Chapter Twenty-Six
My boyfriend - a concept which I suspected would feel deeply strange for some time to come - looked like he might be ready to pass out. With how red Flynn’s face still was, you had to wonder just how much blood there was available for his extremities.
“Are you okay?”
His nod was jerky, his stare somewhat distant. Like he was still trying to process everything, and coming up well short.
“What did you and my dad talk about? Other than wildflower burns, I mean.”
That prompted a chuckle, at least. “A very gentle version of ‘what are your intentions toward my son,’ really.”
I sat down, along from him on the couch. “To which you said...”
“Oh, entirely honorable, of course.”
“How disappointing.”
Flynn flashed me an unimpressed glare. “He was very... matter-of-fact, about it all.”
“Like he’d guessed about me?” I wasn’t certain if that was a reassuring thought or a terrifying one.
“No, just that he was taking it all in his stride. He kept saying ‘as long as you boys are happy,’ anyway.”
The lump was back in my throat. I swallowed, awkwardly.
“How about your mom?”
The conversation had only been minutes ago, but already there was a haze in my memory. Adrenaline fleeing me, and taking clarity with it. “She was surprised, I think. And indignant, at the idea that I might use them as an excuse not to move.”
“You told her you didn’t want to?” Flynn’s expression was scrupulously bland.
“I told her I was scared to,” I corrected. “Which is true. Just like it’s true that I do want to move in with you.”
“In the spare room,” he reminded me.
I smiled. “Right, in the spare room.”
He frowned, looking thoughtful. “I guess I can just knock on the wall, when I’m hoping for a conjugal visit. Or, we could even cut a hole through.”
“Pervert. We’re not installing a glory hole in your apartment.”
“Oh, Mister I-put-on-a-show-at-the-bathhouse is a prude, now?” Flynn laughed. “Such hypocrisy.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s the sort of DIY that loses you your security deposit.”
He pantomimed horror. “Very true. I’ll just come to your door, instead, and hope you’re inclined to entertain.”
“You’re an idiot,” I told him, with a snort.
“I’ll be a naked idiot when I knock, if that makes any difference.”
There didn’t seem much point in hiding my grin, now. “Fine, that’s more persuasive, yes.”
#
There were so many things we needed to talk about, so many quavering little fears at the back of my brain that I wanted Flynn to reassure me on, or to tell me were legitimate, or both.
Only the smell of freshly-baked garlic bread came wafting under the living room door and, shortly after, the sort of tentative knock that says “the last time we walked in unannounced, one of you was shirtless.”
“Your mom says dinner is ready.”
I smiled at Flynn, who looked like he was trying not to laugh. “Thanks, we’ll be there in a minute.”
Flynn stood, looking at me expectantly.
“You don’t have to stay, you know. They won’t be offended.”
His expression was incredulous. “And miss your mom’s casserole? Have you gone mad?”
Sighing, at the clearly crazy people I was apparently surrounded with, I waved him to the door.
#
The number of meals that Flynn had eaten with us, over the years, exceeded my ability to count. With a pretty sizable gap in that timeline, of course, but even so there was a strange sort of familiarity in sitting opposite him at the kitchen table, my parents on either side.
He grinned at me, as mom heaped his plate full.
“So, what do you think your parents will say?” She asked it so casually, as if she wasn’t referring at all to revelations that had torn plenty of families apart.
“Mom!” The scold came out of me without my even intending it.
She flashed me a look. “Because you think the ‘we’re just roommates’ story will last forever, do you? Because you even want it to?”
I frowned at my plate, angry at her for bringing it up, and even angrier that I knew she was right. “It’s not up to me to decide,” I said, sullenly.
The basket of garlic bread was pushed in my direction. “Which is why I didn’t ask you,” she reminded me. “And he’s welcome to take it as a rhetorical question.”
Flynn snorted, softly. “It’s hard not to imagine them being disappointed.”
I recognized the noise she made, from all the times I’d claimed to be too sick to go into school, or that I couldn’t understand why I’d scored so poorly on a paper. A sort of curt disbelief; refusal to accept that the universe could be quite how you portrayed it.
“The way your mother talks about you, you’d think you were the second coming.” She jerked the basket away, just as I was reaching for a second slice of bread. Ignored my scowl.
“That only means more to disappoint,” Flynn said.
“We don’t have to talk about this now,” I reminded him. Hating the look of sadness that had descended across his features. Wanting the happy Flynn back; the one who’d held my hand as we walked down the hallway to the kitchen, only letting go the very moment we stepped inside.
I figured he knew that, too, by the glance he gave me.
“It’s fine. They need to find out eventually, I guess.”
“Maybe they already have an inkling.” My father looked up from his plate, as he spoke.
Flynn’s lips tightened. “I’m not sure the Flynn they think about has much in common with me, to be honest. Which always felt like a blessing and a curse.”
My mom reached out, to squeeze his hand. “I’ve known your parents now, what, thirty-odd years? I’d like to think we’re friends, as well as neighbors. I can’t imagine them letting a little thing like this get to them. Once they get past the surprise, anyway.”
“And who doesn’t love being a shock,” Flynn mused, expression pinched.
Mom patted his hand, then pulled hers away. “Oh, well. That’s just what kids do, honey. Shock is par for the course.”