“Mom,” Lane squawked, but she just laughed.
“I raised two football players, you think I don’t swear? Iswear, okay?”
“What does Tom think about that?” But Lane already knew. He saw how solid their marriage was, and how happy.
She just shrugged. “He doesn’t mind anything I do, you know that.”
And Lane could see himself saying that about Trevor ten, fifteen, evenfifty, years down the road.
“Good. That’s what I wanted, though, notallI wanted. When you first met him, I think I was such an ass,” Lane confessed. He’d wanted to beTomfor her, not realizing that wasn’t a position he should ever be. He was her son, not her partner.
But still, he’d wantedsobadly to be the one to provide, to pull them—to pullher—out of the daily struggle of making ends meet.
“A little, but you got it together,” Delia said. “That’s actually the root of my relief. For so long I worried that it was Tom you hated, that you resented, and that’s why you never wanted to come home.”
“No—”
But Delia didn’t let him get the rest of it out. “I know that now, and honestly I knew that then, too. I only had to spend a little time around the two of you to realize it wasn’t him. But then I couldn’t figure out what it was. I kept hoping . . .” She trailed off, looking a little melancholy, and Lane realized, too, that even though he’d found his courage to be honestnow, that didn’t erase whathadhappened. He had a lot of work to do to completely repair the relationships that he’d inadvertently damaged.
Her chin came back up. “I just kept hoping that you’d be honest with me someday, honey, and you were, and I’m so happy about that. Sorry, too, that you didn’t feel like you could tell me.”
“It wasn’t you—it wasme,” Lane said, guilt swamping him. “I should have, Iwantedto . . . and then I thought, oh, it’ll go away, and then it never did, and then he camehere.”
“Of course it didn’t go away; you love him.”
Lane couldn’t argue with her, but he could say, “I haven’t . . . I haven’t told him that yet. So yeah, don’t mention it to him, okay?”
“Honey, no offense, but do you think he doesn’t know?”
Lane swallowed hard. “I don’t know if he does or not, but I want to tell him. I’m just trying to find the right time, you know? The perfect time.”
“Honestly, there neverisa perfect time,” she said. “And whatever time you do pick isgoingto be perfect. I promise. Because I think he loves you, too.”
Lanehopedso, but he wasn’t ever quite sure. Yes, Trevor had been the one to push and prod him along the road to their loved-up relationship state. The one to come to his bed, the one to make it official, the one to take care of Lane’s normally shit eating habits. But Lane was determined that when it came down to it, he was going to be the one to tell Trevor he loved him first. To show him that he was all-in on this, that Trevor would never have to worry about him going away, not ever again.
But to do that, he needed todothat.
“That’s good advice,” Lane said, but still was thinking,God, need it to be perfect.
They were going out tonight—Lane had made reservations at a rooftop bar that was largely considered one of the most romantic views of Toronto—and if he could get his words unstuck, he fully intended to do it there.
He just hoped that when the moment came, he could make it happen.
He’d made the touchdown happen, hadn’t he? Gotten them both—and the rest of the team—to the AFC Championship.
Now he just needed to close the deal.
Trevor had been surprised when he’d asked Lane where they were going, and he’d admitted, a slight flush on his cheeks, thatit was a nice place, afancyplace. A rooftop bar known for being fussy and expensive, which wasn’t Lane’s normal MO at all.
He rarely wore anything other than sweats and,atbest, jeans.
And now he was taking them to a place that had a dress code posted on their website? Trevor wasn’t sure what to expect.
He certainly didn’t expect any of this: Lane shifting uncomfortably on one of those spindly chairs that didn’t seem like it was going to hold his weight and thenkeepholding it, or him asking to see the wine list andthenthe sommelier.
“I didn’t think you even knew what a sommelier was,” Trevor whispered under his breath.
Lane shot him a dirty look. “I’m trying to—well, you know.”
