“Honey,” Abba grumps, one hand still in his beard. “We know that, but Alexander is telling us for the first time.”
“Oh, right.”
I blink, stunned. “What? Really?”
“We’re your fathers, Alexander,” Pop says sternly, as though I should have just assumed they were reading my mind.
“Well,” I say, defiant, “we’ve been sleeping together for more than two weeks. Bet you didn’t know that.”
“That’s delightful!” Abba chirps. His smile is positively beaming. “Lovely!”
Pop wipes dirt from his hands to his shirt. “Very happy for you, son.”
I slap my hand to my forehead. How is it that parents can be exasperating even when they’re supportive and charming?
“So,” I continue, then let out a breath and lower my hand. “So, when we started, we said we were just going to have fun for a little while. But now that we’re hooking up, I want to tell him that I’m in love with him. I don’t know if I can hide it anymore.”
“Oh.” Abba sips his coffee. “Perhaps you should have told him that before, Alexander.”
“Yes, I agree,” Pop nods.
“Well, maybe I agree, too,” I counter. “But I didn’t. And now I’m worried that if I do tell him, I’m going to lose him. But I can’t not tell him, so maybe I’m about to lose him anyway.”
My breath catches in my throat. I suddenly feel like I’m going to burst into tears, which I didn’t expect, but all the swirling emotions in my chest have grown into a storm cloud, and saying the words makes it all the more real.
I could lose Rafael, before this is all over. Not just the guy I love, but my best friend, too.
My dads share a glance of concern, and when they look back, the tears leak out. “Sorry,” I say and wipe my cheek.
“Don’t apologize,” Abba says gently.
“But do tell him,” Pop adds.
“Soon,” Abba stresses.
Pop takes the mug from Abba and swigs from it. “Do you have any idea if he feels the same about you?”
“I really want to believe he does. But Rafael has always sworn he’s not interested in relationships, and honestly, I just don’t know. I’m worried I want it so bad, I’m, like, hallucinating the way he feels or something.”
Abba wags his finger at me. “You, Alexander, are far too clearheaded for that.”
Pop taps the side of Abba’s head. “You’re all up here. But you need to listen to your heart right now. You owe that yourself and to Rafael.”
He keeps tapping Abba’s head, which makes Abba grunt and swat his hand away. I laugh. Then another cry escapes me, a choke that ends with tears down my cheeks. “Sorry,” I say again.
Abba frowns. “That’s it. I think we should come to Chicago today.” He turns to Pop. “Honey, clean up your plants.”
“What?” I ask.
“We’ve been meaning to come to see the Van Gogh exhibit,” Abba says. “It will close soon, and we both have the day free. By the time we’re done at the museum, you’ll be out of work, and we can take you for dinner.”
“That’s really not necessary,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m fine.”
“We can use our hotel points,” Pop says. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Why would we use the hotel points? We always stay with Alexander. He’s perfectly happy in Rafael’s room for a—” He cuts himself off. “Yes, right. The hotel points.”
“What do you say, Alexander?” Abba asks. “We’ll take you out for dinner. And if you’d like, we can even see Rafael tomorrow. Size him up again, give you a fresh opinion.”
