Chapter 6 #4
Mo stared. The shirt was gorgeous on Adam and might have caught attention in a café, but in a Michelin restaurant, next to Mo’s bright pink, Adam would be somewhat but not fully overshadowed.
People would notice him, but no one would think he had any “flash” next to Mo, nor would they think them an unmatched set.
“No. It’s perfect.” He grabbed Adam’s arm and spun them both so they stood before the mirror. The complimentary effect was immediately obvious. “See?”
Adam grunted but didn’t disagree, so Mo counted it as a win.
“Great. Other acceptable topics?”
“I thought winter sports and their travels in Europe pretty much covered it.”
Mo bit back his instinctive denial. Adam wasn’t far wrong.
The list could be longer… if you separated hockey and skiing into two categories.
“Unless you want to talk business. Well, in the sense of flattering them and agreeing with their choices and smiling and nodding if they mention any commercial villains.”
Adam snorted. “Probably better to stay away from business. Not sure I could fake enough interest in that to be a good potential son-in-law.”
“Probably not,” Mo agreed cheerfully. In his experience, hockey players rarely had the brains or education to talk at length on any topic that wasn’t hockey, video games, or women.
“It’s a loaded topic with me there anyway.
They’re still fuming about my undergraduate thesis.
” When Adam tilted his head in curiosity, Mo supplied, “Did you know you’re allowed to write Socialism Is Good, Actually as your business undergrad thesis?
They sure didn’t!” He put on a high-pitched voice to mimic his mother.
“Mo, honestly, how would it look to have our son—our son who advocates for giving people housing—working for us, the people who make money from people needing housing?”
Okay, so Mo might have embellished the quote a little, for effect.
One day, he should track down the cute guy who’d been marching for social reform Mo’s second day of college and send him flowers.
He’d been stoned as hell, and his only answer to Mo’s “What’s going on?
” was a red-eyed stare and “I don’t know, but it pisses rich people off. ” That had been enough for Mo.
Adam cleared his throat around what might have been a laugh. “Is that why you don’t work for them?”
Mo huffed. “It’s why I don’t work, period. I won’t work for them, they forbade me to open a garage, and it would look bad if I worked for someone else. So they just give me an allowance. Apparently, that’s somehow less embarrassing.”
Adam wet his lips. Paused. His face twitched. “Your parents are paying you to do nothing… because they don’t believe in socialism?”
Finally, someone who understood. Mo spread his arms wide. “The irony, right?”
“You know, when I was a kid, I thought rich people were supposed to be smart.”
Mo snorted. “Let this be a lesson to you, then.”
“Yikes.” Adam shook his head. “Well, now that you’ve got me dressed”—he glanced at the clock—“three hours before dinner, what should we do to pass the time?”
“Coffee. You are going to make me more of that delicious coffee.”
Adam regarded him with judgment. “You sure caffeine is a good idea?”
“Then make me decaf,” he whined. “I shouldn’t have to suffer through an evening with my parents without some sort of reward, surely.”
A half-hour out from the reservation, Mo declared that it was time to go.
He wasn’t going to risk being late. He also refused to let Adam drive.
He’d driven his Corvette to Adam’s—she was bright red and purred like a satisfied cat—so he had no reason to take even Adam’s upgraded-but-not-to-par vehicle anywhere his parents might see them.
Adam raised both eyebrows at the sight of Mo’s baby, but he didn’t protest when Mo declared himself chauffeur.
He did complain, though, once they got on the road. First about the lack of leg room, and then because heaven forbid Mo travel above the speed limit or take a turn faster than 10 mph.
“Oh my God. Not only do you drive like someone’s grandmother, but you backseat drive like her too!”
“If you don’t want a backseat driver, don’t drive like a maniac.”
Mo rolled his eyes. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch. Forty-five on a forty road is not driving like a maniac.”
They bickered all the way to the restaurant.
Mo was so busy explaining why Adam needed to climb off that plug and let loose that he was almost surprised when Antoine’s came into view.
He pulled up to the valet stand and handed over the keys.
He hated to let anyone else drive his babies, but the other option risked his parents knowing he’d suffered the indignity of parking his own car like a pleb.
For reasons Mo couldn’t articulate, he grabbed Adam’s hand as they approached the door and tangled their fingers together. Adam shot him a startled look, but didn’t pull his hand away. Thank God. Mo didn’t think he could take any sort of rejection moments before seeing his parents.
Like some horrible unwanted low-jack, the moment they walked in, Mo caught sight of the Du Ponts in the middle of the restaurant, sharing a bottle of wine.
Right. They’d picked a highly visible table so as to be on display and hadn’t waited for their guests before ordering the first bottle.
If Mo had any hope of this dinner being in any way pleasant, it was ruthlessly annihilated in the face of his parents’ usual showy behavior.
“Deep breath before taking the plunge,” Mo murmured.
Adam snorted a laugh and squeezed his hand. “Don’t worry, I’m a great swimmer.”
“Mo, Adam, how lovely to see you,” Claire greeted when they reached the table. She stood and offered her cheek for a kiss. Mo obliged and then was shocked to see Adam do the same. They each shook Orson’s offered hand.
“We got tired of waiting and ordered a bottle. You’ll just have to settle for our choice.” Orson’s tone didn’t suggest judgment, but the if you weren’t so horribly late was easily understood. Mo fought the urge to check the time. Like he didn’t know they’d arrived five minutes early, not late.
“I’m sure we’ll enjoy anything that you’ve chosen,” Adam said with perfect sincerity. Even after everything Mo had told him, he still seemed determined to give the Du Ponts the benefit of the doubt.
He’d learn.
Well, that or he’d continue to suffer.
Mo’s train of thought momentarily derailed when Adam stepped behind the chair next to Claire and pulled it out a few inches, looking expectantly at Mo.
This hadn’t been part of Mo’s pre-date briefing, and the gesture brought him up short until Adam raised his eyebrows as if to say, Are you going to sit down anytime soon, or what?
Flushing with annoyance, Mo stepped in front of the chair and let Adam push it in for him.
“Such a gentleman,” Claire said approvingly.
Adam scooted his own chair in next to Orson. “Just being polite.”
Claire poured the wine without asking, while Mo tried not to wince.
An oaked chardonnay—dry and acidic, just like Mo’s sense of humor.
Not how he preferred his wine, though obviously she didn’t care; this was his parents’ favorite.
“How refreshing and charming. Perhaps some of that will rub off on my son.” She set the bottle back in the iced decanter and raised her glass.
“Shall we toast? To a mutually beneficial future.”
Mo already wanted to guzzle the rest of this stupidly acidic bottle. Instead, he pasted on a smile and clinked his glass against everyone else’s. He made aggressive eye contact with his parents, who believed that doing otherwise during toasts indicated insincerity.
Never mind that insincere was a particularly kind euphemism for every positive emotion his parents had ever displayed.
Still, everything went okay until Adam glanced around the table and asked, “Oh, is this one of those places that don’t do menus?”
Son of a Baptist. Mo had forgotten to warn him about this.
“Oh, we took the liberty of ordering,” Orson said. “More space on the table, nothing in the way of conversation. We come here whenever we’re in town, so we know what’s good.”
“Mo told us you don’t have any food allergies,” Claire continued.
Which was true—Mo had said that. He’d just forgotten that his parents would take that as license to order for both of them.
“Oh,” Adam said after a beat, obviously taken aback. He glanced at Mo, who tried to communicate, Sorry, I forgot to emphasize the extent of their control fetish through micro-expressions. “Okay, sure. I can’t wait to try it.”
Claire looked at Mo in triumph. “You see, Moritz? It’s not so difficult to appreciate the care we take for you.”
Mo regretted driving. The glass and a half of wine he could consume tonight would not cushion him from this train wreck in progress. He spoke instead of downing the rest of his glass. “Adam is very gracious.” He even meant it sincerely. Any reasonable person would have fled the table.
“Glad to hear it!” Orson boomed. “Now, Adam. This heater the team’s been on these past few weeks—what’s the secret, hm? It’s great to see so many Ws on the record.”
Translation: Why weren’t you this good before?
Even Adam must’ve understood that dig, because he took another sip of wine before replying.
Or maybe, like Mo, he was biting back the disastrous impulse to parrot the blogs and Twitter’s take: the sudden lack of unresolved sexual tension had put Adam in beast mode.
Yeah, he probably wasn’t thinking about that.
“Oh, um. I think Coach has us looking at drills differently, and the new video coach is good at breaking things down for us. Once we got some confidence, everything came together.”
Mo could just leave his car here overnight and Uber home, actually. He had nearly grabbed his wine glass when Orson chuckled approvingly and said, “There, you see, Moritz? Teamwork and modesty.”
Ah, the familiar taste of hypocrisy.