Art would probably make all sorts of jokes about that. Kind jokes, but jokes all the same. He’d say something about gay missionary, and then the two of them would get into an argument about whether gay missionary was face-to-face or front-to-back. Art would argue for face-to-face, because of course he would, but Ryan would make the case that the most vanilla way to have penetrative gay sex was front to back, because the bottom could just lie there, as disengaged as possible, taking it while?—
“Why am I thinking about the most boring way to have sex?” he blurted quietly, sitting back from his sewing.
He tilted his head up to the ceiling and rubbed his face with both hands, exasperated with himself. He wasn’t just imagining the most boring way to have gay sex, he was imagining Graeme, naked and laid out for him, legs parted, arse lifted, hole pink and inviting.
With a gust of breath, he threw his hands to the side. “I have to get out of this headspace,” he grumbled, pushed his chair back, and stood.
The problem was that his head had lived full time in that space since he’d woken up with a slight hangover in a tiny hotel bed with both Graeme and Art a few days before. They’d all been too drunk to do more than strip to their pants and throw a blanket over themselves that night, not to mention too hungover the next day to try anything, but something about the moment had been special.
The three of them. In bed together. Mostly naked. Calm and relaxed. Graeme had ended up in the middle, but Ryan had still woken with Art’s hand on his side. He’d wanted to reach back and tickle Art awake or more.
“I need coffee,” Ryan sighed, walking away from his sewing machine with his seam half-sewn.
It was the middle of the day on a weekday, so Hawthorne House was buzzing with adults and children from the local schools who had been bussed in for art classes. The abrupt shift in energy went a long way toward steering Ryan’s thoughts in a direction that was more comfortable, but it didn’t take away the feeling like he was made up of two tectonic plates that were grinding against each other. Something was going to give if he didn’t figure things out soon.
The front part of the office that had been constructed out of one of Hawthorne House’s old parlors was busy. Early and Rebecca were the Hawthorne Arts Center’s two admins, and as Ryan walked into the office, Early was on the phone and Rebecca was trying to help a confused senior with their painting class registration. Ryan waved briefly to them before heading into the back room, where the coffee was.
His dad sat at the back room’s small table, which was an antique and far too fancy for a break room, drinking tea and looking at some sort of art supply catalog.
“Afternoon,” Ryan greeted him, going straight to the coffee machine on the counter along one side of the room.
“What’s wrong?” Robert asked.
Ryan flinched, turning to his dad before he reached the counter. “What kind of greeting is that?”
“It’s the greeting of a father who’s known you for thirty-two years and can read your moods like this catalog,” Robert said, setting down the catalog. He picked up his tea and leaned back in his chair, fixing Ryan with a smile that was half concern, half provocative. “It can only be one of two things,” he said as if he were Ryan’s therapist instead of his dad, which sometimes he was. “Either you’re frustrated over work and this fall collection you’re trying to conjure up for February without any guarantee you’ll have a place to show it, or you’re in the throes of a romantic quandary.”
Ryan frowned as he reached for the coffee carafe and one of the mugs on a tray halfway down the counter. It was a pain having a father who knew what he was thinking, whether he’d shared it openly or not.
Because his dad was right and knew he was right, Ryan took his time pouring coffee and adding cream and sugar. He stirred longer than he needed to, then delayed for no reason whatsoever before sighing, grabbing a biscuit to go with his drink, and heading to the table.
“I’m not overly worried about getting an invitation to show at London fashion week,” he said as he sat. “I have enough contacts in the industry and have built enough connections that it’s just a matter of time before I’m back where I want to be.” And if that wasn’t wishful thinking, he didn’t know what was.
“So it’s romantic, then,” Robert said with a devilish grin. He crossed his arms, stroked his long, white beard, and hummed.
“I’m not telling you anything about my love life, Dad,” Ryan said, then bit his biscuit and sipped his coffee as additional signs that he wasn’t talking.
“Fine, fine,” Robert said, holding up his hands. He paused just long enough to make Ryan think he would drop the whole thing before saying, “I mean, I can completely understand how you might be under a great deal of stress and exhaustion from having two boyfriends.”
Ryan swallowed his coffee wrong, nearly scalding his throat. He put his coffee mug down deliberately and stared at his dad. “I do not have two boyfriends.”
“Oh?” Robert asked with pretend innocence. “Which one of them are you dating, then?”
The conversation could have gone several ways. Clearly, his dad knew what had him tied in knots. He could deny it, finish his coffee and biscuit and go back to work. He could downplay the moral knots he’d been tying himself in and change the subject. Or he could blab everything to someone who might actually have a clue what he was going through, thanks to his dad’s extremely chequered past, and get some real advice.
“I’m not dating either of them,” he said, heat rising up his neck and face that had nothing to do with the coffee. “We’re all just friends.”
Robert stared flatly at him. “Care to try again?” he asked.
Ryan sighed. He didn’t love his dad’s coy games when it came to prying vital information out of his kids, but they did work. If only because his pretend ignorance was incredibly annoying.
“Yes, I’m very fond of both Graeme and Art, and attracted to them both as well,” he said, keeping his voice down and looking at the open doorway. Having this conversation with his dad was one thing. Anyone else overhearing was something else entirely.
Robert surprised him by laughing as if he’d just told a particularly amusing joke. “Son, you’re thirty-two years old. Why is this even an issue for you?”
“Of course it’s an issue for me,” Ryan said with more irritation than he intended. “I’m not some callous lothario who loves men and leaves them.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Robert said, still laughing.
