“Mrs. Bellweather.” Rion stepped forward, careful to keep a respectful distance. “It’s nice to finally meet you. Clara speaks very highly of you both.”
My father finally seemed to find his voice. “Well, this is… unexpected.”
I felt my cheeks heat. “Dad?—”
“I mean, Clara told us you were tall,” he hurried to clarify, “but I wasn’t quite picturing…”
“A bull?” Rion supplied, his tone carefully neutral.
An awkward silence fell over us. I resisted the urge to bury my face in my hands. This was going even worse than I’d feared.
“Minotaur,” my mother corrected suddenly, surprising me. “Half-man, half-bull. From Greek mythology, yes?”
Rion blinked, clearly caught off guard. “That’s… yes, that’s correct.”
“I remember the myth from my college literature class,” she continued, her scholarly interest apparently overriding her initial shock. “Asterion, the Bull of Minos, confined to the labyrinth and fed Athenian youths until Theseus slew him.Though I assume the historical accuracy of that account is questionable.”
“Mom!” I hissed, mortified. “Maybe don’t bring up the part where my boyfriend’s mythological counterpart was murdered?”
“Oh!” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry, that was insensitive.”
Rion’s lips twitched in what might have been amusement. “No offense taken, Mrs. Bellweather. The Greeks weren’t known for their happy endings.”
My father cleared his throat. “Why don’t we all go inside? Your mother’s made enough food to feed an army.”
“Or a minotaur,” my mother added, then immediately looked aghast at her own words. “I mean?—”
“It’s fine,” Rion assured her, a real smile finally emerging. “I do have a healthy appetite.”
As we followed my parents up the porch steps, Rion bent to whisper in my ear. “They’re trying. That’s something.”
I nodded, grateful for his perspective. They were trying, in their awkward, well-meaning way. It was a start.
Inside, the house smelled like roast chicken and freshly baked bread—the comfort foods of my childhood. Rion had to duck to enter through the doorway, his horns just barely clearing the frame.
“Let me show you around,” I said, taking his hand and leading him through the entryway. “This is the living room…”
I guided him through a quick tour, watching as he took in the cozy, slightly cluttered spaces of my childhood. Family photoslined the walls—me at various ages, always with a book in hand. Academic awards. Vacation snapshots. The accumulated evidence of a loving, ordinary family life.
Rion paused at a particularly embarrassing photo of a teenage me at a science fair, hair in a messy ponytail, proudly displaying a project on mythological creatures in literature. The irony wasn’t lost on either of us.
“Even then,” he murmured, a soft wonder in his voice.
“I had no idea,” I replied, squeezing his hand.
My mother appeared in the doorway, still looking slightly shell-shocked. “Dinner’s ready whenever you are.”
The dining room table was loaded with food—roast chicken, mashed potatoes, three different vegetables, fresh rolls, and what appeared to be at least two desserts waiting on the sideboard. My mother’s anxiety had clearly been channeled into cooking.
Seating presented a momentary challenge. The dining chairs, sturdy as they were, weren’t designed for someone of Rion’s proportions. After a brief, awkward shuffle, my father disappeared into the basement and returned with an old wooden bench that he placed at one side of the table.
“This should hold you,” he said, thumping the solid oak. “It’s from my workshop. Built it myself.”
“It’s perfect,” Rion said, settling onto the bench, which creaked but held. “Thank you, Mr. Bellweather.”
“Call me Richard,” my father replied, the first genuine warmth entering his voice. “Anyone who can appreciate good craftsmanship is all right in my book.”
I caught my mother’s eye across the table and saw a glimmer of hope there. Dad’s workshop was his pride and joy; his willingness to share even a piece of it with Rion was significant.
