And whatever. At least it was only Silas and me who caught Lance with his dick down the cater-waiter’s throat. I haven’t heard any blowback from my other partners or from the executive assistant who worked with the catering company to plan the party. If the cater-waiter has any notion of self-preservation, he’ll keep his mouth shut and his pants zipped to keep these kinds of jobs.
“All right, Lance. I appreciate the apology.” I can’t really say I’ve forgiven him yet. It’s not my place to fight Silas’s battles for him, and he’s already had it out with Lance, but I sure as hell am not going to absolve Lance for what he did. Son or not, it was a shitty thing to do and I’m still disappointed in him. Lance doesn’t push it.
The kettle boils and I pour the hot water over the grounds in the French press, then set the lid on top of the glass beaker. I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder again and get a pan out, putting it on the burner. There's more silence between me and Lance, and I might as well start breakfast while we’re not talking.
“So, um…Christmas,” Lance finally starts. “I’m guessing you’ll want to spend it with Silas.” It’s not exactly a question, because my son isn’t an idiot. Even though he’s done some stupid shit.
“We haven’t talked about that yet, but…” It’s the elephant in the room that we haven’t yet broached, even after discussing other ways of sharing our lives together.
“Okay, well, I talked to Mom, and—”
“You what?”
“I called Mom,” he repeats, a little impatiently. “And I told her that I kinda need to get away for a while and she said I could come visit. We’ll spend Christmas in her flat in Paris and then maybe go to the Riviera for New Year’s Eve.”
Lance used to spend part of each summer with his mother in France, but as far as I knew, he hasn’t seen her in a couple of years. “What did you tell her about why you need to get away?”
“I told her that I cheated on my boyfriend and we broke up. I didn’t tell her anything about you and Silas.” He makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. “Honestly, Dad, the less I have to think about you and Silas, the better. I don’t think there’s enough bleach in the world to scrub what I saw out of my head.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“Jesus, Dad, how the hell was I to know you’d be balls-deep in my ex when I stopped by to talk to you on a Sunday afternoon?”
“Well, now you know how—”
“How Silas felt when he saw me.” Lance interrupts, a trait I do not appreciate, but I let it slide this time. “I get it, Dad. I do. And that’s why I think it’s best if I go somewhere else for Christmas. I know Silas’s parents are going on some cruise or something and it’s not fair for him to have to spend the holidays alone after what I did. But I really, really, really do not want to watch the two of you mooning over each other. Or worse.”
He’s probably right. I don’t want to exclude my son from a holiday that we’ve spent together every year of his life. But I can’t bear the thought of not sharing this first Christmas with Silas. And it would be damned awkward for the three of us to spend it together.
“Sorry, kiddo,” I say. “It’s a weird situation, I know.”
Another huff, but it’s closer to a laugh this time than a disgusted snort. “Understatement of the century, Dad.”
I push the plunger on the French press down slowly and pour myself a cup of coffee. “So. Christmas with your mom, then,” I say. “Sounds like a good time. I’ll miss you, though.” Which is true, despite everything.
“Yeah, I’ll miss you too, Dad.”
“Tell your mother Merry Christmas for me.”
“I will. And, uh…” He clears his throat. “Same to Silas from me.”
“I’ll tell him,” I promise. “Let me know when you get back.”
“Will do, Dad. Love you.”
“Love you, too, son.”
Lance ends the call and I lay my phone facedown on the counter. So. That solves that problem.
I survey the pan on the stovetop and the egg carton I’ve taken from the fridge. You know what? Screw it. I put everything away, pour a second cup of coffee, doctor it with cream and sugar for Silas, and take both cups upstairs.
Silas is still a lump under the covers. I set the coffee cups on the nightstand, coil and stow away the ropes from last night, and climb onto the bed next to him.
I peel back the covers enough to expose an ear and bend close to blow gently across it. “Baby boy,” I whisper, then lick at the shell of his ear. “Time to wake up.”
“Nnnggh,” Silas says into the space between the pillows and mattress. He doesn’t turn over or open his eyes, but he does wiggle his ass toward me.
I worm my hand under the covers and grip a handful, squeezing his cheek hard enough to make him squeak. He opens his eyes and looks blearily over my shoulder.
