“Oh mygod,” Julian says, through a bite of cheese, cracker, and jam. “This is so fucking good. I hate you. I love you.”
The charcuterie board also went on Dane’s card. When he got home, I’d started listing out the things I got and what they were for, “since Julian’s coming over—” and Dane grabbed the back of my neck, kissed me hard, and said I didn’t have to justify the purchases to him. That he just wanted to make me happy.
“It feels weird,” I admit to Julian, shifting back and forth from one foot to the other. “Like, I was plucked out of my other life and dropped into this one.”
He toasts me with his fancy sparkling water, “Here’s to never going back, right?”
“Right,” I say, clinking my drink against his, a strange frothy feeling in my chest.
“So, what are you doing all day, now that you’re unemployed? Just getting massages and facials and stuff?”
“Actually—” I pause, clear my throat, wonder if I want to tell him this. Then, deciding I’m okay with showing him, I say, “I’ve been painting.”
Of course, that leads to Julian askingwhatI’ve been painting, which leads to him trailing me to the sunroom, where Nico said I should set up my painting supplies.
Since the moment I came back with a truck following me from the art supply store—which was embarrassing to a ridiculous degree—and watched the delivery people shuttle the easels and paints and canvases inside, I’ve spent pretty much every spare second in this room.
At first, I thought I was painting without direction or focus, but then, when the finished works were lined up, I realized they were chronological. A hazy, foggy New York morning asseen through the window of a plane. An empty desk with the suggestion of a powerful presence not behind it. The inky black of the sea through the bottom of a boat. A sea monsterjustbarely visible through the black, so faint Julian squints and rubs his eyes and asks if he’s supposed to be seeing things.
“Yes,” I smile, wrapping my arms around myself, glad it has the effect I was hoping for. “Yeah—that’s the point. It’s from when I went on Nico’s boat, and it has this glass bottom. It’s like, when you’re thinking about the terrible things lurking below the beauty.”
Julian raises an eyebrow at me, “This isn’t a metaphor for your life, right? You’re not like, being held hostage?”
Embarrassingly, tears prick at my eyes, and I wave my hand, “No, no—the guys are amazing. It’s not that. I, uh…”
“That shit that happened with your family.” Julian doesn’t ask the question but states the obvious.
And, yeah. That’s the problem. The problem is that I don’t know how to have all these wonderful thingswithoutmy family. As much trouble as my parents are, my heart is still cleaving in half with the pain of the situation.
With Dane’s card, I could be flying my mother into the city, watching the awe and admiration on her face as I take her to all my favorite places. I could use this card to prove to both my parents that the city isn’t stinky or gross. Isn’t over-run with organized crime or gangs, like they seem to think. That this thing with my men isn’t gross or bad. It’s not a sin. It’s a miracle.
But they won’t talk to me.
I tried texting my mom about Thanksgiving, on the day. Stupidly, I’d thought a question about how to make her sweet potatoes would get her to answer me back.
Maybe, if it was just mom. But it’s not—if she texted me, she would have to answer to dad. And the moment I sent the text, Iknew she wouldn’t do that. That she would mention something about submitting to her husband and trying to keep the peace.
Never mind the fact thatDadnearly punchedme.
“Lucy,”Julian says, stepping forward and taking my hands in his. When I glance up into his eyes, I see something like understanding there. “I—I know it’s not the same thing, but I know a thing or two about family rejecting you. If this whole thing isn’t just a crazy fling, if you love these guys, and they love you, and they treat you well—it’s worth it. To suffer a few blows with your family. It’s always worth it to be yourself, even when there are people who don’t like it.”
And just like that, I’m crying. For the fact that I didn’t sit at the old wooden table with the creaky inserts at Thanksgiving. That I’m not there to watch movies with Mary and joke about painting on her belly. That if this goes on, my first niece and nephew might grow up without ever knowing who I am.
I’ll be the Aunt Ruby, the black sheep, spoken about but not really known. Not really loved.
“It’s okay,” Julian says, wrapping his arms around me. He rests his cheek on the top of my head, humming a little. We stand like that together, then he says, “That’s the beautiful thing about this city. It’s a place you go tofindyour family. You get to choose them, and they choose you back.”
“I just wish I’d had more… I wish I’d been able to choose how to tell them,” I say, pulling back and wiping the backs of my hands over my cheeks.
Julian nods, tilts his head from side to side, then says, “My dad found me with a boy in the barn, I know, it doesn’t get more cliche than that. Also said I wasn’t his son, another boring cliche.”
His tone is joking, but I can hear the hurt shimmering beneath it. “That’s when I ran away to the city and found your aunt. I’m not saying never talk to your family again, but Iamsaying you deserve to be happy. To start making your own traditions.”
I nod and scrub at my face again, thinking about Thanksgiving. I’d spent the morning with the guys, watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and prepping with Nico. He and I moved around the kitchen together easily, silently. It was nice.
Then, I had lunch with Aunt Ruby at a fancy restaurant doing a vegan holiday meal. It was different, but delicious, all mushrooms and tofu. We decidedly did not talk about our family, except at the end of the meal when she said, “Are you ready to talk shit about your mom’s flat ass now?”
It was the first time I really laughed since coming back to the city.
