Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
“Very well. If you’ll excuse me, I have a class to teach.”
I could have sworn his lips twitched with the faintest hint of a smile as he inclined his head and turned to leave. “Good day, Professor.”
That was…new.
It felt pretty darn good. And energizing, like mixing three shots of espresso with a six-pack of Coke. I was brimming over with excess righteousness and a compulsion to set the record straight.
However, I’d run out of battles. At least, ones that I could do anything about. I still didn’t know how to win Noah back. And the only other thing looming over my head was Sunday night dinner. I didn’t want to go. My sister would be there and she’d have something to say about me bowing out of her shower weekend early. No, thank you.
I couldn’t avoid my parents indefinitely, though. So, I did the unthinkable and showed up unannounced at their house that evening.
Their routine hadn’t varied over the past twentysomething years. There was always a chance that they had dinner plans, but they tended to leave specific lights on when they were gone. Tonight, the lantern on the front porch lit the front door like a spotlight, sending the rest of the area in shadow.
I strode through the elegant living room with its high ceilings and the white furniture no one dared sit on and into the great room.
Mom hopped from her barstool and held her arms open. “Tommy! We’ve been worried sick about you. You should have returned our messages and at least let us know we’d see you on Sunday.”
“I’m busy Sunday.” I kissed her cheek and tilted my chin toward my father sitting at the kitchen island.
Dad patted his napkin at the corner of his mouth. “You came by just to tell us you can’t come over Sunday?”
“Something like that.”
“Your timing is impeccable.” Mom stroked my arm as she moved to the stove. “I made Italian meatball soup. I’ll get you a bowl. Have a seat, sweetheart.”
Geez, my parents had their “good cop bad cop” routine down to a science. Dad said something gruff, and Mom responded with a calming word and a bowl of soup. They’d always been this way.
It was rather sobering to realize I’d been “managed” my whole life. Conditioned to listen and placate. Maybe that was good parenting when I was a kid, but I was twenty-seven years old, for Pete’s sake.
“No, thanks. I’ll grab something later. I wanted to talk to you about last weekend.”
My parents shared a look.
Dad took a deep breath. “We want to talk to you too.”
“What about?”
“Your friend. What happened? It had to be something more than a tad too much to drink for you not to show up the next day for brunch. It’s not like you,” Mom said.
“I know. He, um…needed to get home.”
“Did Remington say something? He was drunk as a skunk by the end of the night,” Dad piped in. “He was afraid he might have offended you.”
“No. I’m sorry. I’m sure Tabby was mad and this is probably where you tell me I embarrassed you. And if I did, too bad.” I threw my hands in the air and marched the length of the island. “I’m doing my best here.”
Well, maybe I wasn’t quite myself yet.
“Why would you think we’re embarrassed by you?” Dad huffed. “That’s ridiculous.”
Mom fiddled with her rings. “We love you, Tommy.”
Ugh. Family feelings.
I stuffed my hands into my pockets, but I didn’t back down. “I know, but I don’t always think you respect me. You have a tendency to downplay my intellect and gayness and I know this sounds like it’s coming out of left field, but you know what? I don’t appreciate it, and I think it’s best to clear the air. You don’t have to hang a Pride flag on your front door, but ignoring that I’m gay doesn’t make me less gay. Belittling my intelligence doesn’t make me less smart.”
“We don’t do that.” Dad frowned. “And what does being gay have to do with anything? We don’t care that you’re gay. And we don’t expect you to be like us. We never have.”
“That isn’t how it feels,” I replied. “Look, I’m sorry to create a scene. That wasn’t my intention. Sorry about last Sunday. I’ll leave you to your dinner.”
“Tommy, wait.” Dad stood and rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “You’re mad at us?”
“Peeved works too.”
“Honey, we love you. You know we do,” Mom cried. “We’ve never had a ‘gay’ talk because you seemed well-adjusted and perfectly fine with it. We thought we were following your lead. And we assumed that you’d tell us if we were getting it wrong.”
Dad nodded. “Maybe that wasn’t the right approach. We’re proud of you, son. We don’t know how we got so lucky.”
Oh. I didn’t expect that.
My eyes prickled ominously. I swallowed hard and shrugged. “Thanks. Like I said, sorry for the drama, I’m just…having a bad day. A bad week.”