by J. M. Snyder
Mike laughed. “You should’ve seen the way he treated me,” he admitted. “Ignored me like I wasn’t even in the room. Even a direct question wouldn’t get him to speak to me. Finally warmed up a little, though. Then I bought tickets to a couples’ cruise and he clammed up all over again.”
“He probably feels left out,” Lane suggested. He didn’t want to add that it was probably his own fault Braden was being so confrontational. No one had told the boy about his father’s sexuality, or that they would be sharing their holiday with a “special friend” of Remy’s. And then Braden walked down the stairs and saw the two men kissing! Lane could only imagine what was going through the little boy’s head at the moment. Instead of addressing the situation or answering any questions he might have had, the adults in the room had acted as if he were the one in the wrong, throwing a tantrum over something he probably didn’t even understand.
But Lane didn’t want to mention it to Remy with Mike in the room. And when would he get a chance to say anything at all, if Braden was going to be with them from now through New Year’s?
It was a bad way to start things off with his lover’s son, Lane knew.
* * * *
When Kate and Braden came downstairs, she had the duffle bag over one shoulder—obviously filled with more things than before—and, in one hand, he dragged a school backpack stuffed to the seams. His pillow was clutched tight in the other.
“All right, we’re ready,” Kate said with a sigh as she handed her bag to Remy. “You boys have a merry Christmas now, okay?”
Lane wondered just how festive the holiday would seem to Braden cooped up in a cabin without any trimmings. Softly, he reminded Remy, “We don’t have a tree.”
“We’re staying in the woods,” Remy said. “There will be trees all around us. We’ll cut one down—”
“Have you done that before?” Lane asked, skeptic. Because he had never chopped down a tree, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to give it a try.
Remy frowned at him, then at Kate. “It can’t be hard, right?”
“There’s a few boxes of stuff we didn’t use out in the garage,” Kate said. “Garland and lights mostly, some ornaments. A couple old stockings. If you want to take them?”
“Sure.” Remy hefted Braden’s duffle bag over his shoulder and tousled his son’s hair. “You about ready, sport?”
Through his pout, Braden muttered, “I already said I don’t want to go.”
“Too bad, you’re going,” Kate told him. When she bent over to give him a kiss, he squirmed away. Undaunted, she grabbed his face with one hand, squeezed his cheeks, and kissed him on the forehead anyway. “You be good, you hear? Remember what we talked about upstairs.”
Lane wondered what that discussion had been like. He still wondered if Braden’s sour mood wasn’t his fault. Seeing Lane kissing his father must have been quite a shock, especially if no one had warned him ahead of time.
Forcing a smile, Lane held out a hand towards Braden. “Hi there. I’m Lane. Your daddy’s friend.”
The look of loathing Braden gave him was daunting. After a long moment, Lane folded his hand into a fist and shoved it away in his coat pocket out of sight. Remy chastised his son. “Braden!”
“No, it’s okay,” Lane assured him, though he would be lying if he said the rebuff didn’t hurt. He wanted Braden to like him, if only because the boy was such a big part of Remy’s life, and Lane was, too. If they couldn’t get along, that wouldn’t bode well for their relationship in the long haul, would it?
We have two whole weeks to get to know each other better, Lane thought. Fourteen days. I’m going to make him like me or die trying.
Chapter 5
The drive to the cabin was tense, to say the least. Remy couldn’t understand what had gotten into his son. Before Braden had headed upstairs to pack, he’d been a little anxious about Lane, Remy knew. But a little anxious and outwardly hostile were worlds apart. It wasn’t Kate’s doing, Remy was sure—when she had taken their son upstairs to pack properly, Braden came down subdued and moody. Which meant she must’ve said something to him about the way he was behaving.
Braden was a good boy, most of the time. A lot like his father in that he liked to plan things out in advance, liked to know what was going to happen when, and if something changed, he was bound to be put out by it. But at eight, he had little control over what he had to do or where he had to go. He’d grow out of it eventually, Remy was sure.
Or he’ll go into urban planning, like me, he thought, rueful, as he watched the Jeep’s headlights illuminate the flat stretch of highway ahead. Because Remy had never really grown out of it, had he? Maybe Braden was picking up on Remy’s own displeasure at having to change his holiday plans. Nothing like a child to spoil a romantic getaway. Wasn’t that why Kate pawned Braden off on Remy in the first place?
That isn’t fair, he told himself, and he knew it. Kate had as much right to a time out from parenthood as Remy did; even more, because she was a mother full-time and Remy played daddy on weekends. Every other weekend, at that. This will be a good experience for us, he thought. He hoped. For all of us.
If only Braden would lose the ‘tude.
When they had been getting ready to leave Kate’s, Remy had handed Lane the car keys. “If I drive, he’ll want to sit up front,” Remy explained. “I don’t want to cause another scene. If you drive, I’ll ride shotgun, and he’ll be okay with the middle seat.”
Or so Remy thought. But when he held open the back door for his son, Braden balked. “I want to sit up front with you,” he said with a pout.
“I’m not driving,” Remy told him. Thank you, Jesus, for letting me off so easily.
Only Braden wasn’t ready to be as lenient. “I don’t want to sit in the middle,” he complained.
Remy tossed Braden’s bags across the seat, followed by his pillow. “See?” he told his son. “Nice and cozy. You have the whole stretch to yourself. If you get sleepy, you can just lay back—”
“I’m not sleepy, I’m hungry.” Braden’s voice went up a notch, finding just the right octave to grate on Remy’s nerves. “Mom said we’d stop for dinner.”
“We will,” Remy assured him, trying to stay calm. Lane had already helped Kate load the leftover Christmas decorations into the back of the Jeep and now sat behind the steering wheel, waiting. Remy saw his lover glance back and rolled his eyes for Lane’s benefit. “Come on, kid. Get in the car and we’ll stop for a bite to eat along the way. The longer you stand there throwing a fit, the later it’ll be before we eat.”
Finally Braden climbed into the middle seat, grumbling as he did. “I want McDonald’s.”
There goes our quiet dinner alone. Remy had hoped to stop at a small restaurant he’d found on one of his trips to the southwestern part of the state, but there was another change in plans he hadn’t anticipated. Knowing Braden, Remy wouldn’t be able to talk him out of a Big Mac with fries, and anywhere else they ate would pale in comparison to Mickey D’s. Which meant more pouting, and more fighting.
Now I know why some people dread dealing with their families over the holidays. Out loud, though, he simply said, “We’ll see.”
At least Braden was inside the car. Remy closed the door and turned to make a face at Kate and Mike, who were standing on the steps. “Thanks,” he said, sarcastic.
“Enjoy your cabin adventure!” Kate called out.
Before sliding into the passenger seat, Remy countered, “Hope your boat don’t sink.”
“Remy!” Lane had chastised, but Kate laughed. And flipped him off. So technically, she got in the last jab.
* * * *
Braden started as soon as they were on the road. “I’m hungry,” he moaned.
“We’ll get something to eat soon,” Remy told him.
Lane glanced over and smiled, both hands on the steering wheel. Remy wanted to feel Lane’s touch, something comforting on his leg or arm, but his son was in the back seat, so he kept his hands to himself.<
br />
Behind him, Braden started moving around. It was distracting, and if it bothered Remy, he knew it had to bother Lane, who was trying to drive. “Settle down back there,” Remy said.
Braden threw one of his bags against the passenger side door. The other followed a moment later.
“Hey!” Remy cried, half-turning in his seat. “Did you hear me? Settle down.”
In a low voice, Braden muttered, “I’m just changing places.”
Remy looked back between the front seats and, sure enough, his son now pouted in the seat directly behind Lane. For a moment, Remy thought that might be an improvement, but then he realized, from his new vantage point, Braden could only see the top of the back of Lane’s head. When he was sitting behind his father, he would have been looking at Lane in profile. So this wasn’t an improvement; if anything, it was a way to keep from seeing Lane at all.
Remy gave Braden a long stare, which his son ignored. With his arms crossed, Braden glared out the window beside his seat, simmering. When Remy turned back towards the road, Braden mumbled, “I don’t know why we can’t eat now. It’s dinner time already.”
“Because we’re not even out of the city yet,” Remy snapped. “Just zip it, will you? You’re acting horribly.”
From the corner of his vision, he saw Braden’s pout draw down deeper. Remy took a steadying breath and reached over to touch Lane’s leg. He didn’t care if Braden saw or not—he needed the comfort. What had gotten into that kid?
Eventually they exited off the road onto the interstate. Traffic was heavier than normal. Despite the fact that most rush-hour traffic should’ve thinned by now, it was the last Friday before Christmas, and many people were leaving on long weekends to enjoy the holiday. Lane concentrated on the highway, and Remy kept his hand on his lover’s leg, silent. The radio was off; he considered turning it on, but decided against it. The only sound was the whoosh of cars passing theirs and the steady hum of their tires on the road.
Just when Remy hoped maybe the worst was behind them, Braden announced, “I’m hungry.”
“I know.” Remy gave his son a withering glare, but Braden was still staring out the window. Still ignoring him. “We’ll stop at McDonald’s in Charlottesville, okay?” It was a good two hours’ closer than his original plan of dining in Roanoke, but at least it should shut Braden up.
Then he started kicking the back of Lane’s seat. The first time might have been an accident, but when Lane reacted by wriggling into a more comfortable position, Braden did it again. And a third time. A fourth. A fifth, both legs this time, and then he started alternating. The sound grated on Remy’s nerves. Thud, thud, thud. Thud thud. Thud.
“Stop it,” Remy said.
From the back seat, Braden asked innocently, “Stop what?”
Thud.
“That.” Stretching his arm across the back of Lane’s seat, Remy turned toward Braden. “Stop kicking his seat.”
Thud. “I’m not doing anything wrong,” Braden countered.
That was it. Remy had officially had it with his son. “If I have to tell you one more time,” he threatened, trailing off. Remy stared Braden down, daring him to disobey.
Softly, one final kick. Thud.
Remy whirled around. “Braden! Don’t make me come back there!”
Pouting harder, Braden pulled his legs up onto the seat and hugged his knees to his chest. He hid his face, his forehead pressed to his knees, then turned to look out the window again. At least the kicking had stopped.
As Remy turned back around, he saw Lane’s smirk. “What?” he asked, defensive.
He expected Lane to say something that might undermine his authority. “Oh, leave him alone,” maybe, or “I can’t even feel it. He’s fine.” If that happened, Remy would have to remember to tell Lane that, while he appreciated his lover’s position, he was the father. He was the one Braden had to listen to. Downplaying his anger would only confuse his son and possibly cause more arguments in the future.
Instead, Lane shook his head and said, “You sound like my dad.” He grinned and looked away from the road long enough to give Remy a wink. “When did we grow old?”
“I’m not old yet,” Remy joked. “Not until I turn forty next August. Then I’ll be old.”
Lane laughed. “Don’t make me come back there. That was always my dad’s favorite. That and, don’t make me turn this car around. And when my sister and I were fighting, he’d do this number.”
Taking one hand off the steering wheel, Lane slapped the air blindly behind him, as if breaking up an argument between two imaginary kids. Braden pulled tighter into himself, out of reach, even though Lane wasn’t aiming for him.
“My father did this number.” Remy held his arm out in front of Lane as if to stop him from flying through the windshield. “Who needed seat belts in the eighties? If my dad hit the brakes, his arm went right across my chest to keep me in place.”
“Are you sure we aren’t old?” Lane teased. “Because we’re sitting here reminiscing like a pair of old men.”
Remy’s laugh was interrupted by a small voice behind him muttering, “I’m still hungry.”
“Braden,” Remy warned. “Keep it up and you won’t get anything to eat.”
Then he had to turn away, his hand straying to cover the grin that tugged at his mouth. Lane was right. He sounded exactly like his own father. When had that happened?
* * * *
It was a little after seven when Lane pulled into the parking lot of a McDonald’s just outside of Charlottesville. Before he even turned off the engine, Braden was clambering out of the car. Remy leaned over to catch Lane’s hand as he put the gear into park. “Hey, I’m sorry he’s being such a pill,” he said.
Lane gave him a wan smile. “Maybe something to eat will perk him up.”
“If it doesn’t, we’re leaving him here,” Remy threatened.
Lane laughed and exited the driver’s side door. Remy followed suit from the passenger side door, only to find his son standing there waiting. Arms still crossed over his chest, pout still firmly in place. When Remy rubbed the top of Braden’s head, his son only frowned harder.
“Keep this attitude up, kiddo,” Remy warned, “and I’ll call Santa myself to tell him how bad you’re being.”
“Santa isn’t real,” Braden said, with just enough of a rise at the end of the sentence to leave it open for debate. “Mom didn’t call him and you won’t either.”
“Want to bet?” Remy asked.
Braden shrugged. “Mom bought me the presents, not Santa.”
Remy didn’t feel like getting into another argument with his son, not now. The smell of hot, greasy food made his stomach growl. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he caught a whiff of French fries sizzling in oil. “Fine. Keep acting up and I’ll tell your mother, and she’ll take back all the things she bought.” When Braden opened his mouth to protest, Remy added, “Don’t push me, Brae. You know she will.”
Braden apparently knew Kate as well as Remy did, because he shut his mouth and didn’t argue. Instead, he hurried past Remy to the door to the fast-food restaurant. He held it open, watching Remy approach, but when Lane reached the door first, Braden ducked inside and let the door swing shut.
Lane held the door for Remy, who remarked, “Looks like someone doesn’t like you much.”
“Yeah, I have a little something to tell you about that,” Lane said.
Remy thought he was teasing, and didn’t think anything of it. Kate had warned him months ago, when he first broached the subject of introducing his son to Lane, that Braden was bound to take it badly at first. Remy had seen the silent treatment his son had given Mike for the first few weeks after they met, and he expected Lane to get something similar. Which was why he had wanted the first meeting to be somewhere neutral, preferably short, and involving ice cream on a hot summer’s day. If anything could make Braden like someone, it was ice cream.
But no. Now they were stuck with each other for a full
two weeks, and any romantic notions Remy might have harbored for the holiday were gone. How would he be able to give Lane the ring he’d bought with his son moping in the background? Who in their right mind would accept a marriage proposal from a man whose child hated them?
* * * *
Braden seemed to settle down as he ate. Rather, he wasn’t as antagonistic or confrontational, but that might have been because he was too busy concentrating on his Chicken McNuggets. Remy had chosen a booth, and Braden sat beside him, Lane across the table. Remy leaned against the side of the booth and watched his son eat, while under the table, his foot rested comfortably alongside Lane’s ankle. He couldn’t wait until they could retire to their room in the cabin, close the door on the world, and lose themselves in each other’s embrace.
Whenever Lane tried asking Braden anything, the boy stared silently at his food, unwilling to answer. “How’s school?” and “What classes are you taking?” and even “What did you ask for for Christmas?” drew nothing but blank looks. Not only was Braden ignoring Lane, but he was doing so intentionally. The more Lane tried to draw him out, the angrier Remy became.
Finally Remy nudged his son’s leg with his foot. “Braden? What, don’t you speak English now?” he asked.
Braden glared at his father but didn’t speak.
“Any other time, he talks up a blue streak,” Remy joked, slurping his drink through the straw. The soda was mostly gone, leaving only ice behind, and the rattle it made as he sucked on the straw was loud in the after-dinner lull of the restaurant. “Most days, you can’t get him to shut up. Now, he won’t say boo.”
Into his food, Braden muttered, “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here.”
“He speaks!” Remy teased. “So you can answer Lane’s questions, right? What’d you ask for for Christmas?”
Braden frowned into his Happy Meal and said nothing.
“It’s okay,” Lane said softly.
Remy snorted. “Yeah, if he wants nothing but coal in his stocking.”
Lane gave him a beseeching look. Don’t keep fighting him, it said. Remy knew it was petty to keep needling Braden, but his son’s antisocial behavior was embarrassing. After all the time he’d spent talking up his son to Lane, only to have Braden prove him wrong. If the entire holiday was going to be like this, he should just turn the car around and cancel the cabin altogether.
