Page 42 of American Love Story

People like Patrice and Ari were looking to me to find the answers and all I had were bad questions.

Still, Emma was right. “I’m going to see Day tomorrow, and I won’t leave until he gives me a better answer than ‘I’ll deal with it.’ Because clearly, he hasn’t. As far as running for DA, I’m considering it. I know you think I’m ready, but I’m still wondering about the politics side of it.” Cindy’s waffling in this situation had been disappointing in ways I hadn’t wanted to explore too closely, and I was not going to willingly go into a job where I had to choose “saving face” to acting on something.

Emma came in for a hug as she snagged the glass of champagne from my hand and took a sip. “I’m not gonna get pushy on you, but I know you can handle this. Now let’s talk about your hot professor moving into the building.” Emma had alittle house in town, but that did not keep her from being in my business.

But she and I were not new at this and I could hold her off for days. “You look great, sis, that green looks amazing on you.” She gave me a look that said, “I know what you’re doing,” but still looked down at herself, feigning like she didn’t even realize what she was wearing. Emma was petite like my mom, but after years of struggling with never living up to my father’s exacting standards, she’d finally arrived at a place where she loved herself exactly like she was. She ran a hand over the front of her dress and smiled. “Thanks bro, grandpa helped me pick it out.”

I cracked up at that image, as Emma and my grandfather looked very pleased with themselves. “You let her convince you to go shopping?”

This time it was grandpa who was at a loss for words, then shook his head and pointed at the iPad I’d gotten him for Father’s Day. “We did it all on the tablet. She got me this sweater, too.”

My chest warmed looking at them, preening for compliments. “You both look great,” I said with a smile, as the thought from earlier flooded my mind again.

Would I ever get a chance to introduce Patrice to Emma and Grandpa? Probably not. Not by how things went this morning.

“Boy trouble?” my grandpa asked, completely serious.

Emma and I both laughed at his question. But he didn’t look like he was letting it go. My grandfather, unlike my father, hadn’t batted an eye when I came out in high school. He’d also proved to be a surprisingly good relationship advisor on the rare occasion when it had come to that.

I played with some kind of salmon mousse and toast canapé I’d snagged from a tray, as I came up with an answer. “I wouldn’t saytrouble, more like self-imposed angst. I’ve been trying toohard with someone who doesn’t seem to be very interested in me.”

Despite the pile of evidence I had to support my statement, the words sounded like lies. I thought about this morning and the intensity with which Patrice had touched me. His eyes and hands so focused on my body. It hadn’t felt like disinterest. It felt likeneed.I turned to Emma, who was examining my face as if figuring out a math problem. “What’s with the face?” I asked.

“I just haven’t seen you this wistful in a long time. Now I really do need to meet him.” Emma and I were only two years apart, so we had a lot of the same friends and knewa lotof each other’s dating history.

I lifted a shoulder and was about to say something to redirect the conversation when I saw my mother headed for us. She was looking picture-perfect in a navy knit dress and Gucci boots, her hair and make-up immaculate. We exchanged air kisses and she did the compulsory rundown of what I was wearing, in case I had missed the mark on the dress code indicated in her invitation. She seemed to approve of my semi-casual ensemble.

“Easton, darling. Your dad didn’t say if you confirmed. I was so busy this morning with last-minute fires to put out, I didn’t have time to check. And yesterday, we barely had any chance to talk.” I’d ended up bailing on her after only thirty minutes at the Fall Wine Festival. I’d felt bad but left after some work stuff came up. My mother didn’t have the same degree of loathing for my job my father did, but she wasn’t throwing the DA’s office any fundraisers either. The only time she’d come to my office, the seventies’ wall paper and bad carpeting had her practically in tears.

“Sorry, I left you hanging, Mom.” She gave me a tight smile, then looked down at my grandpa with a fond one. “I made do. I only stayed for a few more minutes and came home and watcheda movie with Grandpa. Your dad is always so busy at those things, it’s best to let him work without interfering.”

I swallowed hard on the words that wanted to come out of my mouth about my dad making it his life mission to ignore all of us whenever possible. I was about to comment on her outfit to just find something to say when my father walked up.

“Glad you could join us, Easton. I can’t imagine they make you work on Sundays at that place.” You’d think I was working for the mob, the way my father talked about my job.

“No, they don’t.” I kept my answers short with my father. With him, anything you saidcouldbe (and usually was) used against you.

I’d also been with the DA’s office for years, so nothing about my job or my schedule was news. That didn’t stop him from acting like it was some random thing that I’d started doing overnight just to piss them off. It always caught me by surprise that my father’s unrelenting disapproval of everything I did still managed to hurt. I should be used to it by now, since my entire life he’d acted like everything about me from my sexuality to my job were somehow personal affronts.

My mother’s face had that tight expression she usually sported whenever my father was being particularly assholic, but I knew she wouldn’t challenge him. That would just give him a reason to say something shitty to her, too. My grandfather, on the other hand, had no such qualms. “Leave him alone, Junior. He works too hard to have to put up with your bullshit whenever he’s here.” The way he said “Junior” made my dad squirm, and it almost made putting up with his shit worth it.

The gasp from my mom at my grandfather’s language was almost comical. “Father! Language.”

My dad just huffed and turned to talk to someone else. It seemed he was done being an ass, at least for now.

Grandpa just rolled his eyes and turned to me again while Emma distracted my mother with some questions about the catering.

“What’s going on, son? You don’t seem like yourself,” he asked me, concern clear in his eyes.

I hesitated, trying to find the words. I wasn’t so sure even I knew what was happening with me. Other than I was beginning to realize some of the things that Patrice had been saying. What Emma had been trying to tell me. That to be a good guy, it wasn’t enough to not be bad. I couldn’t take shortcuts with that if I wanted a real shot at being with Patrice.

I remembered my grandfather was waiting for an answer and I sat in a chair next to his wheeled one, so we could be eye to eye, taking the hand he gave me. His skin felt papery and delicate these days, a little more frail each time, but those eyes told me he was well aware there was something I needed to get off my chest.

“I’m just asking more questions, I guess. Not taking things as a given, making myself see what I don’t want to see.” I tried to pull the words out, because that was sort of the rub of it all, not voicing the things that bothered me. “It’s new for me to feel like I’m inconvenient.”

Grandpa made a sound of understanding and gripped my hand tighter. “You really are tangled up. You’re usually on the other side of this conundrum and you certainly don’t pine.”

My grandfather, as always, saw too much, and soon I had Emma as an audience, too. What he said was true—I was so past my usual playbook when it came to Patrice, I had no clue where I was. If I had any sense, I’d just give up on things. Patrice hadn’t exactly given me any indication this morning that being with me was anything but a lapse of judgment.