Chapter 17
If anything could convince me to get out of the restaurant life, it was having to open the coffee shop on two hours of sleep and hung over. Though this hangover was way better than my last hangover because I had Lance with me. He insisted on getting up when I did.
“Two fuzzy heads are better than one,” he said as I started some coffee for us in the French press. Still didn’t have my shirt on and my jeans were undone. Priorities, I had them. I’d start the big carafes for the brunch closer to opening.
“Advil?” I held out the bottle to him.
“Advil always makes me sleepy. I’m weird.” He gave me that crooked grin of his. “But maybe we could nap later?”
“Oh, I am all over that idea.”
Things between us felt . . . delicate. Fragile. Like we’d been transplanted into a new tank together, but we still had to adjust to the water and figure out the landscape. For the first time it really did feel like we were together, but there was still so much left unsaid about what that meant. And there was a certain newness to that togetherness—a naked feeling of not hiding behind friends with benefits any longer.
Click. I whirled around to see Lance with his cell phone.
“Smile.” He grinned and snapped another picture.
“What are you doing? Documenting how bad I look without sleep?” I stepped toward him, but he scurried away from the kitchen doorway, retreating to the living room. His grin made my tired legs chase after him.
“It’s my birthday. And I always take pictures of all my presents.”
“Oh.” My insides melted like a sundae on a hot day. I brushed a kiss across his lips. “Happy birthday. Keep your picture. But no Instagram, okay?”
“Okay.” He fake pouted. “Are you coming tonight?”
“To your party?”
He nodded.
“You still want me to?”
“More than anything,” he whispered. “If we’re going to do this thing, I want us to be a real couple. I want to be able to tell people you’re my boyfriend, and I need you to be okay with that. I . . . I need that more than almost anything we talked about last night. Location doesn’t matter if you can’t be real with me.”
“I want us to be a real couple, too. And yes, I’ll be there tonight. After a nap.” Pulling him into a tight hug, I let myself own the want that had built up for the last two months—I did want to be a couple with him. I wanted to feel him wrapped around me on the bike, wanted to go out to brew pubs together and cuddle up on the couch after. Wanted to kiss him good-bye and hello and tell anyone who objected to fuck off.
He leaned into my hug, then abruptly pulled away, staring at the fish tank across the room. He hurried over, squatting to peer into the big tank from several angles. “Oh my gosh! What happened to Scruffy?”
“Died.”
“I’m sorry.” He crossed the room in three wide steps before hugging me tight, like I’d lost a family member. He was the only one in my life who’d ever gotten what the fish meant to me.
“Eh. It happens.” I didn’t know what to do with his sympathy.
“Are you going to get a new guy for your tank? Want me to go with you?”
“First, I have to get a tattoo.” My neck got hot and my face flushed. “Then yeah, I’ll fish shop.”
“A tattoo?” His eyes sprung open wide. Grabbing my arms, he held them out for his inspection. “How didn’t I figure it out earlier? How many of your tats are fish you owned?”
I scratched my neck. “Not the dolphin. Never owned one of those. But yeah, most of the rest . . .” I waited for him to tell me what a morbid freak I was.
“That is like the coolest thing ever. I want to hear the story of each one now.”
“Like right now? We’ve got to get downstairs.” I laughed. God, I loved him.
“While we work, then. And how do you do it? Do you bring the tattoo artist a picture?”
“If I have one, yeah.”
He held up his phone again. “I’ve got an adorable shot of Scruffy with his castle.”
And that’s how I knew he really was the perfect guy for me.
Brady practically danced a jig when he saw Lance in the kitchen with me.
“I want a raise,” he said by way of greeting.
“What?” I looked up from the tray of toast I was prepping. My two kitchen helpers were running trays out to the buffet. They hadn’t lifted an eyebrow at Lance’s presence, but Brady was far bolder. He was wearing earrings shaped like fangs and they gave him a predatory air.
“I’m just saying. This must be your lucky day. ‘Happy days are here again,’” he sang. “And I figure this is probably the best mood I’ll ever see you in. Hence the perfect time to ask you to sprinkle a little love in my direction.”
Lance laughed into his apron.
“Careful. My head can’t handle much noise. You might find yourself on trash duty,” I said to Brady.
“Oh, you don’t fool me.” He squeezed Lance’s shoulders. “You’re ecstatic to have this guy back. And now the rest of us can stop walking on eggshells.”
“Was he bad?” Lance asked.
“Total and complete cranky bear,” Brady said, leaning in all conspiratorial, like I wasn’t right there in the room. “Scaring the other baristas. Burning stuff—”
“Right here. And last I checked, still the guy who signs your checks.”
“My tiny, pitiful check.” Brady grinned hopefully at me.
“Get to work.” I couldn’t manage stern. I smiled back at him, my skin stretching in an unfamiliar way. As my crew made it through the brunch rush, nostalgia washed over me. Could I really leave this behind? What would I do without the shop? Who would I be?
Then someone dropped a tray of scrambled tofu and the coffee ran low and I slid into damage-control mode. Maybe Lance had a point and there was no right answer here.
At six p.m., freshly showered and feeling more human thanks to a three-hour nap, I stood in front of a Craftsman in Southwest Portland. Didn’t look so intimidating. But my heart clattered like a loose valve bucket on a motorcycle.
“It’s just people,” Lance said as we walked up the sidewalk. We’d had to park far down the street, and judging by the number of cars, Lance wasn’t kidding about having a big family. Bikes lined the driveway, too, including a tandem bike pulling a baby trailer.
“Says you. You have this mutual love affair going on with humanity. ‘I’ll make you popular. Just not as popular as me.’” I hummed a little.
“Did you seriously just quote Wicked to me? And badly, I might add.”
“Hey. I’m not all coffee and fish.”
“Randy was into musicals, wasn’t he?” He gave me an I-know-you-so-well look, and if we hadn’t been standing in front of his house, I would have kissed the smugness off his face.
“Guilty.” Still battling nerves, I hummed another bar. The house had a wide white porch, and a group of men with beers were hanging out in Adirondack chairs. Darn. There wasn’t going to be any sneaking in and finding a quiet corner.
“Stop it. You are not a foul-tempered green witch. And no one is going to hate you.”
“Not worried about them hating me. I’m worried about them giving you a hard time,” I admitted. That was the crux of my thing with the age difference. In theory, I could give a shit about what people thought, but in practice, anyone wanting to give Lance a hard time was going to have to come through me. And there was this small—shrinking—part of me that feared the truth of their objections, feared being too old and bitter for Lance.
“Awww.” Lance’s whole face softened and he tried to yank me close. His mouth was soft and open, and I knew he was seconds away from kissing me in front of a porch full of Degrassi men. I neatly sidestepped him.
“Okay. Let’s do this thing.”
“Fine.” He grabbed my hand, raised eyebrows daring me to object to that, too.
Then we were on the porch and Lance was introducing me to a lot of people whose names I’d never remember. Italian men are good at doing this whole size-the-new-guy-up stare, and Lance’s cousins and uncle had it down to an art form. I wasn’t sure how to respond, but I settled for handshakes and trying not to look apologetic.
If Lance and I were going to do this, I needed to stop apologizing for being with him—to myself especially. I braced my shoulders, trying to find my missing spine. Meeting the women was a bit easier. They fussed over finding plates for Lance and me. An aunt took it upon herself to give me a tour of the buffet spread out on the kitchen island, pointing out which dishes were vegetarian.
“I went meat free after my Mauro passed. Now I just have a little fish here and there.”
Lance snorted and helped himself to noodles in a red sauce. His mom was clearly from the non-Vic side of the family—a slender woman with delicate facial features who shared Lance’s nose and smile. She looked far too composed to have five kids. I thought of my mother and how harried she’d been with just me to handle. Overwhelmed was her default setting. Of course, more than some of that was my dad’s doing.
But Lance’s mom juggled a constant stream of kid questions while setting out more food. I saw what Lance meant about the chaos level in his house; there was a swarm of tween girls running from room to room, a group of teen boys gathered around a TV in the family room, screaming at a March Madness game, and some babies being passed from adult to adult.
“So. You’re Chris,” his mom said when there was finally a lull in people vying for her attention.
“Yeah.” I waited for the lecture or a warning of some kind.
But she smiled and said, “Finally. We were beginning to worry you were a product of Lance’s imagination.”
“Mom,” Lance groaned, but there was a lot of affection behind his protest.
“I only mentioned you here and there.” He grinned at me, and his mom mouthed, “Every day.” I remembered what Vic had said about Lance talking about me, and how Lance had grabbed my hand in front of the house—he was so free and open with his affection for me. And I’d taken that affection for granted far too long. My knees got a little trembly at how I’d almost lost him.
His mom made small talk with us for a bit before a dark-haired girl pulled her away. I relaxed a little, leaning against one of the pillars in the open kitchen.
“You want a beer?” Lance asked.
“Yes, please.”
“I’ll be right back.” He kissed my cheek, obviously not caring if his cousins looked in our direction. God, I loved him.
He hadn’t been gone more than a minute when a blond kid sidled up to me. I recognized him from my trips to the club—he was one of the guys Lance danced with. Younger than Lance by a year or two, he wore a defiant expression that instantly put me on edge.
“I see Lance stopped by the nursing home on the way to his party,” he said.
Ah. Here it was, the judgment I’d been waiting for.
“See you left your manners at home,” I said calmly.
“You hurt him.” The kid pointed at me, like he was thinking of poking me, then thought better of it.
“Yeah, I did. And that’s between me and him.”
“Dude. The oldest guy I’ve ever fucked was like twenty-five, and he was kind of creepy.” He shook his head. “You’re like . . . scary old. Way too old for Lance.”
There was something in the kid’s eyes, a vulnerability behind his bravado that told me that perhaps his feelings for Lance ran a bit deeper than friendship.
“You’re wrong. He’s not too young for me. He’s a grown guy and he can make his own choices.” My chest lightened. For the first time, I owned that. I didn’t feel guilty for stealing his future, didn’t feel like I was taking advantage of Lance, didn’t care about pissing off people like this kid. Lance and I loved each other. That was all that mattered.
“I love him,” I said firmly. A kid was this guy, who didn’t seem to know what he wanted out of life other than to throw his attitude around.
“Whatever. I give you guys six months.” The kid made a dismissive gesture. A few weeks ago, I would have agreed with him. But now? I could see us making it.
“You doing okay?” Lance came back with beers for both of us.
“Yeah.” I felt . . . well, comfortable was the wrong word, but, weirdly, my encounter with attitude boy had loosened me up.
“Could . . .” He fiddled with the cap on his beer. “Could you see doing this more often?”
“The family thing?”
He nodded.
I adjusted my picture of the future. Last night I’d been working to see him and me in a new light, one that didn’t have an end date. Now I twirled my mental dials again, tried to picture holidays in this house. It would be loud. And crazy. And Lance would be happy—I could see it in his smile, the way his shoulders relaxed as soon as we came in the door. His family meant more to him than I could really comprehend—it was like a tightly knit security blanket that gave him courage to fly out into the world.
He wouldn’t be the guy I loved without them. That was what I had to accept. So we would come. And it would be a couple of hours of chaos, and then we’d get to go back to our quiet place, wherever that ended up being. And I could be that for him—the place he came to recharge. He was such a fascinating combination of social butterfly and serious guy. I didn’t think I’d ever get tired of trying to figure out all his sides.
“Yeah,” I said finally. “I can see that.”
“Good.” He let out a breath that ruffled his bangs.
“Did I pass your test?” I joked as I slipped an arm around him.
“You already did as soon as you came to the bar.” His voice was far more serious than my question.
“You needed me to be the one to make the move?”
“Yeah. I didn’t want to . . . force myself on you. Didn’t want to push so hard that you gave in just to shut me up.” Looking down, he fiddled with his beer, rolling the bottle between his long fingers.
“And I realized I needed to be honest about what I needed in a relationship, and yeah, I needed you to come to me, because I needed to know I wouldn’t be . . . the only one in love.”
“Never.” I tightened my arm around him.
A look passed between us, one with far too much heat for a family gathering. The group around the TV cheered as their team scored.
“Hey. Would you like to see my room?”
“Eh. Sure,” I said carefully, then lowered my voice. “But you’ve got another thing coming if you’re envisioning—”
“Relax. There’s a pool table in the basement. Kids back and forth. I’m not stupid. I just want to show you my stuff.”
He led me down to the basement. It was one large room with a pool table at the end closest to the stairs and a room divider fashioned out of shelving at the other. The shelving created a space for a futon and a desk and a round chair. It reminded me of my college rooms—Spartan, but very lived in.
Over the futon was a huge bulletin board. It had the usual stuff, like a calendar and reminder cards for various appointments, but it also had dozens of pictures—tattoos like tribal armbands and flames, pictures of the beach, a small USC flag above a picture of palm trees and college-looking buildings.
“I totally lied. I pulled you down here so I could do this.” He kissed me, cupping my face with unexpected tenderness. “You don’t know how many nights I pictured you here. Just like this.”
“So this is where all those late-night chats happened?” I felt my cock hardening despite my reservation.
“Uh-huh.” He kissed me again, deeper this time.
“Would you like your present?” I asked, pulling away, breathing hard.
“Oh, yes.” He fingered my belt buckle.
“Not that.” I batted his hand away. Didn’t matter how turned on I was; I didn’t think I could get it on with him in a house full of relatives.
“I got you something. But you should open it here because your mom might freak.”
“I love it already,” He held out his hand. I got the envelope out of my pocket. I hadn’t had time for much, but I’d managed to sneak this in while Lance was showering.
“A gift certificate?” He opened it, his eyes going wide. “For a tattoo?”
“Yeah. I know it’s not the most romantic thing—”
“No, it totally is.” He kissed me happily. “We can go together. You can get your Scruffy ink and help me pick one.” He waved, indicating his idea board.
Looking at his board again, that wavery picture I’d been working on of our future sharpened again. He was so darn optimistic, and it showed in every sunshine-filled picture.
“I want you to pick USC,” I said firmly.
“Well, at least we’re both sober now.” He laughed. “Is it because you think that’s the only way to make me happy?”
“No.” I knew better now. He could be happy staying. He had more than just me—he had his family and his friends and a whole life here, same as me. But maybe that life wasn’t the only life for either of us. “I thought I wanted to do this for you—”
“The same way you did the sex last night?”
Damn. He’d picked up on that. I glanced back at the stairs before I nodded. “But just like with the sex, I . . . surprised myself. It’s not about you after all. It’s about what it gives me. Last night gave me a way out of my own head—a way to see other possibilities. And I think. . . this move might be what I need. Three years to figure out my next move. Maybe it’s another coffee place, or maybe—”
“Maybe it’s grad school.” A mischievous smile tugged at his lips. “You could probably talk me into an extra few years of sun.”
“I’m way too old for that. But maybe—”
“How old will you be in three years if you don’t follow your heart? You say you want to discover your direction. You should be open to everything.”
“Yeah.”
“You’d really do this for me?”
“No.” I squinted, seeing that future vision again. “I’d do it for me. I want an adventure. For both of us. I want to ride my bike up the 101. I want to eat outside in January. I want to try surfing. I know you’re afraid that I’m repeating the past, but this isn’t about that.”
“What is it about?” He stood close to me, nose to nose, breath to breath.
“The future. Being as open as possible to whatever it brings.”
“And the coffeehouse?”
“Brady and the gang will be okay with Randy as boss. They’ll survive. And who knows, in three years maybe I’ll open a new place. Or maybe I’ll find a new dream—one that’s just mine this time.”
“I still can’t get over the image of you in a classroom.” He laughed. “I almost want you to pick that one just so I can call you Mr. O’Neal and ask if you’ve got a ruler in your desk.”
“Brat.” I kissed him, long and a bit recklessly.
“Okay. I want the adventure, too.” He smiled up at me, and it was almost enough to make me forget where we were. But then again, we could be anywhere and I’d still want him. Still love him. Still need him. I’d follow him anywhere, and the most incredible thing of all was that I knew it was mutual. Felt it in his kiss. Saw it in his eyes. He’d follow me anywhere, too.