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“Of course not, Mitch.”
“I told you it’s for work. The relationship is all a show.” It sounds false even to my own ears. How am I going to tell my parents the truth about Gavin if I can’t tell one of my oldest friends?
“So you said,” she quips.
I drain the glass and put it down on the table before heading out front to hail a cab. “You don’t believe me?”
“Not for a minute,” Sasha confirms.
My gut is churning from a combination of nerves and alcohol and a heaping amount of self-loathing at my cowardice. The hotel porter opens the door to a cab and I climb in. “Forest Hills North,” I instruct the driver, giving him my parents’ address.
Returning my focus to Sasha, I somehow manage to force out the words. “Fine. You’re right. We are involved.”
Sasha giggles. “Was that so difficult?”
“Hell, Sasha. Bloody yes it was, alright?” I run a shaky hand through my hair and bring it to my collar to ease the tight pinch around my neck. When I realize I’m wearing a loose-fitting Henley, my hand drops to my side.
“Ooooh, your British is coming out, Mitch. What’s eating you?”
How does she always know?
I explain what happened with Gavin in the suite and she laughs. Loudly. “Men are so stupid, especially two men together. You can’t stop being idiots long enough to get with the program.”
“That’s not helpful, Sasha. Care to impart your wisdom?” I roll my eyes at my friend even though she can’t see it.
“He wanted you to invite him to your parents’ house, dumbass.”
“What? No, that’s not it.” Is it?
Sasha sighs heavily, the burden of dealing with a clueless member of the male gender just too much to bear. “Yes, it is. Trust me. He wanted to be there for you. When you get back you have some groveling to do.”
“Oh. Shit,” I mutter.
“Yeah, shit. Good luck with your parents. Let’s get together while you’re in town. Lunch tomorrow?” she asks. “Bring that hot man of yours.”
I chuckle. “If he’s speaking to me, I’ll bring him, Sasha.”
“Bye!”
I stare out the window for the rest of the ride, watching the familiar sights go by as the cab makes it’s way up Connecticut Avenue, still undecided as to how to handle my parents. It would be so easy to lie and tell them it’s a job. That the boyfriend image is a role I’m playing. They’d never know, what with me living all the way across the country. But the thought of pretending Gavin is just a client leaves me feeling sick.
The Slavic cabbie hands me a card with his number on it when it stops in front of the large Tudor-style home. “You call ven done, da?”
“Sure.” I pay the cabbie, taking the card. My stomach clenches as I climb out of the car. I have absolutely no idea what my parents think of the situation with Gavin and the media’s spin on our relationship. Not a single clue. I’ve never asked them their opinions on homosexuality, always too afraid to hear something I wouldn’t like.
My mother yanks open the door mere seconds after I ring the bell. “Mitchell? Why are you ringing? Come in, son.” She pulls me inside, giving me a long, comforting hug. I allow myself to sag into the embrace for a moment before pulling back.
“Sorry, mom. I don’t know why I rang the bell. Been away too long, I guess.”
“You have,” she scolds. “Come, we’re just about ready to eat.”
“Where’s dad?” I toe off my shoes and leave them by the front door.
“In the dining room already,” she answers. I follow her down the hall, my stomach knotting up tighter and tighter the closer I get to my father. When I enter the room I can tell just by the look on my dad’s face how this conversation is going to go.
“Mitch,” he grumbles, his tone already conveying disapproval.
“Should I bother staying?” I ask, resting a hand on the back of a chair.
