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Dale lets out an offended huff. “Hey now.” He flicks liquid from his straw at Sebastian’s chest. “Be nice.”
“I’m always nice.” Sebastian grins through another bite of apple.
But I’m barely taking in what they’re saying anymore. Because…this is so not a scenario I expected. At all.
Definitely really far off from my self-assured presumptions about his family.
And suddenly, I am totally and thoroughly ashamed of myself—that I would have such a narrow-minded idea of what Sebastian’s parents would be like. As if, what—only hipster, artsy kids would have gay parents or something? Is that what I thought? Because that is just so… presumptuous. Also totally arbitrary. Because why not a jock? Or an emo kid, or a cheerleader or… whatever?
And wait. This means I am even more of a stereotype than I thought Sebastian was. All the papers I write, TV shows I watch, books I read, the opinions I spout during dinner conversations with my family, none of that means anything if I’m this surprised at learning a football jock has gay parents. It’s a harsh reality check. A slap in the face, actually.
I am so mortified; I wish I could wind back the clock five minutes. Or sink into the floor right now and just… disappear.
Instead, I smile awkwardly. “Sorry,” I say softly, to no one in particular. “I didn’t know.”
But even that sounds like a lame explanation for my obvious shock a couple of seconds ago.
I glance around the room, then over at Graham. “I love your home, by the way,” I tell him. “It’s just—I mean… It’s incredible. I seriously can’t believe you designed it.”
Graham smiles, taking the drink Dale just poured for him. “Thanks. I had a lot of fun designing it.”
Dale holds a hand up, palm out in my direction. “Hold off on any more compliments, Caroline. This house can’t handle any more inflamed egos.” He tilts his head toward Graham and Sebastian. “These two are already unbearable as it is.”
We all laugh, and I feel my shoulders relax. Slightly. Sort of. At least none of them seem too fazed or insulted by my original embarrassing reaction to our introductions. My palms are still sweating like crazy, though.
Sebastian has wandered over to the fridge and is rifling through its contents. “You want anything to eat while we work?” he asks, pulling various items out with his huge football-throwing hands.
“Oh, um, no. I’m fine. Thank you.”
“Cheese?” he asks, holding up a block of cheese that I swear is the size of a small shipping container.
“No, thanks.”
“What about to drink, then?” He pulls out a quart-sized jug of orange juice. “Or—Oh man! Apple pie!” He yanks out a pie dish covered in aluminum foil, which Dale reaches over and grabs from him.
“Hands off. I made this for my office potluck tomorrow.” He places it on a shelf on the other side of the fridge, toward the back, and Sebastian looks visibly dejected.
“Seriously? No one’s gonna care if you show up with store-bought muffins or something to a—”
“Hands off the pie.”
“I just thought maybe Caroline might want—”
“Oh my gosh, no!” I practically gasp, mortified that he’s dragging me into his apple pie argument. “I don’t want any pie or anything. Thank you. I’m not hungry at all.”
Seb gives me an unimpressed scowl over his shoulder, like I somehow let him down by not pushing for a slice of the pie his father clearly wants to save for his potluck.
“There’s a box of ice cream sandwiches in the freezer,” Dale tells him.
And just like that, Sebastian’s face lights up again. Distracted by the lure of ice cream as easily as a preschooler. “Sweet,” he grins, shoving the cheese and juice back in the fridge, then pulling open the freezer drawer. He rips open a brand new box of ice cream sandwiches and pulls out three. “You want one?” he asks over his shoulder.
Geez, this guy is determined for me to eat something.
“Just a glass of water would be good, thanks.”
“Sure thing.”
He unwraps one of the ice cream sandwiches and devours it in two bites. Then he pours me a tall glass of water, which he hands to me, second ice cream sandwich already poised at his lips.
