They settled at a table away from the other occupied ones. From his vantage point, Seth glimpsed the distant mountain peaks. No matter what one might say about Possum Kingdom, it offered spectacular views. The old cane-backed chairs and plastic tablecloths brought back memories of long ago, dining with his family at Aunt Irene’s kitchen table. Above their heads, the paddles of a ceiling fan rotated lazily, stirring a slight breeze.
Their server appeared, bearing a tray full of squirt bottles in a wire-bound carrier: one red, one white, and one blue, and two glasses of sweet tea. “Evenin’, Jack,” he said, placing his burdens on the table. “Rolls, Texas toast, or buns?”
Dustin asked, “Can we get some of each?”
“Sure.” The pimply-faced teen wandered off, leaving Seth with Dustin and a healthy dose of embarrassment.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” Seth began, wanting to get the humiliating crash and burn out of the way in order to enjoy dinner. Before he opened his mouth and inserted his foot, they’d been doing beautifully down by the creek.
“Forget it. To be honest, I’m flattered. I wasn’t expecting it. It’s not often someone makes an offer here in town. We don’t exactly have a chapter of PFLAG yet.”
Seth truly hadn’t considered small-town scruples when he’d arrived, since staying hadn’t been in the cards. But the answer did offer reassurances that he hadn’t corrupted what well might have been the town’s sole marital prospect for any single ladies. Back home in Chicago, acceptance of who he was wasn’t much of an issue. At least, not after his grandmother’s passing. He’d never gotten over his guilt at not telling her about being gay, but she hadn’t been the most openminded of souls. Thoughts of her pursed lips and righteous rebukes had stopped him every time he’d considered disclosing his orientation. All three times. “Is it hard for you here?”
“It’s not too bad. I’m pretty well-respected, and your aunt tended to put people in their places fast if they dared say anything.”
Once more Seth envisioned the mysterious aunt of his who’d apparently won not only Dustin’s respect, but hard-nosed Monica’s. Monica gave the impression of not granting undeserved loyalty.
The waiter brought bread, disappearing again directly after depositing the basket on the table. Dustin tore a roll in half, then piled the inside high with roast pork. “The Southern Sweet is my favorite,” he said, nodding toward the white bottle. “It’s got a molasses base, sweet and smoky. But try the other two also. They’re all good.”
Seth heeded the advice, tuning out the pleasured moans coming from the other side of the table that added fuel to the fire of his raging libido. Gulping down ice-cold tea didn’t extinguish the blaze. He wanted Dustin. Wanted to lie back, squirt tangy sauce on his skin, and have his dinner companion lick it off, much the way Dustin currently licked a dollop off a thumb. Seth’s cock swelled, pressing against the unyielding barrier of his jeans. Wriggling as unobtrusively as possible, he attempted a discreet anatomical adjustment. If Dustin noticed, he gave no sign.
“What have you been doing with yourself all these years, Seth?”
Seth swallowed a bite of mesquite-flavored meat. “Nothing much to tell. I went to school, graduated, started college, changing my major a few times when I couldn’t figure out what to do with my life. Nana bought me a camera one year for Christmas, and I found I liked to take pictures. I entered a few contests, won often enough to swell my head and convince me to try making a living out of it. When the money started trickling in, I dropped out of college and started my own business.” He bowed his head, heat trailing up his cheeks to his ears. He was bragging about dropping out of school to become a photographer? To a doctor?
“Sounds like you’re doing exactly what you want to do.”
After a moment’s consideration, Seth replied, “I am, for the most part. There’s always the screaming tantrums to put up with, subjects who won’t listen to what you say and afterward blame you for the less than perfect end results.”
Sympathy flashed across Dustin’s face. “I guess you work with a lot of kids.”
“What kids? I’m talking about fashion models!”
Seth spent the next few minutes mimicking some of the more demanding divas he’d worked with. “No, not my bad side!” he shrilled in a high falsetto. “That’s my bad side too! What the hell did you do to my picture? My nose does not look like that!” They both laughed, the tension effectively broken. “How about you? What’s it like to be a small-town doctor?”
“I’m not sure how to describe it. It’s my life; I’ve nothing else to compare it to. Born and raised here, left long enough to go to college, and came back. Jobwise, I’m there the moment a child is born, if not before, and I watch them grow. Teens mature, get married, and start a new generation. Occasionally, I’m there at the end.”
An invisible fist squeezed Seth’s heart. “Were you… were you there for my aunt?”
A furrow formed on Dustin forehead, and he pursed his lips briefly as though he was measuring his words. “Not at the precise moment, but yes, I was at the house with her. We all were.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“Her friends, those she considered family.” Dustin grimaced. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it the way it came out.”
Seth swallowed hard, once more reminded of his prolonged absence. But what choice had he had? His aunt hadn’t reached out to him either.
Dustin changed the subject. “Did Monica tell you how she met your aunt?”
“No. She seems to hate me for being a bad nephew.” Dustin wafted out a sigh, pausing for a draught of tea before continuing. “Monica doesn’t hate you; she’s jealous of you.”
“Of me? Why?” Seth often found himself the object of pity, but never envy.
“Maybe I shouldn’t be talking about her behind her back, but I did promise to tell you about your aunt, and Monica’s story is a classic example of Ms. Irene McDaniel at her best. You see, Monica’s father died when she was about four years old, and her mother moved back to Jacksonville to be with family. She remarried and had two more children.
“When Monica grew older….” Dustin appeared to weigh his words. “Let’s say she didn’t quite fit in. She moved in with your aunt when she was fifteen, rejected by her family.”
A load of guilt heaped itself on Seth’s shoulders for his rather unkind earlier assessment of The Valkyrie, now picturing a scared and lonely teen, similar to himself. Had her mom kicked her out for being gay? Rebellious? Not eating her peas? In his younger days, Seth had worried about the same thing happening to him if his grandmother ever found out he’d rather have a Sam than a Sue, or if he disobeyed.
