His blankets are folded and stacked in the corner, but the man himself is absent. I don’t waste any time heading downstairs, almost afraid of what I’ll find. Is he frying eggs naked in the kitchen? Talking to my dad about cryptocurrency? Slashing the couch cushions with a pocket knife?
What I find instead are my parents sipping coffee at the kitchen table and watching a bundled-up Gabe cut back rosebushes in the backyard.
“Morning,” I say cautiously. “Are you making my boyfriend earn his keep?”
My mom stands up like she’s going to pour me some coffee, but I gesture for her to sit and head to the pot myself.
“He said he was bored and asked if he could winterize our flower beds,” she explains.
I join them at the table. “Figures. He doesn’t like to sit still. Always active, that one.” And to my surprise, I know this to be a fact. I spent the past month texting with him, and we’ve been in each other’s company nonstop for days now. It shouldn’t be enough time to feel like I know someone as well as I know Gabe, but here we are.
“I’ll be honest, sweetie, I can’t figure this man of yours out.”
My mom’s frowning out the window as Gabe kneels to pull some dead, straggly weeds out of the landscaping bricks edging the flower bed.
“What do you mean?” I bring my mug to my mouth to hide my expression. This might be the very conversation I was hoping to force my parents to have, and I’m afraid my victory smile will give me away.
My dad jumps in now; clearly my parents have been discussing this.
“Well, sometimes he’s like this”—he gestures out the window—“or he’s asking smart questions about LLCs for his business. And then other times he’s…”
“Well, he can be a bit disrespectful, sweetie,” my mom says.
Yes. Yessss. They’re walking into my trap. “Sometimes, I guess. But he’s a little younger than me.”
Dad’s eyebrows twitch. “How much younger?”
“Eight years,” I say with a breeziness I don’t feel. Thinking about our age difference still makes me uneasy, but I force a light laugh. “Age is just a number, right?”
My eyes travel past them to Gabe, face set in concentration as he gathers up clumps of dead plants that he’s pulled from the beds. I flash hot from head to toe when I picture his impromptu striptease from last night. If him being in his twenties is what makes him extra bendy, maybe I should be grateful for that gap. That man canmove.
“Yes, but will a younger man want to settle down?” Mom’s concerned voice interrupts my thoughts. “Will he make you happy?”
Gabe’s little show last night made me pretty damn happy, although I would’ve been even happier if I’d gotten up close and personal with that impressive erection.
That… is not what we’re talking about here though.
“Gosh, I thoughtyou’dbe happy that I finally brought somebody home,” I say with a touch of acidity.
“Well sure,” my dad says hesitantly. “But someone that young, aren’t you worried he’ll eventually want to be with someone his own age?”
My parents are both looking at me expectantly, oblivious to my growing frustration. I wanted them to hate Gabe, not beg me to release him back into the wild for the twenty-something female population while I got down to baby-making with someone my own age. I’m gathering the courage to tell them to drop it when the back door slams and Gabe appears, his cheeks red from the cold.
“That ought to hold you until things start greening up this spring.” He brightens when his gaze finds me. “Morning, babe. Grab me some coffee? You know how I like it.”
He drops into a chair at the table, and I hop up to fetch him a mug, relieved to be running away from that conversation with my parents.
“If you kids are going to the grocery store, you’d better get a move on,” my mom says. “It’ll just get more crowded as time goes on, and they’re bound to start running out of things.”
Gabe takes a big swig of coffee and looks over at me. “Shall we?”
“We shall.” I could definitely use some time outside of the house. After we drain our coffee, we head upstairs to get ready for Trader Joe’s on Christmas Eve eve.
Just like last night, I hang out in the bedroom while he does his thing in the bathroom before slipping in to shower and dress. Once we’re both decent, we head downstairs, where my mom presents us with a long list.
“A few things?” I ask skeptically.
She’s unapologetic. “Christmas is an all-hands situation.”
