Then I type the caption:
Now that I have your attention. (cough-wink) My cooking series will now be called OnlyPans. My bro @tylerfashion, I'm going to need merch designed. You guys should follow him! Now, pay close attention, because I will not be addressing this again. What you guys witnessed was an intimate moment between two consenting adults that was accidentally broadcast live because a freaking CAT walked across my keyboard. I apologize only for the shock. I do not apologize for my sexuality. I do not apologize for my coming out timeline. Every person's journey is unique and there are no rules. Until this world evolves into an environment where closets aren't necessary, we don't get to dictate their path. I am far more privileged than most and I am well aware my experience could have been a hell of a lot worse. Honestly, I'm happy it happened this way. It's done. Yes, I am a gay man. I love good D and I don't mean Defense. Regarding my father's trash post: We have NOT spoken. I abso-fucking-lutely will NOT be going under the kind of “therapy” he is suggesting, and no one led me astray. Can we move on, please? I've already created the OnlyPans accounts on all the good social channels. Go give them a follow and I'll let you guys meet F-Bomb, the cat culprit that showed my ass to the whole world. One last thing: Just be good to each other. Love, Butters.
I turn off the post's comments because I'm not giving basement dwellers a voice on my coming out moment, and hit post. I toss my phone back on the counter and sigh.
“Well,” I mutter to myself, “this should be fun.”
Forty-One
Return To Innocence
Spencer
I am so out of my depth here. Ryan's sisters are bulldozers in heels. It must be a family trait because, like their brother, they ignore all the crime scene tape, caution cones, and toxic waste signs I've spent years carefully positioning around my person. They just shove it all aside and let themselves in.
It's a little jarring. What's more unexpected, though, is my lack of resistance. Well. My lowered resistance. Let's not get crazy here. It's just a tiny bit alarming that not very long ago, if you'd told me I'd be waking up to Ryan Buterbaugh every day and his sisters would be coming over for dinner at my condo, I would've advised you to seek immediate psychiatric evaluation.
Yet here they are.
And they're witty, smart, devastatingly stylish women who somehow manage to make beauty look effortless while I stand here mentally recalculating my entire personality. I can't help but find them endearing.
Cricket especially. She has Ryan's eyes. That alone feels unfair. It tugs at something in my chest every time she looks at me. Those light green eyes are my favorite thing about him. At first glance, they seem surface level. Bright. Pretty. Easy. But the longer you look, the more depth you find swimming underneath. Warmth. Sadness. Humor. Hope. Ryan feels everything so openly it's almost violent. And somehow those eyes always make me feel seen in a way that's deeply uncomfortable. Not unlike the man himself.
I'm so screwed.
Shaking myself free from the spiral forming in my head, I lead them out of the master bedroom where Harper discovered Fucker lounging across my bed like a king and promptly decided his name is now Catfred Hitchcock because of his apparent proclivity for filmmaking. If cats actually responded to names, I'd be concerned the feline I couldn't successfully name now has three.
Walking down the hall toward the main living area, Cricket hooks her arm through mine casually, like we've known each other longer than fifteen minutes. I stiffen for approximately half a second before forcing myself to relax. This is normal people behavior. I think. Honestly, I don't know anymore.
“I still can't believe you let Ryan move in,” Cricket says lightly.
“He did not move in.”
“Mhm.”
“He's temporarily occupying my guest room while recovering.”
Cricket hums in obvious disbelief.
Behind us, Harper carries Fucker—sorry, Catfred—like an actual infant, despite the fact he weighs roughly the same as a kettlebell and is shedding black fur all over her cream silk blouse. She doesn't seem remotely concerned about it.
Who are these people?
“You know,” Cricket says conspiratorially, leaning closer, “Ryan never brings people around us.”
I glance at her carefully. “People?”
“You know what I mean.”
Unfortunately, I do. My stomach tightens.
When we round the corner into the open living space, I find him standing at the kitchen island wearing one of his ridiculous aprons.
He looks up…and there it is again. That look. Every single time his eyes land on me lately, his entire face changes like someone flipped on a light inside him. The stupid dimples appear. The softness settles in. Like seeing me genuinely makes him happy. It's disorienting. Dangerous. Worse, I think I'm starting to crave it.
Ryan's gaze flicks to Cricket's arm looped through mine and his grin widens. “Wow. You guys look cozy.”
Cricket smirks. “Don't get jealous, Ry.”
