Chapter 21 #2
"I was twelve. The system was chaos."
"The system was alphabetical."
"Alphabetical doesn't account for visual harmony."
My mother laughed. Actually laughed, not her polished hostess laugh, but the real one. The one I hadn't heard in years. "He did the same thing to our summer house. Rearranged every room before he was ten."
"It needed rearranging."
"The furniture was antique. Some pieces hadn't been moved in fifty years."
"And now they're in proper conversation groupings instead of just pushed against the walls."
Vance shifted in his seat. "He did the same thing to my apartment. Called my fridge organization a 'crime scene.'"
My mother pressed a hand to her chest. "Did he fold your napkins?"
"Into triangles."
"Oh, thank God. He got to the bishop's hat phase before college. I was finding them everywhere."
"There's a bishop's hat phase?"
"There are six acceptable variations of napkin folding," I said. "The bishop's hat is the most formal."
"Of course there are." Vance shook his head, but he was almost smiling. "Of course you know that."
The tension cracked. My mother was laughing. Tristan was grinning. Even my father's mouth twitched into something that might have been amusement.
This. This was what I'd wanted. Not perfection. We were far from that. But connection. The beginning of something real.
The conversation flowed more easily after that. Less stilted. More natural.
"Tobias tells me he's been cooking," my mother said, turning to me with something like wonder. "Actually cooking. From scratch."
"I learned while I was away." I shrugged. "Had to do something with my time."
"He's good at it," Vance added quietly. "Better than me, anyway. He's been teaching me proper technique. Low heat. Fresh herbs. Cream in the eggs."
"Cream in the eggs?" My mother looked intrigued.
"It's a whole thing." I smiled at Vance. "He's learning. Last week, he actually admitted that my carbonara was better than his MRE-style cooking."
"MRE-style cooking is efficient."
"MRE-style cooking is sad."
My mother looked between us, something soft in her expression. "You really have built a life together, haven't you?"
I reached under the table, found Vance's hand, and squeezed.
"We're working on it," I said.
After dinner, my father pulled Vance aside.
I watched from across the room, pretending to listen to my mother talk about her charity work. They stood by the window, my father's posture stiff and Vance's even stiffer. My father spoke. Vance listened, nodded once, and shook his hand again.
I couldn't hear what was said. I didn't need to. The fact that my father was talking to him at all, one-on-one, meant something.
Tristan appeared beside me, two glasses of whiskey in hand.
"Your boy's holding up well."
"He's not my boy."
"He's absolutely your boy. Look at him. He's terrified, but he's still there, taking whatever Dad's dishing out." Tristan handed me a glass. "That's either love or insanity."
"Maybe both."
"Usually is." He clinked his glass against mine. "I like him. For what it's worth."
"It's worth a lot."
"I know." Tristan took a sip. "He's good for you. I can see it. You're different now. More yourself. Less like you're performing a role."
"I was performing a role. For years."
"I know that too." His voice softened. "I should have seen it sooner. Should have made it easier for you to talk to me."
"You couldn't have known what I wouldn't tell you."
"I'm your brother. I should have known anyway." He shrugged. "But we're here now. And your security guard is currently surviving a conversation with Dad, which means he's either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid."
"Brave. Definitely brave."
Across the room, my father clapped Vance on the shoulder. Briefly, awkwardly, but unmistakably. Vance's expression didn't change, but I saw his shoulders drop slightly.
"Well." Tristan raised his glass. "Welcome to the family, I guess."
"He's not family yet."
"Toby." Tristan gave me a look. "He drove two hours to have dinner with our parents, let Mom hug him, and just survived Dad's version of a shovel talk. He's family."
Vance made his way back across the room toward me. When our eyes met, his expression shifted, the fear giving way to relief.
"Yeah," I said. "I guess he is."
We left around ten.
My mother hugged me at the door for a long time. When she pulled back, her eyes were bright.
"I'm proud of you," she whispered. "For being brave. For being honest. For finding someone who sees you."
"Mom..."
"I know I didn't make it easy. I know I pushed you toward things you didn't want." She cupped my face in her hands. "But you found your way anyway. That takes courage."
"I had help."
"I know." She glanced past me to where Vance stood by the entryway, waiting. "He's good for you. I can see it in how you carry yourself, how you smile more, how you actually seem... happy."
"I am happy."
"Then that's all I need." She kissed my forehead. "Bring him back. Don't be a stranger."
"I won't."
My father's goodbye was gruffer. He shook my hand, then pulled me into an awkward, one-armed embrace that lasted exactly two seconds.
"Send me those plans," he said. "The cottage project. I want to see how you handle the preservation details."
It wasn't "I love you." It wasn't "I accept you." But from Richard Langford, it was something close.
"I will," I said. "Thank you, Dad."
He nodded and cleared his throat. "What your mother said about bringing him back."
"Okay."
"And tell him—" He paused, then continued. "Tell him the shirt looks better with the top button undone. He looked like he was being strangled all night."
I laughed. A genuine laugh. "I'll tell him."
Tristan walked us to the elevator. The hallway was quiet, devoid of the other residents who probably made a point of avoiding the Langfords.
"Not bad," he said. "For a first family dinner with the secret boyfriend."
"He's not a secret anymore."
"No. He's not." Tristan stopped at the elevator and pressed the call button. "You know Mom's already planning Christmas, right?"
"It's April."
"She has spreadsheets, Toby. Color-coded spreadsheets." He grinned. "You're not getting out of holiday dinners now that she knows he exists."
"I can handle holiday dinners."
"Can Vance?"
I looked at the man beside me. He was still slightly stiff and uncomfortable, but there was a change in his posture now. He looked almost like he belonged.
"He can handle anything," I said.
"Yeah?" Tristan glanced at Vance. "Even your cooking lessons?"
"I've been teaching him proper technique. He's a fast learner."
"Proper technique? The man survived on MREs and field rations. Now he's learning French cooking methods?"
"Italian, mostly. And yes."
Tristan laughed. "Love makes people do strange things."
The elevator arrived, and we stepped inside.
"Hey, Toby." Tristan caught the door before it closed. "I'm glad you found him. Really. You seem... like yourself for the first time in a long time."
"Thanks, Tris."
"Same time next month?"
"You're pushing it."
"I'm persistent. It's a family trait." He punched my shoulder through the gap. "Take care of yourself. And take care of him. He looks like he needs it."
"He's tougher than he looks."
"Good. Because if he hurts you, I know people who can make him disappear."
"That's not funny."
"Who said I was joking?"
The doors closed on his grin.
We descended in silence.
When we reached the lobby, Vance let out a breath that seemed to come from deep in his chest.
"That," he said, "was terrifying."
"But not terrible?"
"No." He took my hand as we walked toward the exit. "Not terrible."
We stepped out into the night. The city was quieter than usual, the street mostly empty.
"Thank you," I said as we reached the car. "For that. I know it wasn't easy."
"It was worth it." His voice was rough. "You're worth it."
He unlocked the car, but before getting in, he looked at me across the roof.
"Your dad threatened to have me disappeared," he said. "Twice, if we're counting your brother."
"That's how Langford men show affection."
"Rich people are deeply disturbing."
But he was almost smiling. When we got in the car, he reached across the console to take my hand and held it the whole way home.
We drove in comfortable silence.
The city gave way to suburbs, suburbs to countryside. The lights dimmed. The stars came out.
"Your family's not so bad," Vance said eventually.
"They're trying."
"Your mom's nice. Your brother's funny." A pause. "Your dad's terrifying."
"He liked you."
"He has a strange way of showing it."
I laughed. Really laughed, the kind that came from somewhere deep. Vance glanced at me, and his mouth curved up at the corners.
"There it is," he said softly.
"What?"
"That laugh. The first time I heard it, I knew I was in trouble."
"Romantic again. Who are you and what have you done with Vance Kessler?"
"Shut up."
But his hand tightened on mine. When we finally pulled into the parking lot of his apartment building, our apartment building, he didn't let go.
"Hey." I waited until he looked at me. "I meant what I said. You're family now. Whatever that means, whatever it looks like, you're mine."
"Yours."
"Mine."
He leaned across the console and kissed me slow and deep, the kind of kiss that made promises.
"Okay," he said against my mouth. "Yours."