Shattered Glass(25)

“How do you do that?” I asked with a rueful laugh and a pull on my drink while I stared at her tiny toes.

“Probably something to do with being in love with you. But mostly because I’ve known you since you were sixteen.”

“That was an interesting day.” Deflect. Deflect. Deflect. I couldn’t have the conversation we needed to have.

Always able to read me, Angelica took the hint and went with the subject change. “It was. Your father had asked you to take that Testam girl to her junior prom. And when I got back from lunch, you were cowering in my office to avoid doing so.”

“He ordered me to take her.” I grinned, picking at the condensation-softened label. It peeled away in a stripe under my thumbnail.

“Lovely girl.”

I chuckled at her sarcasm. “It was your fault I took her.”

“I just mentioned it wasn’t worth fighting over. It was one dance. I was getting a little tired of the arguments between you two.”

“Arguments? I can count on my hands the number of words Desmond Glass has said to me since I was six—and most of them started with ‘Son, I’m disappointed in you’.”

“If you had spent half the energy on pleasing him as you did on the things that ticked him off, he’d start sentences off differently.” Her hand rested on my shoulder. I shook it off.

“Old news, Angel. And I took the dimwitted pest to her prom, didn’t I? See how well I can please?”

“And got caught in her bed that night.”

“Her idea to do it in her bedroom three doors down from her parents. Not mine.” I gave my best poker face. “How was I supposed to know she was a screamer?” I smiled and chuckled again. “Or her mother was too. Julia screaming in the bed, her mother screaming at the door to the bedroom. I blame you for my hearing loss from that night.”

“Mmhm,” Angelica said dubiously.

“Why do half my conversations with you end up about my father?” I sighed and set the bottle down on the coffee table, moving off the couch and into the kitchen. She didn’t follow me.

“Maybe because half of what you do is about your father.”

“Not anymore. I gave up trying to be a son when I realized he only wanted one in name.” I peered into the frying pan. “Is this Chinese food?”

“Austin, is this something to do with that?” Or another woman was the unspoken question. Given my history it wasn’t a huge leap. Angelica sounded more resigned than angry. There was an inaudible sigh somewhere in her breathing. “Is that why you’ve been incommunicado?”

The food was boiling so I switched the stove off and took a deep breath. “I think I’m gay. Did you reheat this? Because I’m not ready to try your cooking just yet.”

“It’s from Wang’s, and, yes, it’s reheated. I did make the rice.” She finally followed me into the kitchen and lifted the lid to the rice cooker.

My hands dropped to the counter, and I leaned against it, pressing my eyes shut. “I think I’m gay.”

“Microwaved eggrolls make me queasy. They’re still lukewarm though. I think we can—”

“I think I’m gay, Angel.”

“I heard you!” Something slammed against the counter. “Stop saying it.”

“Sounds like a plan.” I twisted around and pulled two plates down from the cabinet, eyeing her sideways. She was gripping a bottle of soy sauce tightly. “We’ll talk about something else.” Snatching a couple of serving spoons, I scooped rice onto the plates.

She released the bottle, placed her hand on my shoulder again and pressed her forehead into my arm. “Austin, this is just like the other times. You’re panicking. Eight weeks before the wedding and you’re panicking. This is what you do every time.”

That had occurred to me, and it was my modus operandi when relationships got serious. Granted, it was usually a woman I ended up with. “We can talk about this. Or we can not talk about it. But don’t just slip in comments.” I tossed the serving spoons into their respective dishes, stabbing one into the rice.

“There’s nothing to talk about. This is ridiculous. Gay, Austin? Gay?” Angelica’s hand clamped onto her hip as she yanked the soy sauce off the counter. “Do you hear yourself?”

“There’s a guy.”

“What?” She whispered. I felt, rather than saw, her step back from me. “Did you…?”

“No. God, no. Nothing happened.” Nothing of consequence. I crushed my hands into my hair, pulled at the skin of my face with my palms, wanting to rub myself out of existence. “Christ, Angel, I don’t know how to not talk about this with you. I don’t know how to not talk about anything with you. I’ve told you every single thing since we met. But Jesus, how do we talk about this?”