freeze.
“Because,” he said, in answer to Keegan’s question. “Because. Because we’re going to be a family of two, Kee. And a lot of it can be us having sex, but I want it to be official. Getting caught by my girlfriend doesn’t count.”
“So, you’re going to drag me to Chico someday soon?”
Emmett nodded. “Yeah.”
“Okay then. I wanted you, I got you. Bring it on.”
When they were done with dessert, Emmett walked Keegan out his front door, across the rosebush hedge that separated their houses, and across the rather ragged front lawn of Keegan’s house. It was the same suburban floor plan as Emmett’s, plus an upstairs, so it held four bedrooms instead of two.
And it had considerably more spiders in the front foyer.
Emmett looked around gingerly at the webs in the yellow light of the porch lamp, and Keegan curled his lip.
“This was your idea, remember.”
“Yeah. Don’t worry, Kee. Just give me a chance to make the grand romantic gesture, okay?”
And to his surprise, Keegan nodded. “Do you know, I’ve never had that? I haven’t even gotten flowers.”
“Well, I haven’t had a chance to give them.”
“I’ve never gotten kissed at my porch, either,” Keegan said thoughtfully.
“I’ve never taken anyone home from a date before.” Emmett could feel his smile stretching his cheeks, and it was a welcome alternative to what he had been doing.
“Okay. So, clarity. It’s clear we need to make this official, and real, and—”
Emmett kissed him. It was clear he needed to do that too.
T HE NEXT day, after Emmett got home from a very uncomfortable day at work, he showered, got out Granny B.’s cookbook, and started to cook to clear his head.
Yes, Christine had talked, and yes, everybody was looking at him with a little bit of horror. He figured since they all knew other gay men, he was paying the price of his dishonesty and he’d have to live it down.
So, not a great day, no, but he came home armed with the antidote.
First he started the shortbread, but it had occurred to him that maybe mixing the almond paste inside wasn’t such a great idea. He had no idea how that would cook, so he made little divots in the dough every two inches, and baked the shortbread that way. When he got it out of the oven, after it cooled, he filled the divots with the almond paste, and then drizzled the melted dark chocolate on top, and then sprinkled almonds on it.
And then he took out a pen and did the unthinkable.
He put a notation in the cookbook. This works fine, because I don’t know how it would cook the other way. He didn’t put his initials in it—nobody else had—but he figured this was perfect. This way, he’d become a member of the family.
He didn’t make the beet porridge, because it was pretty work intensive, and his cabinets already weren’t going to be the same, but he did find a recipe for sour cream pork chops that looked carb-intensive enough for Keegan. He figured he needed to buy a more modern cookbook with stuff that wasn’t so fattening in it—because he could work out all he wanted, but he never had been able to keep up with Keegan’s runner’s metabolism.
But today’s meal wasn’t for weight loss. You didn’t come home in the 107 degree heat of a blistering July and heat your kitchen because you were looking to eat right.
You did it to be kind to someone. You did it for love.
The day cooled into a decent summer night, and some of the breezes off the lake actually made it into his little hillside suburb, so he opened his windows, and then, while pork chops cooked on a timer, he brought a chair out to his porch and worked on his laptop.
He saw Keegan’s beat-up Mini pull in and disappear into the two-car garage. (Keegan had been lucky to get a space—the other roommates were usually parked there first. Emmett had noticed a certain “survival of the fittest” mentality that Keegan had done nothing to contradict.)
As soon as the door closed,
“Because,” he said, in answer to Keegan’s question. “Because. Because we’re going to be a family of two, Kee. And a lot of it can be us having sex, but I want it to be official. Getting caught by my girlfriend doesn’t count.”
“So, you’re going to drag me to Chico someday soon?”
Emmett nodded. “Yeah.”
“Okay then. I wanted you, I got you. Bring it on.”
When they were done with dessert, Emmett walked Keegan out his front door, across the rosebush hedge that separated their houses, and across the rather ragged front lawn of Keegan’s house. It was the same suburban floor plan as Emmett’s, plus an upstairs, so it held four bedrooms instead of two.
And it had considerably more spiders in the front foyer.
Emmett looked around gingerly at the webs in the yellow light of the porch lamp, and Keegan curled his lip.
“This was your idea, remember.”
“Yeah. Don’t worry, Kee. Just give me a chance to make the grand romantic gesture, okay?”
And to his surprise, Keegan nodded. “Do you know, I’ve never had that? I haven’t even gotten flowers.”
“Well, I haven’t had a chance to give them.”
“I’ve never gotten kissed at my porch, either,” Keegan said thoughtfully.
“I’ve never taken anyone home from a date before.” Emmett could feel his smile stretching his cheeks, and it was a welcome alternative to what he had been doing.
“Okay. So, clarity. It’s clear we need to make this official, and real, and—”
Emmett kissed him. It was clear he needed to do that too.
T HE NEXT day, after Emmett got home from a very uncomfortable day at work, he showered, got out Granny B.’s cookbook, and started to cook to clear his head.
Yes, Christine had talked, and yes, everybody was looking at him with a little bit of horror. He figured since they all knew other gay men, he was paying the price of his dishonesty and he’d have to live it down.
So, not a great day, no, but he came home armed with the antidote.
First he started the shortbread, but it had occurred to him that maybe mixing the almond paste inside wasn’t such a great idea. He had no idea how that would cook, so he made little divots in the dough every two inches, and baked the shortbread that way. When he got it out of the oven, after it cooled, he filled the divots with the almond paste, and then drizzled the melted dark chocolate on top, and then sprinkled almonds on it.
And then he took out a pen and did the unthinkable.
He put a notation in the cookbook. This works fine, because I don’t know how it would cook the other way. He didn’t put his initials in it—nobody else had—but he figured this was perfect. This way, he’d become a member of the family.
He didn’t make the beet porridge, because it was pretty work intensive, and his cabinets already weren’t going to be the same, but he did find a recipe for sour cream pork chops that looked carb-intensive enough for Keegan. He figured he needed to buy a more modern cookbook with stuff that wasn’t so fattening in it—because he could work out all he wanted, but he never had been able to keep up with Keegan’s runner’s metabolism.
But today’s meal wasn’t for weight loss. You didn’t come home in the 107 degree heat of a blistering July and heat your kitchen because you were looking to eat right.
You did it to be kind to someone. You did it for love.
The day cooled into a decent summer night, and some of the breezes off the lake actually made it into his little hillside suburb, so he opened his windows, and then, while pork chops cooked on a timer, he brought a chair out to his porch and worked on his laptop.
He saw Keegan’s beat-up Mini pull in and disappear into the two-car garage. (Keegan had been lucky to get a space—the other roommates were usually parked there first. Emmett had noticed a certain “survival of the fittest” mentality that Keegan had done nothing to contradict.)
As soon as the door closed,
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