Casey
I walked over to the dinner table with the pan of steaming lasagna. “Hot!” I cautioned. “No touching.”
Blake leaned forward and took a deep inhale of the baked deliciousness. I’d intended to pick up groceries that day, but with the blizzard shutting everything down, I was left with what was at the house. Luckily, there were also a couple jars of this stellar tomato sauce I’d made, ready to go, and the results of a cheese-buying binge stuffing the fridge.
“I can’t believe we’re actually eating at the dinner table,” Blake said.
“We’ve got to keep impressing Peyton, make him think we’re real grownups,” I joked.
Peyton gazed at the lasagna. “We could be sitting on flattened cardboard boxes. I probably wouldn’t notice, with cheese like that.”
I grinned and leaned back in my chair. No matter how many times I cooked for people, I never got over the satisfaction of those reactions. Cooking was the one thing I knew I was truly good at, like it was an art my body had memorized over the years, but I only really satisfied that urge when I shared the food with other people.
Especially these people. Peyton was family to me, and although he’d broken up the serious sex marathon we’d gotten into at the house, I couldn’t blame him for that. It had to end soon anyway, and if his visit could help me snap out of it and do what needed to be done, that was probably for the best, hard as it was to admit.
It was just that Russell got flirty, and Blake got bossy, and no matter how many times I told myself to cut it all off, we ended up naked and coming all over each other again.
I shook the thought away, then offered my wine glass to the group. “Happy blizzard weekend.”
“Happy blizzard weekend,” everyone repeated, and with a clink of the glasses, we descended on the food.
Russell smiled at me as he grabbed the salad. He’d put on a little eyeliner and shared this side of himself with his brother. It made everything feel a little more out in the open, even though I still had to stop myself from touching him and Blake anytime I passed close.
I winked at Russell. He looked fucking good, and I wanted to make sure he didn’t forget that.
“I can’t remember the last time I had home-cooked lasagna,” Blake said.
Peyton pointed his fork at his brother, and then they both spoke at the same time. “Dad.”
I thought about it for a second, then laughed. “That’s right. It was the only meal your dad knew how to cook, so we had it every time Mom was busy for the evening.”
Both of the brothers chuckled, but I bit down on my tongue, embarrassed about what I’d just said. I always called their mom Mrs. Young, notmom,just like I called their dad Mr. Young, and anyway,wedidn’t always have anything. I was just the friend who stayed for dinner sometimes, and then the kid who was weirdly living in the spare room in the basement for a year.
Luckily, the guys didn’t seem to notice my slip. “He did make a pretty good lasagna,” Peyton acknowledged.
Russell let out a soft grunt, and I noticed the concerned look Blake shot his way. “I wish he was here,” Russell said, “except I’m pretty sure he’d be incredibly uncomfortable with me.”
He said it kind of like it was a joke, but all of a sudden, none of us were smiling. My chest hurt, and I rubbed my beard, trying to keep my emotions together.
“You don’t know that,” Peyton said.
Russell rolled his eyes at his brother. “Really?” He glanced to me and Blake for backup. “You guys remember him, right?”
“He was a tough guy,” Blake agreed.
Russell turned to me, and although I wanted to offer something different, I knew the truth. “Your dad had a problem with gay people,” I said. “He made that clear more than once.”
“That doesn’t mean he would have rejected you,” Peyton said to Russell sharply. “You shouldn’t assume that.”
His voice was strained and tight, and the mood around the table was suddenly tense. Peyton seemed defensive, almost hurt. Across from him, Russell also had an ache written on his expression, but with his own defiance, too.
I knew that he was feeling all kinds of complicated things about his dad right then. I could practically feel his emotions because honestly, I’d felt a lot of the same ones. Mr. Young wasn’t my dad, but for a while, the Youngs were the closest thing I had to a real family. My own mother hadn’t died, but she had left me with a ball of emotions that were just as complicated and fucked-up as the ones Russell was dealing with.
“Dad could be really judgmental, and he didn’t like gay people,” Russell said flatly. “And that means he wouldn’t have liked me, either. Especially not the real me.”
“He’s gone,” Peyton said, his voice still tight. “Why do you have to say bad things about him?”
Blake looked at Russell, his face crumpled with concern, then over to me. There were a million things I wanted to say to everyone, but I couldn’t figure out how. And when Blake’s jaw tightened with frustration, I knew he was stuck, too.
