presley told me.
