36. Micah
THIRTY-SIX
MICAH
The closer we get to Colton’s parents’ place, the tighter my chest feels. Not bad tight—just that restless buzz you get before a big game.
It’s been years since I’ve been here. Years since I walked up that driveway with a duffel bag slung over my shoulder, ready to crash on the couch after a Friday night game.
Back then, Mrs. Taylor would fuss over us, Colton’s sister would steal the good snacks before we got to them, and his dad would grunt from the recliner without looking away from SportsCenter.
I tell myself it’s no big deal. Just dinner. Just Colton’s family. But then we turn onto their street, and I swear my palms actually sweat.
Colton’s got one hand on the wheel, the other resting warm and steady on my thigh. He hasn’t moved it since we left campus. Every time his thumb drags absent-minded circles against my jeans, it’s a tether—pulling me out of my head .
“You’re quiet,” he says, glancing over with that faint smirk that means he knows exactly why.
“Just thinking,” I mutter.
His smirk turns softer. “Don’t overthink it. You’ve been here a hundred times.”
“Not as your—” I cut myself off, because the word boyfriend still catches in my throat. Not because I don’t want it, but because it’s still new enough that it makes my pulse trip.
“Boyfriend.” Colton squeezes my thigh, filling in the blank for me. “They’re gonna be happy you’re here. I’m happy you’re here.”
We pull into the driveway, and the house looks exactly the same. Same porch swing. Same potted plants by the steps. Same welcome mat that says Wipe Your Paws, even though they’ve never owned a dog.
I take a breath as we get out of the truck.
Colton comes around to my side, close enough that our arms brush, and for a second, it’s just us on the front walk.
His eyes find mine—steady, certain—and it hits me all over again that I’m not walking into this house alone.
And this is probably a bigger deal for him.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. And somehow, I almost believe it.
Colton knocks once out of habit before opening the door like he owns the place—which, I guess, he sort of does.
We barely get one foot inside before Mrs. Taylor barrels into view, moving faster than I’ve ever seen her.
“Micah!” She says my name like it’s been sitting on the tip of her tongue for years.
She’s got a dish towel over one shoulder, oven mitt still on one hand, and this wide, beaming smile that hits me right in the ribs.
“Oh, look at you—you haven ’t changed a bit.
Well, except you’re… taller? More… built ?
Handsome.” She waves both hands vaguely, physically pushing compliments in my direction.
Colton makes a low sound in his throat that’s probably supposed to be a laugh, but I can feel the warning in it. “Mom…”
She ignores him completely, stepping forward to hug me as if she’s making up for the last two years in one go.
“I’m so glad you’re here. So glad. You have to know we always thought the whole thing was ridiculous—Colton told us it was blown out of proportion from the start, but I just…
” She shakes her head, pulling back only to grip my arms. “I hate that you went through that.”
“Uh. Thanks,” I manage, and it’s not that I’m uncomfortable—just a little stunned. I didn’t expect her to hit the ground running with all of it .
“And listen,” she continues, already ushering us toward the kitchen, “I want you to know this is a safe space, okay? We support you, boys, one hundred percent. One hundred and ten! I even got rainbow napkins. And pie. I don’t know if pie counts as being an ally, but?—”
Colton groans. “Mom, stop.”
“What? I’m trying. ” She gives him a mock glare, then softens as she looks back at me. “I really am glad you’re here, Micah. We’ve missed you.”
Her words fill me with warmth in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.
From somewhere down the hall, a deeper voice calls, “That them?”
Colton’s dad, no doubt, it might have been years since I’ve been here, but I remember his voice .
Mrs. Taylor rolls her eyes affectionately. “Yes, come say hello before I put you to work.”
Mr. Taylor steps into the kitchen as though he’s just come in from the garage—work boots, flannel sleeves rolled up, a faint scent of motor oil clinging to him.
He’s a businessman by day, but he loves his cars and sports in equal measure.
His eyes flick from Colton to me, taking in the hoodie I’m wearing (Colton’s, obviously) and the fact that we’re still standing close enough to share body heat.
“Micah,” he says with a small nod. Not warm exactly, but not cold either. Just…acknowledging. “Been a while.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, because old habits die hard. “Good to see you again.”
He studies me for another beat, then looks at Colton. “You bringing him to dinner means we’ll see more of you now, right?”
Colton’s lips twitch. “Yeah, Dad. We’re sticking around.”
Mr. Taylor grunts—neutral, maybe even approving—and jerks his chin toward the dining room. “Good. Your mother made enough food for a small army. Better get in there before your sister eats it all.”
I almost laugh, but Mrs. Taylor swats his arm like she’s scolding a bear. “Don’t listen to him, Micah. He’s happy you’re here.”
Her husband shrugs, eyes crinkling faintly at the edges before he wanders over to check something in the oven. And I realize—he might not be a man of many words, but that was as close to a welcome as I’m going to get from him. And honestly? I’ll take it.
Colton’s sister breezes into the kitchen, a one-woman hurricane, phone in one hand, cardigan slipping off one shoulder. She’s mid-text when her eyes land on me —and then she’s grinning so wide I don’t even get a chance to brace myself.
“Oh my God ,” she says, abandoning her phone on the counter so she can cross the space in about three strides. “Micah freaking Blackman.”
I barely manage a “Hey—” before she’s hugging me, full-tilt, as though no time has passed.
“Two years and you don’t even send me a meme?” she accuses, pulling back to look me over like she’s checking for battle scars. “You’re lucky I like you, or I’d be holding a grudge.”
Colton groans behind her. “Don’t encourage him.”
She swats at him without looking away from me. “Are you kidding? I’ve been telling Mom for months that he probably scared you off, and that he should just—” She stops herself, glances between us, then smirks. “—well, I guess he finally figured it out.”
“Yeah,” I say, my mouth tugging into something I can’t quite stop. “Guess he did.”
She loops her arm through mine leading me from the room as if we’re heading off to conspire about something. “Good. Now you’re sitting next to me at dinner, so I can catch up on literally everything. And I mean everything .”
Over her shoulder, Colton shakes his head, but there’s this soft pride in his eyes that makes my chest feel too full.
We end up at the big oak table Colton’s mom has clearly over-prepared for—there’s enough food here to feed the offensive line and still have leftovers. She’s moving around like a one-woman pit crew, setting down dishes, topping off glasses, fluttering from one end of the table to the other.
“Now, Micah,” she says brightly as she leans a little too close to refill my tea, “you just let me know if you ne ed anything . More potatoes, extra rolls, another pillow for your chair?—”
“Mom,” Colton warns, a hint of a groan in his voice.
“What?” she says innocently. “I’m just making sure our guest is comfortable.” She turns to me with an earnest smile. “We’re so happy you’re here, Micah. Really.”
It’s… a lot. Not bad, just—over the top in a way that makes me want to laugh and hide under the table at the same time. I can feel the heat in my cheeks.
“Thanks, Mrs. Taylor,” I say, trying to match her warmth without combusting.
“Please,” she waves a hand. “Call me Linda, you’re grown now.”
Across from me, Colton’s dad grunts—a low, short sound as he reaches for the green beans. “Rolls are getting cold,” he says, which I think is his version of nice to see you again or eat all this food so we don’t have to throw it away in a week .
Colton’s sister elbows me under the table and smirks like she can read my mind. “Don’t let Dad fool you,” she stage-whispers. “He’s already smiling more than usual.”
“Am not,” Mr. Taylor mutters around a bite of casserole.
Linda catches my eye again before looking at her son, and leaning in like she’s sharing some grand secret. “We’re so proud of Colton,” she says, clearly trying to be The Supportive Ally Mom.
Colton smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Thanks, Mom.”
“And we’re proud of you, too, Micah. For… you know.” She gestures vaguely, trying to encompass being gay and existing in the dining room in one sweeping motion.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “Uh… thanks,” I say carefully, and Colton’s fingers brush my knee under the table in quiet solidarity.
From there, the conversation becomes a mix of teasing, catching up, and Linda attempting to pile more food on my plate every time I clear a section.
Colton’s sister demands updates on every part of my life as though she’s been stockpiling questions for two years.
His dad mostly listens, occasionally throwing in a dry comment that lands funnier than it should.
And somewhere between Linda insisting I take the last piece of pie and Colton’s sister telling a story about Colton falling into the lake in his jeans a year ago, I realize I’m…comfortable.
Really comfortable.
We’re halfway out the door when Linda calls after us. “Wait! I almost forgot.”
She hurries over, digging in her purse like she’s about to produce a coupon or a pack of gum. Instead, she pulls out two identical rainbow-striped keychains—woven fabric loop, shiny silver ring—like something you’d pick up from the Pride merch table at a street fair.
“I saw these and thought of you two,” she says, holding them out as if they’re priceless family heirlooms. “Now you can match. You know—like the couple you are.”
I freeze, caught between laughing and melting into the floor. Colton’s ears go pink, but he takes them, one in each hand, as though this is the most normal exchange in the world .
“Thanks, Mom,” he says, a little too smoothly, and I can tell he’s seconds from cracking.
Linda beams, clearly pleased with herself, and shoos us toward the truck. “Drive safe! And don’t forget—next Sunday, same time!”
By the time we’re both buckled in, the second the doors shut, Colton loses it. A low laugh bursts out of him, head tipping back against the seat.
“Matching keychains,” he says, holding mine out to me. “You realize my mom just basically gave us a joint uniform?”
I grin, shaking my head as I take it. “Oh yeah. We’re branded now. Property of Linda Taylor.”
He chuckles again, sliding his own onto his truck keys. “Think we’re supposed to wear them on our belts like a badge of gay honor?”
“Only if you’re ready to be the poster boy for ‘small-town mom tries her best,’” I tease, slipping mine onto my keyring and giving it a little spin.
Colton glances over at me, and his smile softens in that way that still knocks the wind out of me. “She really does mean well, you know. She really took this whole thing better than I expected.”
“I know,” I say quietly, fingers brushing over the rainbow fabric. “And honestly? I’ve had worse first impressions.”
He laughs again, puts the truck in gear, and we pull out into the night—two rainbow keychains swinging in sync from the ignition and my hand resting easy on his thigh.