The drive out to Nick’s childhood home is undeniably beautiful. It's like some kind of rustic postcard scene; evening sun spilling across the horizon, painting gold over white farmhouses and herds of cattle, then fading as the early December dark approaches. It’s been a cold but sunny winter day, something Nick says is a rare treat in the gray winters of Western Pennsylvania.
One that I’m completely ignoring in favor of my phone.
“Who are you texting?” Nick demands, looking away from the road to peer over at my phone. “You’re missing the pristine beauty of my homeland and shit.”
I tilt my phone away. “Eyes on the road, madman.”
Nick huffs but complies anyway, giving his curls a toss to emphasize his irritation. “There. Eyes on the road. Who are you texting? Is it Jack? Have he and Ezra finally crawled out of bed? It’s December 30th, surely they’ve stopped having sex by now.”
I ignore him and send one last text.
I have to fight to keep my face neutral, the corner of my mouth twitching with suppressed laughter. Nick is so clearly his mother’s child in a way that makes me fiercely fond of them both and incredibly bitter about my own family at the same time. My parents fed me homophobic garbage when I was growing up, pushed me to propose to every girl I ever dated in college, then made more homophobic comments with every year that went by without me settling down. I finally quit talking to them a year ago.
Then, there are Nick's parents, who called me on Christmas Day to make sure I knew they were thinking of me. And to let me know that they were tired of my shit.
“I know you’re in love with my son,” Nick's mom said during that Christmas call. “When are you going to do something about it?”
I didn't bother wasting my breath with denials. Partly because Nick's mom is a certifiable genius, but also because I was just... tired. They’ve seen us together so much over the last six years that it’s a miracle they didn’t catch on sooner. I'd shot a glance at Nick’s closed bedroom door, then replied, “It’s not quite that easy.”
“It is exactly that easy,” she’d said. “Put my boy out of his misery, Tyler. You’ve had his heart for years, and I'm completely exhausted by watching him wait for you.”
My heart had ached at that, had thumped rabbit-fast with panic as I'd looked to the bedroom door again, waiting to be caught.
“I’m pretty sure it’s the other way around,” I’d finally admitted in a murmur. “I don’t think he’s interested in… relationships.”
I hadn't wanted to elaborate because, you know, it was Nick's mom. But Nick isn't really the... settling type. He sees guys for a bit. He goes out and hooks up on occasion. But for as long as we've known each other (six years) and lived together (four years), he's never had a long-term boyfriend. And that's part of what's scared me off, honestly.
Mama Warren wasn't having it, though.
“Tyler Oberlin,” she'd snapped, and my spine had automatically straightened to attention. “I know my son. I watched him build that wall he uses to hide his heart as a young man. I know it for what it is. Armor. Protection, Tyler. People were not kind to him growing up. Trust me. All he’s waiting for is a sign from you.”
I’d done my best to tamp down the painful swell of hope her words had stoked, but it was impossible. I’d become obsessed.
I texted her the next day.
In the moment, I'd doubted I had any actual say in the matter. Mama Warren had a mission in her head, and she was gonna push the issue anyway, no matter what.
But once the idea was in my head, I couldn’t let it go.
And with a furtive glance at Nick, half unconscious in a bowl of cereal at our kitchen table, I’d deleted the text thread. I remember the feeling so vividly; my cheeks burning red and my heart racing with fear, elation, embarrassment... and hope.
So much hope.
And now here we are. The day before New Year’s Eve. Nick driving us in his little Mazda 3 that I barely fit into, taking the corners way too fast with that sort of driving muscle memory that kicks in on the roads of your hometown. On our way to what feels like my doom, even though in theory it’s going to be my ultimate happiness?
I turn my phone off and stash it in my back pocket, as far from Nick as it can possibly get while remaining on my person. Can’t have him catching his mom’s name on the screen and getting suspicious.
“There. No more phone,” I say. “Pristine beauty of your homeland and shit. Got it.”
Nick isn’t so easily distracted, though, so I deploy one of my recently discovered distraction techniques: physical contact. I lay a hand on Nick’s leg and give a light squeeze, relishing the soft slide of expensive fabric under my fingers. Nick freezes for half a second… then relaxes, his legs falling ever so slightly farther apart. His face stays perfectly blank, but his breathing hitches the tiniest bit—a tell I’ve learned to look for, a tiny seed of hope that’s grown into a tangled wanting that suffocates me on the best of days and aches without relenting on the worst.
It could still be something else. Friendship. Touch starvation, maybe. (Nick hasn’t had a steady hookup in over a year. Not that I’m counting. Too busy at the hospital, he says.) He could even be uncomfortable with the touch but not willing to say so. But sometimes, rarely, Nick will give the smallest sign: the corner of his mouth turned slightly up, a brush of fingers against mine, a faint hum.
It takes all of my considerable self-control to keep my hand from sliding higher in search of a gasp, a blush, a—something. I want, so much that sometimes I worry the wanting will eat me alive. Now that I know what it is. Now that I’ve accepted it.
Distraction. Music, conversation, something, or else I really will let my hands wander and my mouth start running, probably crash the car and our friendship and my life all in one dramatic move. I pull back and desperately latch onto the first topic of conversation that comes to mind.
“So, what do you think your parents have planned for the weekend? Anything special? New Year’s Eve traditions?”
“My grandmother used to visit and cook the traditional pork and sauerkraut for New Year’s Eve and Day when I was a kid,” Nick says. “I hear my mom still does pork, but she always hated sauerkraut. Don’t tell anyone, it’s a sin around here.”
I laugh. “Yeah, I would have to pass on that.”
A small smile curls at the corner of Nick’s mouth. “I haven’t been back for New Year’s Eve since I was seventeen, but I imagine we’ll eat way too much around one in the afternoon, graze on leftovers and desserts for the rest of the day, and drink too much champagne in front of the fire while my mom murders us all at cards. She’s a shark, don’t let her fool you.”
He glances over at me. “They’re probably going to be embarrassingly clingy with you this weekend. I hope you’re prepared.”
I look out the window to hide my grin.
“I don’t mind.”
Honestly, it’ll be nice to have a family that cares, that’s accepting and affectionate instead of expectant and cold. My father’s disapproving sneer forces its way into my mind, whispering poison about soft men and their feelings, but I shove it all away. He has no power over me. Not anymore.
“Hey, where’d you go?” Nick asks, startling me out of my unpleasant memories.
“I’m here, sorry,” I say. “Just thinking about how different our families are. I’m looking forward to this.”
“Yeah, we don’t exactly grow herds of big burly boys in my family,” he says with a self-deprecating laugh. “Just little old me.”
“I don’t think I could handle a whole herd of you.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Nick says with a sly grin. “I bet you could hold your own.”
Man, it’s a good thing Nick never comes around my job sites, because if my crews of foul-mouthed construction workers and subcontractors could see the way I flush at a little light flirting, I’d never hear the end of it. No one expects the general contractor to be a blushing flower. Then again, no one expects the general contractor to be bisexual, either.
Still trying to get used to the sound of that.
You’d think it would be easy, considering our friend group. Probably half the people we hang out with are queer. But it took years of conversations with Nick and my best friend, Nia, to wade through a lifetime of brainwashing. To finally realize that yes, I’ve had sex with women and liked it, liked them, but I’ve never fallen in love with any of them. And it’s not because I’m broken, and not because I’m aromantic. Sexual attraction and romantic attraction don’t always map one to one. And me? I can only fall in love with a man, it seems.
Once you figure this shit out, it’s so obvious, looking back. But looking back is too painful. So, all I want to do is look forward. Nick, my closest friend, the man who saved me from the lowest point of my life… and the man I’m in love with.
Hopefully, after this weekend, the man I’ll be with.
Nick takes a left turn down a narrow-paved road and flashes me a grin. “We’re here. Prepare yourself for Hurricane Warren.”
“I can take it,” I say, keeping my voice light even as panic tries to force it higher.
Nick laughs. “Damn right you can. You’re built like an oak tree.”
I roll my eyes. I’m not that big, I’m just… sturdy. All the Oberlin boys are. We grew up hauling lumber and bags of concrete on dad’s job sites, and that’ll leave its mark.
Even so, as the house comes into view, I find myself wiping sweaty palms on my jeans. The house is adorable, a remodeled farmhouse that was clearly added onto a time or two. Our friend Chris would probably have a fit—he’s a building inspector and this thing has “handyman special” written all over it. I’ll eat my hard hat if all the proper permits were filed for those add-ons. It looks well-maintained and cozy, though, bursting with personality and care even from the outside. Those flower beds have Mr. Warren’s green thumbprints all over them, even in the dead of winter. There are a few evergreen plants evenly spaced to make sure there’s always a bit of color and telltale mounds where perennials have been covered to overwinter.
Nick barely has time to shut the engine off before the front door flies open. His mom comes out first, wrapped in a shawl and heading straight for the driver’s side. Nick’s dad follows close behind in a well-worn brown jacket, and he greets me with a firm handshake-turned-hug.
“So good to see you, Tyler, truly,” he says, thumping me hard on the back. “I hear my wife has been meddling.”
Nick’s head shoots up from where it had been resting against his mother’s in a rare show of affection, and he steps back from her hug like she’d attacked him.
“Meddling how?” he demands, hands on his hips, but his mother waves him off.
“You never would have shown up if I hadn’t gotten Tyler to bring you and you know it.” With that, she turns her back on her son to wrap me in a long motherly hug.
“Don’t you dare ask it again, Tyler, I mean it!” she says in a low voice. “I see that look on your face. You look half sick and ready to bolt. You remember the deal and do your part. Are we clear?”
“Crystal,” I reply as I pull back from the hug, catching a glimpse of Nick over his mother’s shoulder in the moment before he masters his expression. It was just a brief thing, a stolen snatch of time, but Nick’s face had gone unbearably soft at the sight of his parents embracing me. I get it—I already feel at home in a way I never have with my own family, and Nick’s expression seems to say all the things I want to hear: I want this, be my family, this is right, please stay forever.
If all goes well this weekend, then that’s exactly where we’ll end up.
I pull our overnight bags from the trunk and hand Nick’s over, not letting go until our fingers touch. “Let’s go get settled in.”
Nick’s gaze is oddly charged when our eyes meet, and he nods.
Nick’s mother is a devious one, I have to hand it to her. The house is romantically lit with candles and fairy lights, a fire crackling in the fireplace, the last of the fading sunlight leaving everything dim and warm and cozy.
Including the bedroom.
Singular.
I expected a lot of things, but the dusty wreck of a construction zone in the spare bedroom was not one of them.
“What happened?” I ask, eyes wide.
Mrs. Warren closes the door to the room with a gentle click, a cloud of plaster dust puffing out. “We’ve had a slow roof leak for years, and you know how it goes once you start opening up ceilings and walls.”
I wince. “Yeah, house projects have a way of unexpectedly growing.”
She pats Nick on the cheek with an indulgent smile. “Nick’s old bed is plenty big enough for two. Now, put those things down and get out of here, you’ll need to get to the brewery soon if you want food before the kitchen closes at eight.”
And with that, she whirls away and disappears down the stairs, leaving me with bright red cheeks and a very awkward Nick.
Here’s a chance, I tell myself. This is why you’re here.
“Come on,” I say, nudging Nick’s shoulder with a smile. “Let’s ditch these bags. What’s this about a brewery?”
Nick opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again, his gaze flicking over my face.
“I can sleep on the couch…” he finally offers, hesitant, but I cut him off.
“Don’t worry about it. Unless you’re against cuddling, of course, because I’m a notorious sleep cuddler.”
A beat of silence.
Then Nick snorts, and we break down into ridiculous giggles. And here we are—an opportunity to be just a bit daring, to push the boundaries just a hair.
I reach out and grab Nick by the wrist, tugging him along as I walk backward toward the bedroom door.
“Come on, madman. You can handle me for one night.”
I do a great job of pretending not to notice the way Nick stumbles at that, if I do say so myself.
