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“Yeah. What do you want to do?”
I wrestle the leather ring off my base while my entire being rebels at this unexpected and potentially traumatic cockblock. “Did he say why he was here?”
“He just asked to see you.”
“Is he dying?”
“He looks the same as he did last time.”
Last time meaning brunch three years ago.
My boner is withering by the second as I get out of bed and find some clothes. I pick out a hoodie because the front pocket gives me a sense of security, and then I pull on a worn-out pair of jeans.
When I walk out of the bedroom and realize Drew isn’t following me, I look back at him. “Come on!” I snap.
He hops to attention and hurries to catch up with me, mumbling, “Sorry. I didn’t know if you wanted privacy.”
To show him how much I don’t want that, I clasp my hand around his and hold on tight. I might not have been nervous the last time I went to talk to my father, but I’ve changed since then.
I’ve learned how to love, and I’ve learned what it feels like to truly hurt. I’ve learned independence, and I’ve also leaned into codependence. I’m tough, but these days I save all my bravado for the runway and the bedroom.
Loving Drew taught me I break easy, and one of the reasons for that is in my living room—our home—right now.
When we reach the bottom of the stairs, I watch for a moment as my dad squints at a picture on the bookshelf of me and Drew from our wedding day. He’s reaching for the frame when I clear my throat.
He startles, straightening up. “Ollie.”
“Dad. What the hell are you doing here?”
He’s dressed casually for him in a pin-striped button-down and khaki pants. He smooths the front of his shirt like he would if there were a tie there and glances at the white-knuckle grip I have on Drew’s hand.
“I guess you probably wouldn’t believe me if I said I was just in the neighborhood.”
“Is Mom dead?”
He frowns. “Oh. No. Absolutely not. Still alive and kicking.”
“Then why are you here?” I ask again, but softer this time.
“I wanted to see you,” he says simply. “It’s been awhile.”
My mouth is dry. My heart is racing, my hand is sweating.
“And you, too, Drew. I was wondering if I might buy you both lunch?”
“We just ate,” I say.
“Would anyone like a drink?” Drew asks. “I think I could use one. Mimosas? That’s brunchy, right?”
My father nods politely at the offer, and I reluctantly let go of Drew’s hand so he can go to the kitchen. Sound carries in this place, so I know he’ll come back if I need him.
I approach my dad with caution, but stop a few feet away, shoving both hands into the pocket of my hoodie. “Hey,” I say.
“Hey.” His voice comes out a raspy whisper, and his eyes are a watery blue. Like very watery…
I gulp and press my lips together, trying to control the strong emotion surging in my chest. All I can say is it’s not anger or rage—yet. I’m not sure what it is—like a stem cell that hasn’t decided what it wants to be, but way, way bigger.
“So, this is where I live,” I say giving the space a quick glance.
