He runs his foot up my calf. “Your legs aren’t scrawny. But don’t worry. No extra lessons. In fact, no lessons at all. I’m spending Thanksgiving with my parents in Rhode Island.”
“Oh.” Of course he is. I’m the one whose parents disowned him and left him to fend for himself. Not Adam.
“Want to come with me?”
He says it through a mouthful of cereal, and so quickly I’m sure I must have heard him wrong. Because there’s no way he asked me what I think he asked me.
“Wait—what?”
“Do you want to come with me?” he asks again, spacing the words out like each one is a separate sentence. “It’ll be fun. I’ll introduce you to my parents. Show you my hometown. We can fool around in my bedroom.”
His foot travels up and down my calf again. The heat of him sears me, even through the heavy denim of my jeans.
I set my bowl down on the trunk/table, not caring if my cereal gets soggy. “Are you serious?”
“As a Gordie Howe hat trick.” He polishes off his cereal—seriously, the boy can eat—and slurps down the best part of a Cocoa Puffs breakfast, the chocolatey milk it leaves behind.
I frown at him. “I know what a hat trick is, but what’s a Gordie Howe hat trick?”
“It’s not important.” He puts his empty bowl down next to my still half-full one and wipes his mouth on his sleeve before shifting sideways so he can face me straight on. “Just answer the question.”
“You really want me to meet your parents?”
“Why wouldn’t I? They’re great. You’re great. You’re going to love each other.”
Why wouldn’t I?There’s no way he can know the minefield of emotions his seemingly innocent question creates. On the one hand, I’m happy for him that he has the kind of parents who are cool with him being into guys. And for me that I have the kind of boyfriend who wants to show me off to his family. But it’s also a painful reminder—as if I needed one—of my own parents’ betrayal.
I’d cry if I had any tears left. But I don’t. Not for my parents and their conditional love. Or my faith, that told me I was a sinner for loving who I wanted to love. I shed every last one of those long ago.
The Dennises of Randolph, Utah may be my birth family, but in Burlington I’ve found my chosen family. Harrison and Finn and Briar and the whole gang at V and V. Ian and Courtney and Rachel and even Professor Frost in the drama department.
And now Adam.
I must be quiet for too long, lost in my own thoughts, because he reaches out to place a hand on my thigh just above my knee, where it’s warm and calming and the furthest thing from sexual.
“Are you okay? If it’s too soon, that’s fine. I get it. I just thought—”
I don’t let him get any further. I’m in his space, my mouth on his, silencing him. He’s taken aback at first, but after a couple of seconds he’s as into it as I am, his lips opening to let my tongue inside and a needy, almost desperate sound coming from deep in his throat.
“It’s not too soon,” I say when I’m done kissing him senseless. No, that’s not right. Not senseless. Is senseful a word? It’s more like I’m kissing sense into him than out of him. “I want to go home with you and spend Thanksgiving with your family. And I love that you want to share all that stuff with me.”
It’s the perfect time to tell him about my situation. To explain that the reason I got so emotional when he asked me to meet his parents is because my own don’t want anything to do with me. But I don’t want to ruin this perfect moment with negative crap like my tortured past.
Besides, my past isn’t important. It’s my present that matters. Here. Now. With him.
He reaches for his coffee, which has been sitting on the trunk with mine, forgotten and getting cold during our conversation. He takes a sip and grimaces, whether because the coffee’s cold or because it’s crappy is anybody’s guess. “There’s something you should probably know before you say yes.”
“Haven’t you been listening? I already said yes.”
“Well, this might make you change your mind.”
“Not likely,” I scoff. “Unless your mother’s a lousy cook, and Thanksgiving dinner’s going to be dry turkey, lumpy mashed potatoes, and a Jello-O mold. No, wait. I’ve got it. Your father’s a serial killer who preys on his son’s unsuspecting conquests. Like a queer version ofGet Out.”
“Hardly. He’s a judge. But this is about me, not them.”
“Don’t tell meyou’rethe serial killer,” I tease, trying to make light of whatever it is that he wants to get off his chest, even though inside I’m as big a wreck as he is. Not knowing where he’s going with this is killing me.
The thin line of his mouth and the firm set of his jaw tell me my attempt at humor doesn’t work. He takes another sip of cold coffee, grimaces again, and puts it back down next to mine, which I still haven’t touched. “I want you to hear it from me first, in case one of my parents lets something slip.”
