Chapter Ten
Greg sighed contentedly. “I can’t remember the last time I ate so much.” He rubbed his very full belly. “I don’t think I could eat another thing.”
“Not even a wafer-thin mint with your coffee?” Micah asked with a sly grin.
Greg groaned. “Right now, there isn’t even room for coffee. That and a mint might be the two last straws.” He smiled to himself. He hadn’t had Micah down as a Monty Python fan. It was good to know.
Naomi beamed. “Then we did a good job. Thank God for dishwashers, because the thought of all those pots and pans…” She shuddered.
“This is where we explain that Naomi has a phobia about rubber gloves,” Joshua said in a loud whisper. “Almost to the point of being pathological.” He snuck a glance in Naomi’s direction, grinning.
Naomi scowled. “Now tell him the truth.” When Joshua started laughing, she turned to Greg.
“I was maybe five or six. My dear brother blew into a white rubber glove, tied it off, then stuck it on the end of a pole and lifted it up to my bedroom window. I saw this ghostly white, boneless hand floating outside, and became hysterical—at least, that was how Mom described it.”
Greg couldn’t help himself. He burst into laughter, picturing the scene in his head. “You’re evil, aren’t you?” he said to Micah. “How could you scare your little sister like that?”
“Duh. Because she was my little sister.” Micah rolled his eyes. “Dad thought it was hilarious.”
“Until Mom gave him a smack upside the head and told him he ought to be ashamed of himself,” Naomi added.
“The stories I could tell you about Micah….” When Micah glared at her, she gave Greg a sweet smile.
“But I won’t, because that would be mean of me, and I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize his chances. ”
“Chances?” Greg was at a loss.
“Well, seeing as you’re just his type…” Naomi gave Micah a wicked grin. “He is, isn’t he?”
Greg slowly turned to gaze at Micah, who had suddenly become very still. “Your… type?” Then it hit him. “You’re gay?”
Naomi let out a gasp. “Oh my God. You didn’t know.”
“It’s not like it’s a secret, right?” Micah gave a shrug. “So I’m gay.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
Micah frowned. “Why would I? It’s not like I introduce myself to people by saying, ‘Hi, I’m Micah, and I’m gay.’ It doesn’t define me, it’s just… part of who I am.”
“Given the conversations about our fathers’ history these last few days, I think that would have been a good point to bring it up.” He knew that wasn’t what was bothering him. Greg was still hurting that he hadn’t shared his own sexuality with his dad.
“I’m sorry. Naomi shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t mean the outing me part, I mean the implication that I’m… attracted to you. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”
“Why would I feel uncomfortable?” Greg’s heart hammered. “Either she’s being a brat, and you’re not attracted to me, or… it’s true, and you…” He took a breath, forcing himself to keep calm.
“Look, I’m sorry too.” Naomi flushed. “A lot of straight guys I know flirt with my gay and bi friends, and vice versa, but if you’re not used to that, I can see how it might be awkward.”
“Yeah, it might.” Greg lifted his chin and looked Micah in the eye. “If I happened to be straight, that is. Which I’m not.”
Silence fell around the table. Joshua looked from Greg to Micah, then back to Greg again. “Okay, something I need to ask here. Is there a gay gene that they’ve just discovered? Because the odds just seem astronomical. Hayden, you, me, Micah….”
“Not quite as astronomical as Micah being the one to find me on that particular road,” Greg said softly. “And my dad never knew I was gay. I guess we ran out of time before I could tell him.” His heart quaked.
Micah’s brown eyes were warm. “I’m so sorry.”
Greg swallowed. “This wasn’t exactly how I imagined coming out would be.
” When three pairs of eyes focused on him, he gave a half-smile.
“I never told anyone before, not even my mom.” Only that wasn’t quite true, and he knew it.
Micah’s family weren’t the only ones who knew he was gay.
Then he told himself that he hadn’t once said he was gay that awful night.
He hadn’t needed to: his online profile statements had told those bastards all they needed to know.
“Can I ask… is this a recent thing?” When Greg arched his eyebrows, Joshua sighed.
“Sorry, that didn’t come out the way I intended.
I meant to say, if you’ve only just come out, was it only recently that you thought you might be gay?
” Joshua studied him closely. “Are you okay? Do you need a drink or something?”
Greg smiled at him. “I’m fine, thanks. And to answer your question, I guess it’s fairly recent. One day I’ll tell you about my epiphany, if I can call it that.” He looked across at Micah. “Do you know how lucky you are? You have a wonderful family.”
Naomi’s face glowed, but she remained silent. Micah glanced around the table. “Yeah, I know.”
Joshua cleared his throat. “Seeing as we all still have a drop of wine left, would you raise your glasses, please?” In silence, they did as instructed. “To family. Those who are with us, those we’ve lost, and those who are new to us.”
Greg’s throat tightened. “To family.” The words echoed around the room. He took a sip of wine. Micah smiled at him.
“Careful. That drop might just be the proverbial straw.”
Greg laughed. “I’ll take my chances.”
This was shaping up to be the best Thanksgiving he’d ever experienced, and he knew that was due solely to the three people sitting with him.
It wasn’t until Greg had lain awake for more than an hour that the reason for his insomnia came to him.
He’d forgotten to take his meds. Although it could equally have been that his stomach was still trying to digest the volume of food he’d guzzled.
Then there was the conversation from after dinner.
He hadn’t anticipated that turn of events.
Either way, he wasn’t about to lie there in the dark, listening to the occasional gurgle from his gut.
Maybe some warm milk would help. Not to mention a couple of capsules, because the ache in his thigh was just verging on becoming painful.
Then he reconsidered. Pain meds plus wine were not a good combination. He’d have to put up with the pain.
Greg got out of bed, wincing as he took that first step with his crutches, before hurriedly lifting his leg off the ground. He inched his way to the kitchen, leaned against the countertop while he negotiated opening the fridge and holding a crutch, then removed the milk.
It wasn’t until the milk was heating in the microwave, and Greg was staring out into the inky darkness, that he realized it wasn’t totally black out there.
A light was shining from somewhere close to the house, muted by a drawn shade.
When the microwave stopped whirring, Greg swore he could hear music playing, very faintly. Piano music.
The milk forgotten, Greg made his way carefully to the back door at the end of the hallway.
It wasn’t locked, so he opened it as quietly as possible, peering through the gap to the rear of the house.
The light came from a double garage, and the music was definitely coming from there too.
Greg was relieved to find someone had cleared a path from the back door step to the side door of the garage, but ice glistened on the paving slabs.
Carefully, so carefully, taking small steps, he went along the path and up to the door.
He tried the handle, pushing down while holding onto one crutch.
When it swung open, Greg felt warmth on his face, a welcome change after the cold night air.
“Greg? What are you doing out of bed?” The piano music came to an abrupt halt.
Greg stepped into the garage and caught his breath.
“So this is your studio?” Everywhere he looked, there were paintings.
They covered every available inch of wall space, and in some places they stood on the floor, leaning against each other, four or five canvases deep.
Photos hung there too, images of landscapes taken in all seasons.
The roof rose up to a point in the middle, and a ladder climbed up to a mezzanine floor that took up half the roof space.
From where Greg stood, he could see yet more canvases.
The only place not occupied by canvases was where a worn couch stood against the wall, but even then, paintings leaned against each arm, bracketing it.
Near the large door stood a unit with a sink and a hot plate.
Micah sat behind an easel at the far end, partially obscured by a large canvas.
He stared at Greg, a paintbrush still in his hand.
“I was going to show you this place, once you were getting around more easily. Dad had a garage built at the other end of the house, so that I could use this one as a studio.” He gazed at his surroundings.
“This is every painting I’ve ever done.”
“How old were you when you started painting?” From what Greg could see, Micah had a lot of talent.
He’d hoped Micah wasn’t one of those artists who slashed across a canvas with two or three bold stripes of paint, and declared it finished.
Greg preferred paintings that were obviously something.
Not that he would ever denigrate someone else’s taste in art, but he knew what he liked, and he loved Micah’s work.
Micah pointed to the upper floor. “Up there are paintings I did when I was eight or nine. Mom made me keep them.” He gestured to the canvases piled around him. These are for my first art showing.”
“Seriously?” Greg beamed. “That’s great. When?”
“Next year. There’s an art gallery in Gillette, the Frame Shop. They’re giving me the space for a week. I’m making sure I have enough paintings. So far, the count is about fifty canvases.”