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“Piss off,” he says, shoving me away and laughing.
The next morning, I fold up the blankets and leave them on the couch like I always do and creep out before Cas wakes up. We’d been tipsy enough to stumble on the way home last night, but I remembered every minute of our conversations. And Cas had made some good points.
Baby steps. That’s what I need. Start small.
My old diving coach used to say something similar, work your way up. I’d had some practice overcoming fear every time I launched myself into the air. Coach used to remind us all the time, everything took practice.
Trouble is, I couldn’t answer Cas last night when he asked about what steps I’m going to take to work my way up to singing. I can’t answer it any better now. It sounds horrible, but I’ve never really wanted anything before. Not bad enough to work for it.
Which is… appalling, if I’m being honest.
So maybe that’s the first baby step. Figure out what I want.
Besides getting laid. The errant thought makes me laugh out loud as I fish around for my house keys. Okay, maybe figure out what I want besides that.
Then again, maybe it’s not a bad place to start. Cas teased me about that girl at the bar last night, but the truth is I don’t have much experience with women. Or sex. Obviously he was joking about the other stuff—the guy stuff. He knows I’m straight. But I’ve never had a serious relationship and my sexual encounters have been what you might call limited.
“Hello?” I call out, working my key out of the sticky lock on the front door.
“In here,” Mom calls back from the kitchen. I manage to get my key out in one piece and shut the door behind me, following the smell of coffee. Mom finishes pouring some and hands me a mug.
“Thanks,” I say, kissing her on the cheek.
“How’s Casimir?” she asks.
“Why do you just assume I was with Cas? Maybe I had a date last night,” I say, wrinkling my nose. I play it off like the joke she intends it to be, but today it hits a little different. I never go anywhere else and even my own mother knows it.
Good grief. Is this my life?
“I’d never pry into your personal life,” says Mom, smirking into her own cup.
“Sure you wouldn’t,” I say. “Dad’s at the cafétoday?” My parents own Bill & Jillie’s Market Street Market. My dad—the eponymous Bill—usually opens the place up on Saturday mornings. They’ve been able to hire enough help, and neither one of them has to take shifts if they don’t want to, but Mom says if she stops working she’d die.
“Mm-hmm. They’re delivering the new espresso machine today. You know how he is.”
“Precious,” I say, rolling my eyes. Mom snorts softly before setting down her mug.
“Do you have any plans coming up?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Are we speaking generally, or…?”
“I mean, in the next few weeks. Do you have anything going on?”
“Apartment shopping,” I mumble, not meeting her eyes. She swats my arm.
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” she says, pursing her lips at me. “You can stay with us as long as you want or need to. I’m asking if you have plans because your father and I have been invited to a wedding, and I wanted to know if you want to come with us.”
That perks me up.
“Sure,” I say. “Could be fun. Do I know the couple?”
Mom grins. “You remember my friend Liz Weaver? Her son is getting married on the beach.”
“The beach,” I say, noting that she didn’t exactly answer my question about the couple, but I definitely remember her friend Mrs. Weaver. “You’re referring to the beach that’s currently a ten-hour drive east of here?”
Mom laughs. “That’s the one. But they have these contraptions called ‘airplanes.’ If you use one of those, it only takes about two hours to get there.”
I’ve never been on a plane. I might also be a tiny bit nervous about flying, of which my mother is perfectly aware.
