I always like you, Rafe texts, and I can’t help but smile. Then a minute later, he writes, Be safe. I can drive you home, if you need.
I walked, I send. Then, Thanks.
Liza shows up an hour later with half a turkey—really, you never know with Liza; she said she had it because of something to do with work, but she’s a florist, so I have no idea. I barely taste it, though. I keep looking around at all of them—Pop, Brian, Sam, Liza—and asking myself what the worst-case scenario is. Like, what exactly might I lose that’s worth not being able to make Rafe happy by agreeing to go to dinner with his family. Or take him out to dinner. Fuck, the guy was practically begging me to go on a date with him and I said no. I’m the worst… whatever on the planet.
Brian and Pop are drunk too; Sam and Liza are tipsy. When I’m coming out of the bathroom, Pop and I nearly collide in the kitchen. He pats me on the back, practically knocking himself off balance in the process.
“You’re a good kid, Colin,” he says. “Good son. I’m goin’ta bed.” He squeezes my arm as he shambles past me.
“Yeah, me too,” I say.
I play the moment over and over as I stagger home, and all I can think as I fall into bed alone is that’s why. That’s why I can’t be with Rafe outside these walls. And even if I did, there’s no guarantee that things would work out. Knowing me, shit probably won’t work out. So, what if I gambled it all on Rafe—my family, my job—and then I fucked it up like usual. Maybe Pop’s an asshole sometimes, but he raised me, Daniel, Brian, and Sam after Mom died, kept food on the table, gave us jobs. I know he loves me. I think he does, anyway. But if he found out… he’d never say anything like that to me again. He’d never look at me like that, with warmth, appreciation. Love me? I don’t know. But respect me? Be proud of me? No.
And, god help me, I don’t think I can live with that.
THE NEXT week, everything seems off. Work is normal, I guess, but nothing feels satisfying the way it used to. Every time I hear Pop or Sam tell someone we don’t do specialty repairs, every time I’m stuck changing a flat tire or explaining to some know-it-all who looked up engine trouble on the Internet what’s actually wrong with his car, I’m wishing for… more.
That’s what I want, lately. Just more. I want work to be more interesting, more of a challenge. I want to be able to do more for the kids at YA, give them more of what Daniel never had. I’ve thought about Anders a lot too. Wondered what he decided to do about telling his parents—if he’s decided yet at all.
And fuck me, I want more of Rafe. More of everything to do with Rafe. When I’m with him, things feel… good.
But I don’t think Rafe feels the same way. When he got to my place earlier, I asked him if everything was okay and he said it was, but it seems like there’s something he’s not telling me.
Ever since he asked me to come to dinner with his family, things have been strained. I think he’s getting frustrated with me. Impatient. He wants something that I’m not giving to him.
We’re on the couch and I’m leaning into him, enjoying his smell and the feeling of his arms around me. I’m making stupid comments about the movie—some eighties action thing—and he doesn’t respond but he keeps touching me. Small touches like you might reach a hand out to your bedside table to check that something you put down is still there.
Then he lets out a sigh and my stomach goes hollow and tight. It feels like he’s trying to work up to saying something, and that is never good.
“Rafe,” I say when I can’t take it anymore, “just tell me whatever the hell is wrong. You’re freaking me out.”
He looks a little sheepish. “Have you given any thought to what I said?”
“What you said when?”
“About having dinner with my family?”
“Oh.” I knew it.
“Look, it was great seeing everyone at Gabri’s last week. They’re crazy and intense and they drive me nuts sometimes, but it’s home. Something was missing for me, though, because you weren’t there. My mom would describe some cat video her coworker showed her and I’d want to tell you that it reminded me of Shelby. Or Camille would use text speak and I’d want to laugh at you because you never know what the kids are talking about at YA when they use it. I just… wanted you there.”
On the surface it sounds perfect: exchanging knowing glances over the dinner table or laughing gently at private jokes. That’s what you’re supposed to do, right? But it leaves out the part where I’m cringing just thinking about being introduced to Rafe’s family. About what it would mean. About us. About me.