Chapter 8
EIGHT
Ethan
Every Friday night, Ethan had dinner with his parents, a tradition they’d started when he began his business program. It kept them in touch, and gave him a welcome break from the lukewarm Heyday takeout he lived on during the week.
His mother, Jessica, liked to test new recipes for their family dinners, putting her extensive collection of cookbooks to good use.
Tonight, he’d spotted her French volume open on the counter, so he was looking forward to a dish with a rich, complex flavor profile.
At least more complex than Caleb’s mac and cheese.
His parent’s townhouse had an open concept floor plan. Kitchen, dining room, and living room were more like zones than rooms. The dining table sat between the back of the sofa and the kitchen island, giving Ethan a full view of the first floor.
While he poured three glasses of Chardonnay, he glanced toward the staircase that led down to his father’s basement study. “Is Dad joining us?”
His mother brought the steaming skillet to the dining table and placed it on a trivet. “He’s on a conference call with an international client. He said we should get started without him.”
As Ethan scooped some salad onto his plate, his mom asked, “How was your week?”
“Good.” The big news, of course, was his date with Blake, but he wasn’t in the mood to be grilled by his father. He checked again to make sure his dad was still downstairs. Maybe he could fill in his mom while they were still alone. “I went on a date.”
Jessica’s face lit up. “That’s exciting. Tell me all about him.”
“His name is Blake. We went to the Midway to play games.”
His mother spooned some chicken into a bowl, added a ladleful of the creamy sauce, and handed it to Ethan. “How did you meet?”
“We met at the diner,” Ethan said, accepting the bowl from his mother. He sniffed the savory steam rising from the dish, rich with the scents of garlic and fine herbs. “This smells amazing, Mom.”
“Thanks, it’s coq au vin blanc.”
“That sounds… involved”
“It kept me busy this afternoon.” Jessica smiled. “I’m glad to hear about your date. You haven’t had a boyfriend in a while.”
“Well, let’s not jump the gun. It was one date.”
His father’s commanding voice preceded him, carrying across the living room seconds before Howard Whet appeared at the top of the stairs.
He crossed through the living room, speaking in clipped, melodic syllables – a language Ethan didn’t understand, but one he’d heard his father speaking frequently.
Ethan leaned forward, talking under his breath to his mother. “Maybe we can keep––”
He was interrupted by his father’s hand clapping him on the shoulder.
“Hi, son,” Howard whispered. He walked around the table and bent down to kiss his wife, before straightening and gripping his forehead between his thumb and fingers. “Right. Let’s circle back tomorrow and get Brian’s eyes on that proposal. Good. Yep. G’night.”
Howard set his phone on the table and sat, taking his bowl from his wife.
“I apologize for being late. The Indian government is giving us hell over this new data center.” Ethan’s father was the Director of Government Relations with a tech company called Orison, a job that kept him busy at all hours of the day and night.
He cut a piece of chicken and popped it in his mouth, closing his eyes while he chewed. “This is delicious, hon.”
“Thanks,” Ethan’s mother said. She used tongs to stir the salad and scooped up a hearty portion of lettuce. “Do you want some salad?”
“No thanks.” Howard turned to Ethan. “What do you call that color?”
Ethan ran his hand through his hair. “Cherry red.”
With a slight smile, his father snorted. “Hopefully you’re getting this little rebellious streak out of your system. School is a good time for that.”
“That’s what I told the tattoo artist who’s doing the skull on my bicep.”
Howard’s hand froze, his fingers wrapped around the stem of his wine glass.
“Just kidding,” Ethan said meekly.
Shaking his head, Howard drained his glass. “Jessica, can you pass the wine?”
Ethan’s mother handed him the bottle, looking between Howard and Ethan. “Ethan went on a date this week.”
“Really?” Howard said with genuine interest. “What does this young man do for a living?”
Ethan pushed food around in his bowl. “He’s a bartender.”
“Oh.”
“It’s a perfectly respectable profession, Dad.”
“It’s a job, not a profession. What is this man’s long-term earning potential?”
“We’ve been on one date. I don’t think that’s a criteria at this point.”
“Criterion,” Howard said, his tone icy.
“What?”
“Criteria is plural. The singular is criterion. And a man’s future earning potential is always a criterion.”
After a tense silence broken only by the scrape of silverware against ceramic, his father asked, “Speaking of the future, have you applied for any internships?”
“Dad, my senior year hasn’t even started yet.”
“How about something at Orison? We’re setting up some tech-enhanced co-working spaces using a suite of tools we developed. Going after the digital nomad class. Jerry’s looking for interns who want to learn about the field.”
Ethan’s stomach dropped. “I don’t really see myself in tech.”
“You wouldn’t be coding or anything. It’s more on the strategy and branding side.”
“I just want to focus on my classes for now.”
“It’s time for you to be giving some thought to what you’ll be doing after graduation.”
“I have been.” Ethan gulped some wine.
“I assume you’re referring to your writing,” Howard said.
“That’s part of it––”
“Writing fan fiction isn’t a stable career option.”
“It’s not fan fiction. They’re horror retellings. I just started my take on The Wolfman, about a promiscuous man who contracts lycanthropy after a one-night stand. It’s a statement on STIs.”
“Lovely,” Howard grumbled.
His mother offered a strained smile. “Sounds very creepy, dear.”
Howard ladled a second helping of chicken into his bowl. “Have you tried your hand at something more upmarket?”
Even though they returned to this discussion every few months, it still stung. Ethan wanted his father to take his writing seriously, but apparently that would only happen if his stories had “literary merit.”
He wasn’t going to write the next Moby Dick. Unless it was about an albino killer whale terrorizing a New England coastal village.
“Upmarket… like stories about navigating life as a gay man?”
Howard wiped his mouth with his napkin and returned it to his lap. “Or other things.”
His father didn’t have to say what he meant because Ethan heard it in his head. “Stories that are respectable.”
When Ethan came out to his parents, they’d both readily accepted him, but his father had made one request: “Be respectable.” It had taken Ethan a few years to uncover exactly what that meant, but it boiled down to a bunch of Don’ts.
Don’t be too flamboyant, or too feminine.
Don’t sleep around. Don’t decorate your apartment with photos of naked men and statues of dicks.
Basically, don’t be too gay.
“I know writing is more of a hobby than a job,” Ethan admitted.
“So, if not writing, what are you setting your sights on?”
“I want to do something for the gay community, to bring people together, kind of like what Caleb did with Heyday.”
Howard frowned. “The restaurant business is unpredictable.”
“I don’t necessarily mean a diner. Dedicated spaces for gay men are disappearing, and men’s social circles are shrinking. It’s causing all kinds of problems, like loneliness, isolation, substance abuse, porn and sex addiction…”
Ethan trailed off when his father’s face scrunched up at the mention of porn and sex addiction. “There’s a lot of ways to help,” he added before stuffing a forkful of salad into his mouth.
“That’s a noble goal, son. But the internship at Orison is more stable. It would give you excellent experience to build on.”
Ethan’s phone vibrated, causing a loud buzz against the wooden tabletop.
“Excuse me,” he said, checking the screen.
ZANE
Are you coming out tonight?
Ethan typed out a quick reply.
ETHAN
Yes, after dinner with the ’rents
While he waited for Zane’s reply, Ethan peeked over his phone at his mother. Her gaze darted anxiously between him and his father. After a few seconds, she tapped her fork twice against the edge of her bowl and raised her eyebrows, her way of saying, put the phone down.
Zane’s response finally came through.
ZANE
My set starts at 8
Ethan sent a thumbs-up emoji and set his phone next to his plate.
Aiming for an air of nonchalance, he swirled his wineglass and took a sip, holding the wine in his mouth as if he were savoring every nuance of flavor.
He’d violated a dinnertime rule, but maybe it wouldn’t be a big deal if he didn’t acknowledge his transgression.
“Ethan,” his father said.
Shit.
He met his father’s steady glare and swallowed his wine. “Sorry. I’m meeting Zane after dinner and he was confirming the time.”
“What have I said about phones at the table?”
Don’t do it. You know better. Slowly, Ethan raised his hand (don’t do it) and pointed to his father’s phone.
Howard’s mouth pressed into a thin line. He inhaled a deep breath and blew it out through his nose in a huff. “I need my phone for work. Does your job at the diner require you to be on call?”
“No, but I’m twenty-two. Right now, my job is hanging out with my friends.”
Howard sighed. “I know you think I’m hard on you, Ethan, but I’m just trying to keep you focused on the future. I don’t want you to struggle the way I did.”
“I know.” Ethan wasn’t sure why he was sparring with his father. He agreed that focusing on the future was important. One of the reasons he chose business school was so he could get a high-paying job, one that would give him the freedom to pursue his writing on the side.
There was also the fact that his father paid half the rent for his apartment, so unless he wanted to move back into his childhood bedroom, he needed to dial back the attitude.
“I’ll meet with Jerry about the internship.”
“Excellent,” Howard said, smiling warmly. “I’ll set it up.”
Ethan set down his fork, his appetite fading faster than a drag queen’s makeup on a summer day.
So, this is what it feels like to sell my soul for a line on a résumé.