Chapter 2
COVEY
“Hey, Mom.” It’s weird walking in the front door without knocking or being escorted.
Even after being back for three months and living a short driving distance from my parents’ house, it’s strange.
My mom and dad have been nothing but supportive of my career, even when they don’t understand it.
That’s often meant living far away from them, starting as a young teenager.
“Covey, where’s your man?”
Right, straight to the point then. “He’s running a bit late, so he’s driving himself.
” Lies on lies on lies. I wished and hoped that a genius plan would pop into my mind.
Nope. No plan. Not even the slightest hint of one.
I could pretend we broke up, but that comes with a lot of follow-up questions and constant checking up on me for weeks to come.
He could be unavailable, but I’ve used that excuse a lot.
At this point, it’s become the equivalent of having a fake girlfriend in another country.
I never bothered with that. When I told my parents I’m gay, they nodded and went on with their day.
Probably because they’d known for a while, even if we’d been pretending they didn’t.
I’m making it up as I go and hoping maybe everyone will drink enough to forget he exists.
“Oh, that’s too bad. I hope he gets here soon.”
“Same,” I mumble.
“Well, let’s get started on drinks without him, and we can hold off on food until he arrives.”
At least if we’re all drinking on empty stomachs, my plan has a higher likelihood of succeeding. “Great. What do you have?”
In general, I don’t drink much. The impact alcohol has on my dance performance is too big.
Especially once we enter Nutcracker season.
I typically set a date to stop drinking until New Year’s, and that day is today.
What a coincidence that the last day I’m drinking and the date of my big family get-together happen to be the same.
“All the usuals. I’ve got a nice holiday cocktail if you want it, since you won’t drink it on Thanksgiving.
” I hear the disappointment in her voice.
Not that she wants me to get drunk, but she prides herself on making these punches.
Some people are proud of their cookies or casseroles; my mom is proud of her cocktails.
She’s right that I won’t have one later.
With Thanksgiving being the opening weekend for The Nutcracker, things are far too hectic.
I’m either preparing, performing, or sleeping.
“I’ll take one of those.” Who knows what she puts in her concoctions, but they’re always delicious.
When a crystal punch cup appears in my hand, full of a ruby drink, I’m instantly relieved.
Do I know how I’m going to get out of the boyfriend thing?
Nope. But for the next five minutes, this sweet and tangy delight is going to melt away my stress.
My mother lives for entertaining. If there’s a chance to have a party for something—Thanksgiving, Easter, Flag Day—it’ll be at her house.
And no, I didn’t get any alcohol as a child.
She made sure there was an equally exciting punch for kids or anyone not drinking.
It was pure sugar, which was, of course, why we liked it.
“So, what were you up to today?” my father asks when I step into the sitting room. That’s what my mom insists we call it. I’m reasonably certain it’s similar to a living room, but she insists it’s fancier.
“Class and rehearsals, the usual.” My poor parents have heard more about ballet than they probably ever dreamed they would. The phase they thought would pass quickly is still going strong, almost twenty years later.
“What show are you rehearsing for?”
It’s sometimes hard to remember that the last two months of the year don’t revolve around The Nutcracker for everyone. “Getting into Nutcracker rehearsals. We open over Thanksgiving.”
“You’ll get us tickets, right?”
I nod. “Of course.” It’s not that they haven’t come to my shows.
They’ve been to dozens of them over the years, usually flying wherever I am to see something.
This will be the first time they’ve seen me in The Nutcracker as a professional.
For some reason, it feels like a milestone.
As a child, The Nutcracker was my first time on stage, in the role of one of the party children in the first scene.
Small, but it paved the way for the rest of my career.
And on the same stage where I’ll be performing this year.
It’s a full circle moment, and I’m so thankful they’ll be there to see it.
“Why are you so jittery tonight?” I follow my father’s gaze toward my knee, which is jackhammering against the sofa. I slap my hand over it, hoping it stops the fidgeting.
“You know… holidays?” I offer.
“Or because your special someone is meeting the family?”
Yeah, I’m royally fucked. “I’m gonna grab another drink.”
AIDAN
“Hi, Edith.” I greet the woman at the front door. I’ve known her most of my life, having been friends with her son when we were growing up.
“Oh my God. Aidan!” Well, that’s more enthusiasm than I was expecting. She loves my mom’s cookies, but they aren’t that good.
Okay, they might be. I’m spoiled by being able to get them anytime I want.
“Covey refused to give away his secret, so I knew it was going to be good, but this is even better than I could’ve hoped for.”
Okay, I’m confused. Not exactly a new thing for me. I tend toward pretending I know what’s going on until I figure it out. That tactic has carried me through life pretty well at this point.
“We’re so excited.”
“Oh, yeah. Me, too.” That must be the correct answer, because she beams back at me.
“Well, don’t stand around out there. We’ve been expecting you. Come in.”
It’s not like I have something to do, unless a date with my couch and Netflix counts as plans. I swore to every deity my mom could think of that I’d deliver all these before I went home. This is the last batch on my list, and then I’m free.
I duck into the familiar home. It’s the same place I used to visit for years to hang out with Covey.
There have been a few updates, but it looks essentially the same.
All the furniture is oversized, but cozy.
If it’s a flat surface, Edith has covered it in some craft.
Afghan. Doiley. Crochet cover. Doesn’t matter.
The place was always a rotating version of whatever the flavor of the month was for her.
It’s strangely reassuring how little it’s changed.
“Covey will be down in a minute. He kept bouncing around and driving everyone crazy, so we sent him to his room.”
The more things change. Covey never did have the ability to sit still for very long.
I kind of thought he’d outgrow that. I heard a rumor that he might be moving back to Burlington, but then nothing came of it.
Not that it’s a big surprise. Burlington is great, but it’s not very exciting, especially to someone who’s spent the last several years traveling around Europe.
“Um… how are things?” I see her exactly once a year unless we bump into each other in the grocery store parking lot. My mom sends her a plate full of her favorite cookies for her birthday.
Weird considering there was a time when this had been my second household, Covey’s parents practically my own family. Some weeks, I probably saw them more than my own parents.
“Mom, do you know where the—” Covey comes to a halt when he sees me, eyes wide.
He’s exactly how I remember him. Scratch that.
He’s exactly how I remember him, but with more muscle.
It’s hard to see with him in a pair of navy sweats and a Green Mountain Ballet Company sweatshirt, but it’s there.
His dark hair is cut short and slicked down.
“Covey, look who’s here?”
“Hey, Aidan.” He gives me a shy wave that I return.
“How dare you keep this from me? I knew you had someone coming, but if I’d known it was Aidan?
Well!” She throws her hands up into the air.
“I knew this would happen.” I’m back to being completely lost. Hopefully, Covey can bail me out of this situation.
It’s been a long time, but he used to be great at that.
“Mom, can I borrow Aidan for a minute? We’ll be right back.” He grabs my arm, not waiting for a response, and drags me up the stairs toward his bedroom.
“What are we doing?” I whisper. He doesn’t answer, just shoves me into his bedroom and slams the door.
I wait in silence, watching as he leans against his bedroom door.
Or, at least it used to be his bedroom. The posters and piles of books are gone, and in their place is a cozy guest bedroom, with lots of lacy ruffles and a sewing machine on the desk in the corner.
“Okay, so here’s the thing.” Covey starts pacing back and forth, making me dizzy.
I drop onto the bed and wait. It’s been years, but I know what this is.
I’m watching him come up with his next outrageous idea.
He’s known for them. Whatever it is, I’m going to say no, but I’m too curious to leave before I hear the pitch.
“My mom thinks I’m dating someone. And, I might have told her that I invited that person over tonight. ”
And suddenly, so many things make sense, but also, what? “Why does your mom think you’re seeing someone?”
“She was giving me all sorts of crap over the summer about how I was wasting my life, blah, blah, I’d never find someone, blah, blah.
The best days were behind me.” He stops and stares at me.
“I thought if I said I was seeing someone, I could buy a little bit of time. I figured by the time we got to meet-the-parents stage, I could either say we broke up or…”
“Or, you’d be seeing someone?”
He winces. “Yeah, that.”
“Now what?”