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“No! Well…no.” He kept his face turned away from me as he moved the pan off the burner and turned off the gas.

Somebody had totally said something to him.

“Don’t take things that people around here say too seriously,” I said, highly motivated to do whatever I could to make him feel safe and loved. “People can be…people.”

“Trust me, I know,” Marco said grimly as he moved the chicken strips to a pile of paper towels he’d set out to drain the oil.

I didn’t like the sound of that either, but before I could ask more, Marco moved away from the counter to fetch plates and salad bowls. He was avoiding something, and I didn’t like it.

The conversation lulled as we plated up the amazing looking supper we’d prepared and took it to the table. I sat diagonally across from Marco in the chair that was starting to feel like mine. Marco’s house was just so inviting and comforting. I belonged there, but knew it was too soon to toe off my shoes, put my feet up on the sofa, and settle in for good. Even if Josaiah would have approved.

“These are amazing,” I tried to start up the conversation again once we’d been eating silently for a few minutes. “I don’t think I’ve ever had homemade chicken fingers before, but like everything else homemade, they’re much⁠—”

“I had an old guy at the flower shop tell me I should stay away from you today because you’re creepy and you used to deliberately scare his grandson in school,” Marco blurted out.

I had a chicken finger dripping in honey mustard raised halfway to my mouth. It stayed there and my mouth stayed wide open for a second as his confession hit me. My stomach tightened, and just like that, I couldn’t have eaten another bite if I’d wanted to.

I lowered the chicken finger back to my plate, shoulders sagging. “Who was this guy?” I asked, trying not to let the hurt of the past show in my voice or face.

I must have failed at both. “I don’t believe a word he said,” Marco blurted instead of answering my question. “He sounded like a sourpuss anyhow.”

My mouth didn’t even twitch at Marco’s cute choice of words. “What was his name?”

“I think it was Stanley,” Marco sighed, putting his fork down.

I nodded in understanding. Stanley Heuston. It had to be. He was old enough to have a grandson my age, mostly because his son, Stan junior, had knocked up his high school girlfriend. Stan and Heather were really happy now, miraculously, and far happier than Stanley, who was an absolute pill. The man had nothing nice to say about anyone and never had.

“I wouldn’t pay attention to anything Stanley says.” I picked up one of the homemade sweet potato fries on my plate and resumed eating, trying to put Marco at ease by pretending the nastiness didn’t bother me.

Marco wasn’t eased at all. “People think you’re a weirdo,” he said.

I had already eaten the fry and had to chew and swallow before I could nod and say, “Yeah. I know. I already told you that.”

“Yes, but you telling me and hearing people insult you that way is⁠—”

My heart hurt. Not just because of the years of pain I’d experienced from bullies and vanillas who didn’t like what they didn’t understand, but because the insults had clearly struck a nerve with Marco as well.

“You don’t have to worry about me, boo.”

We both blinked and froze for a second. Boo? Where had that come from?

I kind of loved it, though.

I pushed on, ignoring the lightning moment between us. “I’ve had people say things like that to me my whole life.”

“I know, so have I,” Marco continued, more distressed than ever. “It’s just that—” He sighed, but instead of filling the emptiness where he’d cut himself off, this time I waited expectantly until he went on. “It bothers me. Hearing people say mean, homophobic things like that about you.”

I drew in a breath, putting the fork I’d just picked up to dive into my salad down. I’d always suspected Stanley was a homophobe, but it stung more than I expected to have it confirmed.

“He reminded me of my father,” Marco went on, pushing his plate back slightly. “I got that same vibe from him that I got from my dad when he tried something to make me straight and failed.”

“Stanley doesn’t know you’re gay?” I asked. Although why would he. They were complete strangers.

“I guess not.” He let out an ironic humph, then said, “He probably wouldn’t have eaten one of the donut holes if he knew they’d come from a gay man.”

A whole bunch of really shitty dots connected all at once, sending my stomach plummeting. “It’s not like you’re working hard to hide the fact that you’re gay from people around here,” I said.

“No, I’m not,” Marco said, more puzzled than anything.