“Is the rest of your family like Randy?” I ask.
“My family isn’t close,” he says. “Don’t really talk, so I don’t know.”
“Oh.” I’m about to say I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m not sure if that’s right. I’ve known lots of people who aren’t close with their families of origin, and everyone’s experience of it is pretty different. “I understand. Randy didn’t talk to anyone else in your family, either.”
Clay glances around. “How long have you lived here?”
“As a matter of fact, I grew up in the gayborhood,” I tell him. “My current house is three blocks that way,” I say, pointing, and then twist. “My parents live two blocks that way now. And I grew up five blocks in that direction.”
“Your parents?”
“They’re straight, but it’s been a gay neighborhood for almost a century, and they have a lot of gay friends. There was a lot of LGBT political organizing in Allentown in the 1950s, especially. When I was growing up, there was a gorgeous flower shop right down the street here that had served the gay community for decades, and it inspired me to be a florist. As I was starting off my own career, Allentown Florist shut down, and I decided to fill the gap. So except for a few years of college, I’ve been right here my entire life. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
That’s probably way more information than he wanted, but Clay nods appreciatively. “I lived in the same corner of Missouri my whole life.”
“You’ll go back when you’re done here?”
“Not to the same town, but I’m sticking to the region. I’ve got plans.”
He doesn’t say more, and I’m inclined to ask, but he looks out toward the distance, not giving me an opening. Instead, I respect his silence and pop the last bite of pastry into my mouth, savoring it.
“Onward?” I ask, and Clay nods.
We head toward the bookstore, an array of pride flags hanging out front and a massive mural of gay authors painted on the stone side of the building.
“That pastry really was good,” he says to himself.
“Told you,” I say, shooting him a smile as we cross the street. I wave at some neighbors, shifting the basket on my arm. It’s obvious everyone is wondering who Clay is, and I have to chuckle at the knowing glances.
“Why is everyone staring at me?” he asks.
I take a couple of bouquets from his basket. “Because you’re walking around with me, and they’re all wondering the same thing Naomi wondered.”
“If we’re dating?” he asks carefully.
“You know how small towns love gossip. And I’m famously specific about my romantic expectations.”
“Excuse me?”
“One moment.”
I step into the bookstore, weave around a stack of bisexual biographies, and deposit the day’s flowers by the register as I blow air kisses to a friend in the back. When I return to the street, Clay is again waiting patiently.
“As the flower shop and endless love songs might have indicated, I’m a romantic,” I explain. “And to me, that means that I take love seriously, and I expect some magic on the journey. The fact that you’re walking around with me in the morning is making everyone wonder if you spent the night last night, which I’d only do after an investment of dates and a little swooning, so they’re surprised because no one has seen you before. But don’t worry. The intrigue won’t last. Once everyone learns that you’re Randy’s grandson, that’s all they will want to talk about. That and how ruggedly good-looking you are.”
Whoops! Maybe shouldn’t have said that last bit out, but it’s too late to take it back.
When I glance, Clay shifts the basket in his arm without commenting, and I can’t help but smile to myself.
“What about you?” I ask. “Do you have a… girlfriend?”
“Nope,” Clay mumbles.
“Ah. Not the dating type, maybe? Although as my parents can attest, the magic of the gayborhood can make even straight people fall in love.”
“I’m bi,” he blurts out awkwardly, his voice clipped. As soon as he says it, he grimaces, his jaw grinding. “I mean, no,” he adds. “Not dating anyone. And not looking.”
Everything rewires in my brain. My scalp gets warm. I have to do a little skip to let out some nervous energy.
“Oh, cool,” I say, embarrassed for the faux pas. “Welcome to the gayborhood. Sorry to make assumptions.”
“You’re fine,” Clay says and grunts. “Want to tell me more about the building?” he asks, changing the subject quickly back to business. “I’m eager to know.”
“Of course.” I gesture toward the gym, dance music pumping from inside, and get my head back together. “This way.”
