Chapter 6 #6
Adam shrugged like it was no big deal, like he didn’t have tension in his shoulders and a defiant tilt to his mouth. “They’re eager to meet you, and my schedule doesn’t give a lot of opportunities to travel. Besides, what kind of boyfriend would I be if I let you spend Christmas alone?”
A fake one?
“Mum’s been begging me to bring you home for Christmas anyway,” he added. The apples of his cheeks had gone blotchy under his freckles. An embarrassing truth? “She says I’ve withheld boyfriend access for long enough already.”
…That did sound like something an English teacher would say, Mo had to admit.
“I have to go Christmas shopping,” Mo said, at a loss for any other comment. He couldn’t show up empty-handed. “How many siblings do you have again?”
“I’ll quiz you on the family photo album at home.”
Claire cleared her throat, reminding Mo that they were committing the cardinal sin of pretending the world didn’t revolve around her and her husband. He covered Adam’s hand with his and gave him a practiced soppy look before turning to Claire. “Sorry. You know how it is with new love.”
And what could they say to that? Nothing.
Eventually, dessert arrived. Not even Mo’s parents could spoil his appetite for a rich dark chocolate mousse with raspberries—an opinion Adam seemed to share.
Which Mo felt good about until Claire said, “Oh—Adam, you’re not worried about the heartburn?”
Adam had polished off three-quarters of the dessert and was eyeing Mo’s plate like he’d make a play for that next, but he pulled his spoon out of his mouth long enough to reply. “It’ll be worth the pain,” he said seriously. “I have a soft spot for sweets.”
And then he turned that gonna-eat-your-dessert expression on Mo instead of his mousse, and made it soppy.
Mo could’ve cackled, but somehow, he kept a lid on the impulse. “Aw, babe.” Then he pulled his plate closer. “But I’m still not sharing.”
Adam played up his disappointment. “Oh well. Worth a shot.”
As far as dinners with his parents went, this was downright tolerable.
He should’ve known it was too soon to count the W.
They were so close to getting out of there with his sanity intact. They had ordered their espressos. Mo had to endure another fifteen or so minutes of brain-numbing gossip about Rita, the woman who had done Claire’s nails in her home for the past decade.
Mo was zapped out of his placid, head-bobbing agreement, in which he let Claire’s monologue wash over and through him, when Adam went ramrod stiff.
Oh Christ, she’s said something extra heinous.
“I was absolutely shocked to hear such language out of her mouth. I said, ‘Rita, those officers are just doing their jobs. Everyone has to make a living.’ And she said, ‘That’s what the people they are arresting are trying to do.’ And then she refused to do my manicure!
I had to go to a salon.” She eyed her nails despairingly.
Mo breathed through his nose and kicked his foot firmly against Adam’s.
Of course Claire waited until she’d lulled them into a false sense of security before dropping a racist bomb.
Reacting to it wouldn’t change her mind about anything except allowing Mo to have his trust fund next year so he could leave this family forever and live in peace.
Fortunately for his blood pressure, Claire didn’t require his input to have this tantrum.
Orson took her perfectly manicured hand and brought it to his lips. “It’s for the best, dear. I know it’s hard when people disappoint us, but I’ve been telling you for years—”
“What the fuck?”
For a moment, Mo thought the glitchy filter between his mouth and brain had failed him for the last time. Then he realized Adam was beet-red and getting to his feet.
Oh Christ on a pogo stick.
“I beg your pardon—” Orson’s tone reminded Mo of the one he’d used when Mo was a naughty child.
Mo cut in before Adam could make things worse.
He stood and looped Adam’s arm around his shoulders.
“Babe, is it the heartburn? I told you to pace yourself!” Out of his parents’ eyeline, he pinched Adam’s waist for good measure.
Get your head in the game, Murphy. We are so close to the finish line. Don’t fuck this up for me.
Fortunately, Adam recovered by bending double and clutching at his stomach, apparently obeying Mo’s silent but desperate order to pretend to have the worst digestive pain known to man. “Oh—I’m so sorry, that was rude.” He’d flushed almost purple. “I think—”
“Goodness.” Claire leaned back from the table as though afraid Adam might have indigestion all over it. “You do look a bit… unwell. Should we call an ambulance?”
“No, no,” Adam said hurriedly. Almost too fast, as he clearly forgot to play up his pain for a second. Mo figured Ambulance Called for Hockey Star While Out for Dinner with Future In-Laws, Current Employers was not a headline Adam wanted to see.
Not that Mo wanted it either.
“Not necessary. I’ll get him home where he can down a bottle of Pepto and call it a night.
” He hastily gathered their jackets and began leading Adam away.
“Thanks for the dinner. Talk again soon.” They wouldn’t.
Not least because his parents were always terrible at dealing with the Arizona-to-Europe time difference.
Adam stayed silent on the way out of the restaurant, even when Mo, out of sight of his parents, stopped at the ma?tre d’ to leave a large tip for their server and the bar.
She was good at her job and didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow at the request. Adam did, but Mo gave him a look that hopefully conveyed Not in public clearly enough.
Outside, Mo looked longingly at the valet. He hated to leave his baby behind or call an Uber, but he wasn’t foolish enough to drive after that third glass of wine.
“I could drive,” Adam said softly, almost tentatively.
Mo looked up. “What?”
“If you want, I could drive your car to yours.”
Mo blinked. He never let anyone drive his cars. The only one he trusted to that degree was Sage, and Sage themself would be the first to tell anyone loaning them keys was a terrible idea.
“I only had one glass.” Adam bit his lip, and it struck Mo that his silence might seem like rejection.
“Uh, you sure? I mean, it’s a detour for you.” If Adam took Mo home, he’d have to Uber from there.
Adam gave him a look. “Of course I’m sure. It’s not even nine.” He stepped forward to signal the valet, who immediately scampered off.
By the time they were on the road, he’d clearly had more than enough time to build up steam. Not that you could tell from his steady hands and careful driving. “What the fuck is wrong with your parents?”
Mo sighed. “Everything?”
“I wasn’t expecting much since you hate them, but I wasn’t expecting having-to-tip-behind-their-back bad.”
“I didn’t have to,” Mo said weakly, apparently unable to condemn them for crimes they hadn’t committed.
“So why did you?”
“Because they never tip more than fifteen percent, which is definitely not enough for having to put up with them.” They used to be worse, until someone from their social circle got blasted on socials for not tipping. Now they tipped just enough.
“God, they probably think tipping has to be earned.”
“Yup. If servers deserved minimum wage, then why don’t they make it?”
“I bet they’re the first and loudest to complain too.”
Mo wasn’t going to reward that level of basic deduction. He’d warned Adam, hadn’t he?
“I thought maybe when we started this and you said you didn’t want to fall out of favor with them, you were trying to repair the relationship. Mo, why the fuck do you care?”