Bankers' Hours(35)

"I'll have you know, my daughter will not be coming to your house on  Saturday if it's only to see two fags get hitched so they can justify  their immorality."

"Ha!" I yipped in protest. Tristan held up his hand in my direction, so I kept my diatribe to myself.

"Then it's a good thing we decided to get married tomorrow," he responded without hesitation.

"What?" she asked, her surprise evident.

"Yeah," he said. "Grant and I talked it over, and we decided not to  wait. Our love is so strong and immovable that we couldn't stand another  moment apart."

I swallowed hard, struggling against my mounting anxiety.

"Oh, that's disgusting. I can't believe a court would allow it." She visibly shivered.

No matter how scared I was about jumping in to marry Tristan, Teresa  always seemed to push me toward it because of how angry she made me by  protesting the very rights I had as an American citizen. I pulled back  my shoulders and stepped to Tristan's side, facing her as a team. "It is  not disgusting," I huffed. "What we choose to do with our lives is none  of your business."

"Oh, I think it is. You do this, Tristan, and you'll never see Claire again."

He made a guttural sound, like a growl, and stepped into her personal  space. "No, you don't get to alter your protest. Last time, you said you  wouldn't allow her over if I was just some bed-hopping homo who had a  different man in my house every weekend. I'm not. I'm marrying Grant,  and then I'm filing for full custody of Claire. Now take your  homophobic, man-hating ass out of my shop."

From the expression on her face I thought she'd scream, but all she did  was turn sharply and slam the door behind her after mumbling, "You'll  regret this."

I muttered, "Then I guess we're getting married tomorrow."

He turned and placed his hands on my shoulders. "I'm sorry, Grant. I couldn't let her win."

I gave him an understanding half smile. "Which is why I blurted the very  same thing Saturday. I get it. We're getting married. We'll make it  work."

"Will we?" He didn't seem as sure as a second ago.

I nodded. "No matter how freaked out I am about the timing and the  gravity of everything, I do care about you. I want a relationship with  you. I want to wake up spooning every morning and make pancakes on the  weekends. I want you to lick my nipples and make me beg you to make love  to me every night."

He widened his eyes. "Every night?"

I took in a deep breath and exhaled. "Probably. Sex is supposed to be  awesome, right? I'm guessing I'll want it a lot once I know what I've  been missing."

He chuckled and pulled me into a hug, rubbing my back and squeezing me  before letting go. "Gosh, I hope so. I care about you too. Why don't you  go home, get a shower, have some dinner, and relax, and we'll talk  about everything when I get there later. I need to finish a job I  promised for a guy who's going on vacation tomorrow. I'll be by your  place by nine. I promise."                       
       
           



       

"Okay. Tell your employees it was nice to meet them."

"I will. You have no idea how excited they were that you dropped by. Wes  was jabbering incoherently about how fucking cute you are."

"If he was incoherent, then how could you tell he thought I was cute?" I pointed out.

Tristan ignored my cynicism. "I caught that part. The rest was scrambled."

"Is he gay?" I felt a mix of emotions when I asked. If he was, then had  he and Tristan ever done things together? If he wasn't, then why would  he say I was cute?

"No, but he's young and hip with the times. He knows I'm gay and he's been trying to set me up with some of his gay friends."

I stiffened and sputtered, "His friends? He better stop. He knows you're  mine, right? We're getting married, and I will not take kindly to a guy  who-"

He cut me off with his lips pressed to mine. The kiss was sweet and took  all the rage out of my jealousy. He told me softly, "He knows." He  kissed me again. "Go home. I'll see you later. Stop worrying, and forget  being jealous. I'm yours. All yours."

I nodded. I knew he was right. His intent was clear, and I knew, logically, he meant every word he said. I left and drove home.





I OPENED the door and was overtaken by the scent of gardenias. It was  such a powerfully sweet scent that I closed my eyes and took a deep  breath through my nose to appreciate it fully before scanning the house  for the source. The wonderful aroma came from bouquets of  flowers-gardenias, lilies, and carnations-set all around the house. I  found a vase in the kitchen, two in the living room, and three in the  bedroom. I picked up a note left on my pillow.

It read:



I hope you're not allergic-I probably should have asked. I wanted to say  I'm sorry for pushing. If I truly was a dom, then I would have gotten  off on being in charge, maybe, but I'm not so I didn't. I want this to  be an equal partnership. You and me, together. I don't want to force you  to do anything, even something so seemingly innocent as removing your  shirt. I'll try to understand if you want to keep it on, but I have to  say, one more time, you are beautiful.



I'll admit I got a tad choked up. Tristan did have a good heart, and  neither one of us knew how to be in a relationship so we were bound to  do things wrong. He'd forced me to do something I didn't want to do and  scared me, but he hadn't hurt me, not really.

I bent over and sniffed the flowers next to my bed. They were lovely.

"That's why they kept asking me if I'd gone home," I said to myself as I  realized what they'd meant. Tristan must have used the key I'd given  him to come in earlier. He was such an awesome boyfriend. I sighed as  the lyrics to "Dear Future Husband" sung their way through my head. He  was treating me right, I had to admit.

My phone signaled a text so I grabbed my phone, thinking it was Tristan. It was Mel. Are you busy? I miss you.

I texted: No. I just got home and guess what? Tristan put a zillion  bouquets of flowers in my house. Okay, not a zillion. Six. It smells so  wonderful in here I want to cry.

That's nice.

I didn't like his tone. Flat. No inflection. True, it was a text, but I  could hear him in my head. Instead of texting, I called. I didn't wait  for a hello; I spoke right away when he picked up. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he mumbled.

"That's not a nothing voice. I know, because I know everything. Spill," I  said sternly. If he was going to ruin my happy, then he had better fill  in all the details. No ambiguity accepted. I placed my shoes next to my  chair and undid my pants.

Mel hemmed and hawed but finally told me, "I talked to Cindy."

"You did? Was it about going on a date, or did you order macaroni and cheese this time?"

"Shut up! Yes, I asked her on a date. She paused a bit too long before  answering, but she did agree to go. I'm not sure if she finds me  attractive."

"I think you're attractive, especially since you have more facial hair than last fall. I think you look real manly."

"It's not the manly qualities I'm worried about. It's my unmanly  qualities-my high, feminine cheekbones and soft skin-that I'm worried  about. What if she doesn't like my figure or my height? The mastectomy  was a huge step. I can't change everything."

I felt bad. "I know the situation is messed up and not at all where you planned."

"I'm not sure how well I planned this, Grant. Originally I didn't want  to date a girl until my outside reflected who I was on the inside. But  then you moved, and I'm alone all the time. It was easier to think of  dating as a future possibility while I had you to hang with. But then  you met Tristan and things seem to be going well for you, and I feel  like my life is going nowhere."                       
       
           



       

"I'm sorry." I didn't need to apologize for my new life, but I felt bad.

"Yeah, well, I want what you have. So I metaphorically grew a pair and  asked her on a date. Now I'm freaking out about what might happen. When  do I tell her? On the first date? The second? It's not like you with  your fear of being naked!"

"Hey!" I squawked. "No fair! I told you, I went through two years of  therapy for what Mikey Thompson did to me in sixth grade. His teasing  still haunts my dreams!" I wasn't holding back while I fussed at Mel,  but in doing so I heard a little voice reminding me I might need to fill  Tristan in at some point. He'd pressed me into removing my shirt  without understanding my suppressed trauma over it. If I was going to  trust Tristan with my naked body, then I needed to trust him with my  past hurts as well. I'd tell him soon.