Chapter 5 #2
“What happened to dinner?” I asked, ignoring her greeting, or lack thereof, and pushed aside my depressing thoughts.
“We are eating at seven now. Didn’t I call to tell you?” Her words sounded innocent, and she did appear sweet and virtually angelic, but the twinkle in her eye gave her away.
“No, you didn’t.” I pursed my lips together and almost laughed, but I refused to give her the satisfaction.
“Honestly, Max, I had every intention of calling you.”
“So, Gina just postponed dinner?” I found that hard to believe.
“I didn’t postpone anything. Your mother said she visited you earlier today, and you were busy, so she said we should have dinner at seven instead of six,” Gina ratted out my mother from the dining room.
Unable to hold back, I laughed. I’d rushed here like the hounds of hell were nipping at my feet only to discover I shouldn’t have bothered.
Narrowing her eyes, my mother threw her hands in the air and dramatically cried out, “Give him bread and water.”
If I had been late, I wouldn’t put it past Gina to do precisely that, but since I arrived punctually—even if I didn’t realize it at the time—she wouldn’t dare, especially since she’d made my favorites tonight.
“Son, I need to talk to you after dinner,” my father stated from the doorway of the living room.
I turned to him. “Why?” His face was blank, and I couldn’t get a read on him. He hadn’t said we need to talk to you, he said I, which gave me an idea of what he wanted to discuss.
“It’s important.” He spun on his heel to return to his seat in the other room. I couldn’t recall a time when he appeared so serious or stoic. Something was wrong.
Following him, I asked, “What’s going on?” Was he sick? Injured? Was something wrong with Mom? It couldn’t be the company since I ran that and kept a close eye on everything with the help of key people I trusted explicitly.
“We’ll talk after dinner,” he said casually.
He dropped a bomb on me and then had the audacity to brush it off? Oh hell no. “Dad?—”
When his blue eyes met mine, they were hard, and demanded I shut up right then and there. “After dinner.” Something really was wrong.
“Dad—"
He held up his hand to cut me off. “No.”
Before I could say anything else, not that I’d said much, my mother floated into the room and asked, “Would anyone care for a cocktail?”
“No, Mom, I’m fine,” I answered, never taking my gaze off my father.
Dad grinned at her. “No, Willow dear, I still haven’t finished the first one you made me. I think you’re trying to get me drunk.”
“I would never! Christoph!” she gasped.
“You would, and you did on our first date. I passed out drunk on your couch, and your father told me I needed to make an honest woman out of you.”
“What?” I questioned a little too loudly because they both looked at me with that patented parent expression. The one that made you shy away from them or made you wonder if you had done something wrong…or what you had done wrong.
“Oh, we didn’t get married for another year, but we were engaged after our first date.
Your father is exaggerating. My father did not tell him anything of the sort.
” Mom plopped herself down on Dad’s lap.
They appeared to be so in love, and they were, I didn’t doubt that.
I just doubted that particular emotion existed for me.
No prince would be climbing up to my tower any time soon.
Wrapping her in his arms, Dad insisted, “He most certainly did. You’d gone to make coffee or something, and he told me I needed to either do right by you or he would shoot me and make sure I didn’t father any more children.
I tried to tell him there was no way you could be pregnant and that nothing happened, but he didn’t believe me.
So, when you came back with a tray, I got down on one knee and proposed.
I didn’t have it in me to argue because I had a hangover, and I liked you.
” He winked at her, she kissed him, and I checked the time on my watch to see if it was seven yet. Fifteen more minutes.
As we sat down to eat, all I could think about was what my father wanted to talk to me about.
The fact he didn’t choose to include my mother in the conversation bothered me because they did almost everything together.
When they gave me the sex talk, they both tried to explain the birds and the bees, and they both failed at it, spectacularly.
It was the day I told them I was gay, and they came back the next day and attempted to explain anal sex.
They could barely say the word much less describe it.
I don’t think I have ever laughed so hard.
When they asked me if I’d lost my mind, I informed them they didn’t need to bother since I’d done my own research, but I did thank them for trying.
The only time I ever remember talking to my father alone about anything important was when I sought him out, and it almost always ended in a fight.
Like the time I was eighteen and asked how he could subject me to such an existence.
That he had doomed me and my life. He didn’t appreciate that and got in my face.
I pushed him, and he pushed back. I threw a punch…
needless to say, we got into a knockdown drag out.
In the end, we made up, but that didn’t mean everything was smooth sailing.
Other than my childhood, there was always some strain after I realized the hardship my other self would cause to my life.
A gentle nudge—in other words, a hard kick—to my shin had me jumping out of my chair and glaring at Gina, who sat across from me. “What the he…” Hearing my dad clearing his throat and seeing him arch his eyebrow, I stopped what I’d begun to say and corrected myself, “What did you need?”
“Wasn’t me. Your dad was trying to get your attention,” she snickered.
With a heavy sigh, my dad tapped the tabletop with his finger. “I asked whether you were done eating.”
Glancing down at my plate, I noticed I’d finished everything and couldn’t recall eating anything.
I tasted nothing. When had that happened?
Normally, I savored Gina’s cooking, and she had specifically made my favorites, yet, I didn’t even remember putting a single bite of food in my mouth.
“Uh…” My gaze shifted from my plate to my father to Gina to my mother and back down to my place, completing a few laps around the table before I found my words, “Yeah, I am.” For a brief moment, I thought about loading my plate with more food, hoping this time I would actually be able to enjoy it, but I wasn’t hungry.
It also meant I could no longer put off the inevitable.
“Actually,” Mom spoke up, interrupting my father before he could say anything, “You can talk after dessert.”
“Yes, dear.” Dad hardly ever overrode Mom, and today was no different.
I almost laughed…almost. She was probably trying to delay the inevitable also or suspected, once the talking began, yelling would follow, and I was liable to storm out of the house.
It had happened before, except the previous times, I’d left before the meal, or during the meal, and sometimes never made it to the door.
Gina said I acted like a spoiled little prince, but while she knew the secret my family carried, she had no idea the burden weighing on my shoulders.
So excuse me if I behaved in an assholish way.
Gina and my mom got up, and within moments, an apple pie with a crust so golden, it could rival the sun was set on the table amid of the other dishes.
Breathing in deeply, I could smell the butter, cinnamon, and fresh apples.
My mouth watered, already tasting the yummy treat.
I may have missed the way the flavors of dinner wrapped my tongue, bathing it in the explosions of flavor and tenderness, but I refused to allow myself to ignore the crisp, sweet deliciousness sitting less than a foot away.
Mom pulled it to her and made the first cut.
The crack of the crust, the flakes giving way under the knife: pure perfection.
Slipping the triangle pie server down the back of the slice, the scrape against ceramic sent tingles up my spine.
No matter what else was going on in my life, Gina’s apple pie was Utopia, and that sound signaled the first piece was being served.
My eyes followed the dessert like a damn dog watching its favorite toy in the hands of their master.
Dogs and I never got along, but I’d studied them enough to know how they acted.
At one time, I wanted a dog, until I went duck hunting with my mother’s brother, and looked on in horror as the duck had been shot and the dog retrieved the innocent animal.
At eight, I had nightmares for a year about the dogs coming to get me.
It was a year before my mother let me visit my relatives again with the strict rule I was not allowed to go hunting at all.
The heavenly treat slid in front of me, causing my mouth to water and my brain to forget anything to do with canines and their atrocious behavior.
Stabbing the pie with my fork, I lifted the bite to my mouth, and goosebumps broke out all over my skin as the flavor exploded over my tongue.
Sliding my eyes closed, I moaned in delight, savoring the way the crisp sweetness from the apples mixed with the cinnamon and nutmeg.
But one of my favorite parts was the crust. Golden and flakey.
Nothing beat Gina’s pies, except maybe the dinner she’d cooked for tonight, but I had already missed out on that.
“Good,” Gina asked snickering.
Narrowing my eyes, I glared at her. “It’s subpar at best,” I declared, snidely, and stuck out my tongue, fully aware of how childlike and immature my actions were.
“Uh-huh. That’s why you sound like you are having an orgasm in your seat,” she retorted, her damn smirk never leaving her lips.