Chapter Twenty
Malcolm
The next day, I stood on the porch to my parents’ house. It was a brick Tudor home, with high peaks to the roof and a big arch at the entrance. As always, the landscaping was immaculate out front, with seasonal flowers dotted among hardy shrubs and bushes. Sighing, I smoothed down the front of my shirt and mentally prepared myself for another family dinner.
I had never been very good at lying to my parents. I always fidgeted and averted my eyes the second I even considered telling a fib. But after the weekend I had, there was no way I could unload the truth on them. They were liberal people, working in the arts and the academy, and they never had a problem with my sexuality. But there was a lot of distance between supporting me when I started dating guys and standing by their only son after he spent a weekend trespassing and exploring kinky group sex.
I rubbed my backside, still sore and warm from the pounding I received. Every time I felt another tender ache, I remembered Gunner, sweating and thrusting above me, and I thought of Maddox, fisting his cock beside the bed.
I remembered it, and I wanted it again.
My mother opened the door, her lips pursed tight. “Why on earth are you standing there?” she declared. “Come in, come in.” You would think she would dress casually for dinner with her husband and son, but in a pair of wide-leg pants and a smart, floral blouse, she looked ready to walk into a meeting at the museum.
“Thank you, Mother,” I said, kissing her on the cheek and handing off the bouquet I brought every week. “What’s for dinner this evening?”
She waved her hand in the air dismissively and started to walk toward the sitting room, her heels clicking on the hardwood floors. “I’m not sure, dear. You’d have to ask the chef,” she said over her shoulder.
Like everything else in their house, dinner was always strangely impersonal. They hired someone to make the food, and they hired someone to clean the rooms, and you absolutely never even considered touching the pricey contemporary art that hung on the walls or the rare vases that sat on the decorative tables. It made for a beautiful life, and I appreciated all of the privileges I had been afforded, but it also drained a lot of joy from the luxuries.
I thought again of Maddox’s house. It wasn’t nearly as fancy, and he clearly cared more about poking around in the mud or in his workshop than he did about tidying the place up. But it was warm and welcoming.
It felt like someone actually lived there.
“Malcolm,” my father said, rising to his feet. He wore an Oxford shirt, tucked into his khakis, just like always. “I was just finishing my notes on this article,” he said, removing his glasses and putting them on the pile of papers and books by the couch.
“Still working on the history of the Panama Canal?” I asked.
He nodded quickly, patting me on the back. “I’ll tell you more about it later. It appears that some of our family in Panama were involved in the student protests following the Second World War, although I suppose that’s just a sentimental connection on my end.”
“I’d love to hear about it,” I said. My father was always doing interesting historical work, especially on the region in Central America where he had lived as a child. Whenever it seemed like he was going to give me some stories about our family, however, he just veered back into dry, historical facts.
“Maybe after dinner,” he said. “I believe the table is set now.”
I headed into the bathroom to wash my hands, then met my parents in the dining room. My mother’s hair was tied up in a tight bun, although my father’s looked unkempt, mussed up in a way that was appropriate for the life of a historian. Preparing myself for a long stretch of polite conversation, I shook out my cloth napkin and folded it carefully on my lap.
My mother lifted the salad bowl, passing it my way. “And how was your weekend, Malcolm?” she asked. “Did you have a productive few days off of work?”
I nodded, using the tongs to move some leafy greens to my plate. “Very productive,” I said, feeling my cheeks heat up already. “Although I haven’t found a new apartment yet.”
My father clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Still? Perhaps you’re being a bit picky, Malcolm. I can’t imagine that it’s this difficult to find someone to take your money.”
“You are doing fine financially, aren’t you?” my mother asked sharply. “I sometimes worry that we should have pushed you into a more lucrative field.”
I nodded, knowing it was better to avoid arguing with them if I could help it. “Yes, I’m fine, Mother. Perhaps I am being too picky,” I said, stabbing a cherry tomato with my fork.
“Tell us,” my father said, “what did you get up to this weekend, then?”
“I had a date,” I said, keeping my voice calm and steady even as I felt another warm ache in my rear.
“And was he a nice gentleman?” my mother asked. “Will you be seeing him again?”
“I believe so,” I answered. “He took me out for a very nice lunch, getting me a Cobb salad at a café with a lovely view of the mountains. And yes, he said he would call soon.”
It wasn’t entirely a lie. I had ordered a Cobb salad at the diner on our way back to Seattle, and Gunner had paid. I just left out most of the details that came before that.
“And what does this gentleman do?” my father asked. “Did you meet him at the library?”
I took a sip of the wine that had been waiting for me. “He works in antiques,” I answered, thinking quickly. “Old building interiors, architectural details, that kind of thing.” It was close enough to the truth that I didn’t feel like total scum for lying to my parents, although I still had to battle down the sense that I was selling Gunner out by lying about him.
