Chapter 24 Dane #2
The kettle whistles, sending Mr. Whitlock into mission-mode to pour everyone a mug of hot chocolate. He asks if anyone wants whipped cream and gets crickets from all three of us. “Alright, more for me,” he mumbles.
The first person to speak is Mrs. Whitlock, and she’s looking straight at me. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to visit your mother while you’re in town.”
“No,” I answer quickly. “I’m only here for Connor.”
A bit of that motherly smile returns to Mrs. Whitlock’s face, a treat for saying the right thing, maybe, but her skepticism lingers. It lingers behind her eyes despite her kind nature. A shit liar, just like her son.
“Thank you for being there for him today,” she says to me. “It’s not the first time he’s had to be rushed to the ER, but it doesn’t get any less terrifying. For him or for us. I’m glad he had someone with him who cared enough to get him the help he needed. You’re a very good friend.”
All the niceties are unexpected, and only draw my guilt to the surface, because I don’t deserve any of it.
Mr. Whitlock brings over our mugs, starting with mine and Connor’s, then Mrs. Whitlock’s and his own. Once he takes a load off across from me, he asks me about myself. Asks if I’m in school, what my goals are, and if I have a girlfriend back in SD.
“I’m in school,” I answer. “I’m in my third year at San Diego State. I want to work for Parks Services once I get my degree, and I definitely don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Dane is gay,” Connor declares, stunning me rigid.
“Oh, like your other friends,” Mrs. Whitlock trills, her demeanor actually perking up with the news.
“I’m sorry.” Mr. Whitlock says toward me with his palm to his chest. “I didn’t mean to assume anything.”
“Uh, it’s okay.” My palms sweat under the heat of this spotlight. It makes sipping on my hot chocolate almost unbearable, but it is tasty, even without whipped cream.
“We raised Connor to treat everyone the way he’d want to be treated,” Mrs. Whitlock says. “He doesn’t have a prejudiced bone in his body.”
I fold my lips to keep from laughing as a noticeable blush stains Connor’s cheeks. “Yeah, your son is a true ally.”
The only thing worrying me now is how Connor’s parents will react when it’s time to hit the hay.
When both our mugs are down to dregs and I’m yawning up a storm, we all stand from the table and say our goodnights.
The Whitlocks hug like they might never see each other again, with kisses to each other’s cheeks and I love you’s all around.
Then comes another round of awkwardness when Mrs. Whitlock points toward the ceiling and tells me there’s a daybed set up in the office upstairs.
“Oh, um—” I start, but Connor quickly cuts me off.
“He can just crash with me.”
“Are you sure?” All that skepticism comes back in full force, and Mrs. Whitlock looks at her son like he’s grown a second head. “That bed is a little snug for two grown men.”
“It’s big enough. I’ve had sleepovers before, and it wasn’t a problem.”
“I don’t mind sleeping on the floor either,” I say, just to ease the tension.
It’s one thing to share a bed with a bro in a pinch, but sharing a bed with a gay bro looks a lot more suspicious.
As lame as that is, I can’t lament when that suspicion is totally warranted in this case.
I’m not planning on jumping Connor’s bones after everything he’s been through today, but I do want to hold him a while when we’re perfectly alone.
He’s a cuddler, I can tell. I am too, but that’s no surprise.
I’ve fantasized about having a man to cuddle with since I was little, and now I think it might be my destiny to be Connor’s big spoon.
Maybe even his little spoon when the mood hits just right.
I definitely won’t be sleeping on the floor tonight, but Mrs. Whitlock won’t let us upstairs until Connor swears he’ll get a sleeping bag out for me in case I need it.
The carpeted stairway creaks under our shoes as I follow Connor up to a narrow second-floor landing, then into the last door on the left.
I shut the door while Connor flicks on a small bedside lamp and draws a pair of navy curtains over the sheer ones.
Connor’s bedroom is that of a typical boy.
Sports memorabilia, rock posters, graphic novels on a bookshelf, and a shadow box with all his Boy Scout accolades.
There’s a cork board above a writing desk filled corner-to-corner with photo prints of him with other happy, smiling people.
Family, friends, maybe an ex-girlfriend or two.
He looks younger in them. Thinner and dorkier, but just as adorable. His pre-Thalia years.
“Most of those are from high school,” Connor says beside me.
From my back pocket, I dig out that Polaroid Connor had stashed in his camera bag. I press it to the board and shimmy a thumbtack enough to make it stick.
“You found that?” A hand warms my back. “It was in a shoebox full of stuff Thalia dumped in the pool. I figured it was special.”
Staring at my younger self in the arms of my mother, I say, “It’s the only picture I have of us. Artie trashed the rest a long time ago.”
That hand glides around my waist, coaxing me into Connor’s arms. Our bodies press flush, his face against my shoulder and mine buried in his neck.
“I gotta shower,” he says, and I can’t object, even if I don’t mind his funk.
“Do you think we can get away with showering together?”
“Hmm. If we’re really quiet, I think it’ll be okay.”
“You sure? Now that you’ve told your parents I’m gay, that doesn’t leave us a big margin for error.”
“I’m sorry.” He nuzzles his cheek against mine. “I'm just so proud of you. I want you to be proud of yourself too.”
I squeeze him tighter, wishing I could absorb myself into him so we never have to be apart. “I love you, Connor,” I tell the easiest person in the world to love.
“I love you too,” he says to the most difficult.