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“At least once more. Maybe if you kiss me after doing it, it will help.”
“He’s coming tomorrow. I will,” Royal offered.
“Should I rip the bandaid off then? Since your Ma will know?”
“I think we should.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Royal
We ran to the deli in the morning and hung out watching Ma’s talk shows. At more than one point, I wanted to reach out and grab Aspen’s hand or touch him, but I had to stop myself. We’d become so comfortable with each other, we’d grown while we were on the island, and our closeness was something I’d taken for granted. It made me realize this was going to be harder than I thought, keeping it between us if that’s what Aspen wanted.
My anxiety over telling her grew with each passing moment. I knew I’d slip at some point, and then she’d know. I had to tell her, but how? Ma reluctantly let us make the cold cuts for lunch while she started her baking and soup for dinner. I bounced my knee while I ate, going over my wording.
“Are you okay?” Aspen whispered when he sat next to me with his sandwich.
“Fine, why?” I said between bites.
“You’re acting like a robot. You’re making everything weird.”
“Shit.” Had my overthinking made it into my movements or words? “How?”
“You’re stiff and awkward with your own mother.” He glanced around to make sure she wasn’t paying attention to us.
She had her TV on the counter turned all the way up and could barely hear as it was. I wasn’t worried.
“I can’t decide how to tell her.”
“Just go in there and do it. You’re going to overthink it to death, and if Kingsley gets here, he’s going to say you’re homophobic or some shit.”
“You’re right. He would think this was about him. He thinks everything else is.” I left my sandwich half-eaten and walked into the kitchen.
I stepped around the cabinet. “Can I help you with anything?”
“No, honey. I’ve got it.”
“Do you want me to bring you your sandwich, or do you want me to put it on the table for you?” I crossed and then uncrossed my arms. I didn’t want to appear defensive.
“Leave it at the table. I’m getting all this seasoning in here to let it simmer, then I’ll come eat.”
“Ma...”
“What?” she asked. “Do you need something, love?”
“Yes, there is something I need to tell you,” I finally said, the beginning of what I’d rehearsed over and over.
“What?” She didn’t turn around.
“Can you look at me? Please.”
She turned around, confused and concerned. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m bisexual. I just wanted you to know.”
“Jesus. You’re going to give me a heart attack, acting like you killed someone when that’s it. I thought you were going to tell me something important. I don’t want to hear it until you are dating someone and bringing them home to meet me. I don’t care who you’re sleeping with in your rock star lifestyle. Come back when you’re serious.” She waved me off, tasting the soup she made.
“Would it be a problem if I brought home a man?” I asked, still not fully processing what had just happened.
