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BJ blushes. "Yes, Dad."
I smile at my boy. "You’re so well-behaved."
"Thank you, Daddy."
BJ’s mother smiles. "I’m glad to see my son have two strong role models in his life. His father and his boyfriend."
BJ rests his cheek on my shoulder. "Bryce is the best boyfriend ever. He took me on a job site—"
BJ’s father clears his throat. "Aren’t you too petite for that? Isn’t that what those working guys said when you tried to join their crew at sixteen?"
"Yes, Dad. But Bryce taught me that they were wrong. All I needed was a quality hardhat, steeltoed boots, and a reflective vest."
I pat his head. "Amen to that."
BJ lifts Bob off his lap and sets him on the table. "Bob got a vest, too. Bryce came prepared."
BJ’s mother chuckles. "Did you take any pictures? We’d love to see you living your dream."
BJ manages to set up the Bluetooth photo album that his mother keeps on a shelf beside the table. He syncs his phone, then shows his family the secret photos the photographer I hired snapped.
What? I had to hire the best photographer in New York. The time we shared will live forever in perpetuity.
BJ squirms in his seat. "This is me shoveling dirt into my toy dumper. This is me eating a dump truck doughnut. This is me tumbling down a mound of dirt and falling into Bryce’s arms. This is Bryce lifting me by my coveralls and helping me into the trailer. This is the look on my face when I had a big boy conversation with working guys for the first time. This is me—"
I place my hand on his. "BJ, slow down." I know what picture is coming up.
"No, Daddy." BJ flips to another photo. "This is me sitting by Bryce as he lets Bob steer the digger. This is me steering—oooooooh, not this one."
I smack my forehead. "I told you to slow down."
BJ’s father squints. "What exactly am I looking at?"
BJ’s mother howls with laughter. "It appears as if this particular digger has a very interesting steering apparatus."
BJ glares at his mother. "It’s called a stick shift, Mom. Get your mind out of the gutter."
More like a dick shift.
I nudge BJ’s ribs. "Let’s hold off on the pictures until we’ve removed the ones that are just for us two."
BJ’s cheeks flush pink. "We’ll never delete the naughty ones. I want those forever."
After we eat, BJ’s mother serves us a homemade apple pie. My tummy rumbles, and drool trickles out of my mouth as I look at the flaky crust, the gooey apple sugar oozing out, and the bowl of whipped cream she places beside it.
She slices into it with a sharp knife, and I watch in earnest as the knife effortlessly cuts through the top, making a flakey cracking sound. It hits the bottom of the glass pan, but not before working its way through a mess of sugary, buttery apples.
My belly rumbles audibly now. "That looks amazing, ma’am."
She grins as she places half of the pie on a plate. After dolloping it with whipped cream, she slides it to me. "Our guest deserves the first slice."
"There’s no way I’ll eat all of this." I’m such a bad liar.
BJ’s family bursts into laughter. "Whatever you say, Bryce."
Soon, we’re gobbling up apple pie, drinking more sparkling wine, and sharing stories around the table. BJ’s mother tells the tale of how she met his father when she was a young twenty-five-year-old schoolteacher. She had a one-night stand with her accountant, because she took pity on him, and also thought the nerdy look was hot. They married, and eleven months later, out popped BJ.
BJ pretends to hide behind his elbow. "This story is so embarrassing."
