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“So, I’m actually going to swing by Chicago before Christmas this year.”

“Oh?” she says with genuine interest and curiosity. “Any particular reason?”

“There’s a guy I’ve been kind of seeing,” I admit.

“Have you met him or is this an online thing? How have you been seeing him if you live in Seattle and he lives in Chicago?”

“I’ve met him plenty of times. In person.” I rub a hand over my face, already knowing how this is going to sound aloud. “He’s actually from Bloomington. We met at High Top a few years back, and I’ve seen him every Thanksgiving since.”

“So this has been going on for a while, then. How come you’ve never mentioned him?”

“It’s complicated. Obviously. We live in different places, but now we talk all the time and it feels like we might really be getting somewhere.” I glance out the window at the rain streaking down the glass. “I don’t know what this means, really, but I’m trying to figure that out.”

“Well, you’ve always been a good judge of people, Evan. Even as a kid. If you think he’s worth flying out there for and you’ll be safe, I trust you.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Though I do want to hear all about him. What’s he like?”

I find myself smiling at the question, at how easy our relationship is. And in the same breath, I feel so angry that Marcus will likely never get to experience this with his mom.

“He’s funny, in a dry sort of way. Kind of guarded because his family seems like they’re assholes.” I shake off the anger starting to form and continue. “He notices things about me that nobody else does and remembers stuff that I’ve told him. And when he lets his guard down, even just a little, he’s just… really good. He’s thoughtful, and way more sensitive than he lets on.”

“He sounds sweet.”

“He is. He’d probably hate hearing you say that though.” I laugh, thinking about how he’d deny it immediately, but I’m eager to bring that side out of him more. “I don’t know, Mom. I just really like him. I love making him laugh, and I hate that no one has ever really done that for him.”

“I can hear in your voice how happy he makes you. Bring him around sometime when you’re both home. You know your father would love to show off his cooking skills for a new guest.”

“I’ll see if I can convince him.” Leaving off the part where I’d already invited him once and he declined.

“Alright, enjoy your trip. Let me know when we should expect you. Love you.”

“Thanks, Mom. Love you too,” I say before hanging up, feeling on top of the world as I go into Friday. Only eighteen more days until I land in Chicago.

CHAPTER 19

Marcus

The only place I can tolerate being in crowds is at shows, where no one is paying any attention to me, which is why I’m spending my Saturday night at the grocery store. It’s mostly dead as I stand in the cereal aisle completely dumbfounded.

I don’t actually know what Evan eats for breakfast. Three years of whatever we are, and somehow that’s never come up. Now, this week, he has two mornings with me and I have no knowledge on whether the man prefers eggs, cereal, or some green smoothie.

I do know some things though, like how a three night camping trip ruined oatmeal and protein bars for him when he’d first moved to Washington. I know he takes his coffee with more cream than coffee some days, based on an offhand comment back in spring about how his coworkers make fun of him for it. I know he thinks cilantro tastes like soap. They’ve all been small things he probably never realized he was handing me that I filed away for this moment.

Breakfast, though, I’ve got nothing. So, I buy all of it.

Eggs, two kinds of bread, three boxes of cereal, and bacon and sausage. Orange juice with and without pulp because it’s apparently a preference people have strong feelings about, and I didn’t want to guess wrong.

Dinner is easier because he’ll usually call or at least text me after work, and I always ask him what he’s making. Even so, I think I’d like to take him out and show him off.

By the time I get to the register, my cart looks like I’m feeding a family of six instead of just one guy staying for two nights.

“Big week?” the cashier asks, scanning my absurd haul.

“Something like that,” I murmur.

This is easily the biggest grocery shop of my life, but I don’t regret it, even when I see the startling total on the register.