The Little Library

by Kim Fielding

  Elliott reached carefully, as if the bag hid a rattlesnake, coiled and ready to strike. But he opened it and peeked. “Legos?”

  “It’s Trevi Fountain.” Simon looked nervous. “I thought maybe we could do it together later. If you’re still speaking to me, that is. But it’s architecture and historical, right? So I figured you might like this one. But if you hate it, I can exchange it for one that’s Star Wars or Scooby-Doo or something. Or, you know, I could just forget the entire stupid idea.” He bit his lip.

  After pulling the box out, Elliott dropped the bag onto the couch. He turned the set over in his hands, examining the pictures and descriptions. “This is pretty cool, actually.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  Elliott set the box on the couch before stepping closer and cupping Simon’s cheeks with his palms. “Now you want to tell me why I’m supposed to be angry?” He was calm about it, figuring Simon wouldn’t make a playlist and want to assemble plastic bricks if he was about to break up with Elliott. And Simon hadn’t showed up with any additional homeless pets.

  “I did something stupid. Maybe a little brave, but definitely a lot stupid.”

  “What?”

  Simon took a deep breath. Instead of answering right away, he backed off a bit and leaned against the armchair. His limp had noticeably improved over the past weeks, but his leg still bothered him when he was tired. Or, apparently, stressed. He stroked his beard a few times, a habit Elliott found endearing. Then Simon sighed again. “My mom called this morning. She and Dad stopped by the house last night after they closed the restaurant—leftover delivery—and I wasn’t there.”

  “You were here.”

  “Yep. Apparently this is the second time that’s happened lately. Mom wanted to know where I was. Jesus, that sounds wrong. She wasn’t policing my social life or anything. She was just curious. I’ve told you—my family thrives on gossip.”

  “Okay.” Elliott sat down and put the box on his lap. He’d forgotten the distinct sound of a new set of Legos: a promising noise with plenty of positive associations.

  “I told her I was out with a friend.”

  “Which was true,” Elliott pointed out.

  “Technically, yes. It felt like lying, though. Just like every Sunday when I sit down with them and they ask about my week. Everything I say is absolutely accurate. But I leave out the most important thing. The only important thing. You. That’s not being fair to anyone.”

  “Including yourself.”

  Simon shook his head as if that didn’t matter. “So here’s where I get to the stupid part. I told her I’ve been hanging out with a neighbor . . . and . . .”

  Elliott tucked his hands under his thighs. Otherwise he would have been tempted to leap up and shake Simon’s shoulders until Simon finally came clean. But since Elliott had waited out many a nervous student who was trying to get enough courage to admit to a spectacular mistake, he could certainly exercise patience now.

  Maybe Simon had hoped Elliott would make his confession for him, or at least engage in a round of Twenty Questions. When neither of those things happened, he scrunched his face. “I asked her if I could invite you for Thanksgiving.”

  Whatever Elliott might have guessed was going to come out of Simon’s mouth, it hadn’t been that. “Thanksgiving?”

  “Yeah. I know you have plans with Ladd and Anna, but the family thing is really an all-day extravaganza anyway, so you can come by whenever.” His confidence visibly waned, and he finished in a tiny voice. “If you want.”

  “Did you tell your mom who I am? I mean, that I’m not just your platonic buddy?”

  Simon shook his head slowly. “No. Maybe she suspects? It’s hard to tell over the phone.”

  “People don’t often invite platonic buddies to family holidays.”

  “I never have.” Simon finally let go of the armchair and returned to the couch. He pushed the bag into the corner so he could sit close to Elliott. “You’re not pissed off?”

  “I don’t think a dinner invitation is much cause for ire.”

  “Dinner with my family. With questionable context.”

  Reminding himself that Simon needed support more than he needed nagging about hiding their relationship, Elliott put his hand on Simon’s knee. “Do you intend to spend the meal pretending we’re just pals? Because I can try that, but I’m not much of an actor and I can’t guarantee—”

  “I won’t ask you to lie for me!” Simon’s voice was loud enough to make Ishtar raise her head. She must have decided all was well—dumb noisy humans—and went back to sleep.

  Elliott quelled his desire to rejoice. “So you’re planning to come out to your parents over the turkey.”

  Simon huffed. “Not just my parents. The entire Odisho clan. And a good chunk of the Eshoos. Those are my mom’s people.”

  Elliott pictured dozens of Simon’s relatives jammed into a house, all of them forgoing their stuffing and yams in favor of staring at him and Simon. That made him shudder, but he kept his hand on Simon’s leg and his voice even. “Are you sure this is the best occasion for this?”

  “Of course it isn’t! It’s a shitty time for it. But El—” Simon’s voice cracked. He looked down at his hands lying palms-up in his lap. Then he cleared his throat. “You know what’s especially stupid? If I were a girl, they’d be ecstatic over you. They’d be falling all over themselves to prebook the Assyrian Civic Hall for our reception. Okay, you’re not Assyrian, which is a minus point. But you’re handsome and nice and fiscally solvent, you like dogs, and you’re a PhD genius guy. So a million plus points.”

  “If only I didn’t have this inconvenient penis,” Elliott muttered.

  Smiling a bit, Simon reached over to pat the organ in question. “I find it pretty convenient myself.”

  “Me too.”

  They simply sat there. Then a new song came on—something by Ella Fitzgerald, Elliott thought—and Simon laughed and stood. He held his hand out to Elliott. “Can I have this dance?”

  “I don’t dance.”

  “Why not?”

  “I suck at it.”

  Simon bent and grabbed Elliott’s hand. “Nobody here to see but me and Ishtar, and she’s asleep.”

  Elliott allowed himself to be towed to the open space where the builder had imagined a large formal dining table. He felt horribly stiff and awkward as Simon wrapped his arms around him. “C’mon, El. Hold me too.”

  “But I don’t know—”

  “We’ll start like it’s a hug. I know you know how to do that.”

  It seemed like a reasonable expectation, so Elliott obeyed, planting the flat of his palms beneath Simon’s shoulder blades and leaning against him.

  “Good,” Simon crooned. “Now close your eyes. That’ll make it easier.” Then he began, ever so gently, to sway their upper bodies to the music while their feet remained still.

  Elliott let Simon move them. He rested his forehead in the crook of Simon’s neck and felt the strong pulse, smelled the now-familiar odors of Simon’s shampoo and soap. He barely noticed when Simon shuffled them a step to one side, then the other, and soon they were truly dancing. It was a rudimentary dance to be sure, but who cared? It felt good. Simon felt good. Elliott gradually smoothed his hands down the lines of Simon’s back until they settled just below the waistband of Simon’s jeans, right where the swell of his ass began. Perfect.

  Ella finished singing, and Sinatra began—another slow tune, so Simon didn’t alter their dance.

  “You’re perfectly fine at this,” Simon murmured, then kissed Elliott’s head.

  “You’re doing all the work.”

  “I’m happy to lead.”

  “Mmm. I think I like this.”

  Simon gave him a brief squeeze. “Good. I used to love to dance. When I was a kid, sometimes it felt like we went to a wedding or other event every weekend. I’d spend the whole time on the dance floor—well, when I wasn’t eating, anyway. At some level, I knew girls were
n’t floating my boat, but they were perfectly cool as dance partners.”

  “Why did you stop?”

  “When I got older, my parents tried pairing me up with every girl I danced with. It got too . . . complicated. Difficult. So I just stopped.” Simon chuckled. “When I got out of the operating room and the orthopedic surgeon came to check on me, the very first thing I asked was whether I’d be able to dance again. I was pretty doped up.”

  “What did the surgeon say?”

  “She was cautiously optimistic. Hmm. I oughtta send her a note, let her know it worked out.”

  Elliott didn’t know how many songs they danced through. For a short time, he lost himself completely in Simon’s arms, feeling Simon’s heart beating against his chest. Later they would make love, they’d have dinner, they’d take a slow walk with Ishtar, they’d build the Trevi Fountain, and then they’d go to bed. They’d talk about Thanksgiving some more. But now—now it was just the music and the primal sweetness of two bodies moving in harmony. That was enough for now. It was even enough to make Elliott feel like Simon’s surgeon—cautiously optimistic.

  Chapter Twenty

  Although Elliott at first felt relatively sanguine about his holiday plans, by early on Thanksgiving Day, he was ready to crawl out of his skin. He added an extra two miles to their morning run, and although Ishtar didn’t get sore or fatigued, she did look somewhat confused about the whole thing. “You don’t have to worry about your day,” he said through his panting. “Lucky dog. You’ll have kibble and a quiet afternoon on your bed.”

  Way to go—getting envious of his dog.

  Having decided one social engagement would be enough for the day, he’d called Ladd and Anna on Wednesday to let them know of the change in plans. “Is it okay if I ditch you guys tomorrow?”

  “It’s fine,” Anna said soothingly. “Actually, I was thinking of inviting Kyle—he’s spending the holiday solo—but I was afraid it’d be awkward between you.”

  Elliott felt guilty that Kyle would have spent Thanksgiving alone just because of him. “I like Kyle,” he said weakly.

  “Yeah, but he’s not Mister Sexy Closeted Ex-Cop who I haven’t met yet. I get it.”

  “Tell you what. If we survive Thanksgiving, how about you guys join us for dinner at my house a week from Friday?”

  “Done!”

  They wished each other luck, and Elliott hung up feeling thankful for understanding, accepting family members.

  Now it was early Thursday afternoon and he was going out of his mind.

  He’d consulted Simon about the dress code and learned that slacks and a button-down would be totally acceptable. “Would it help if I wore a dress?” he’d said, then immediately regretted it.

  Simon had only laughed. “If that’s what you want to do, go ahead. I bet you’d look fetching. It wouldn’t help smooth things over, though.”

  Ishtar had picked up on Elliott’s anxiety, and while he paced the house, waiting for Simon, she paced with him. Petting her calmed him a little, but they both jumped when the doorbell rang. At least Elliott didn’t join Ishtar’s barking.

  Simon laughed at the eager greeting he received. “I’m glad to know I’m welcome here!”

  “Always.” Then Elliott sighed. “At least as long as I’m here too. Hey, what happened to the beard?”

  Simon rubbed his clean-shaven jaw. “Do you hate it?”

  “No. You were dead sexy before and you still are.” Smiling, Elliott reached up to touch. Simon’s prominent nose and thick eyebrows were more obvious without the beard, though neither of them detracted from his good looks, and now his strong chin was visible too. “What made you decide to do it?”

  “Don’t know. I was standing in front of the mirror and just . . . I think it’s a metaphorical shave. Coming clean and all that.”

  While Simon let Ishtar into the backyard one more time, Elliott put on his coat and gathered gifts. He’d consulted Simon on this as well, and they’d agreed that a bottle of wine, a bouquet of flowers, and a box of chocolates were sufficient. “More than,” Simon had said, but Elliott wanted to cover all the bases.

  They got into Simon’s truck, and he started the engine but let it idle in the driveway. “Are you sure you’re okay going with me, El?”

  “Positive.” Sort of a lie, but a white one.

  “Things might get . . . loud. Unpleasant. I don’t want to put you through that.”

  “I’ve been interrogated for a crime I didn’t commit. I can withstand hostile Odishos.” Elliott squirmed in his seat to face Simon. “If you’d rather I stay home, I will. Maybe it’d be easier on you if I’m not there. But if you want me there, I’m going.”

  “I don’t know what’s easier. I want them to see you, though. So you’re not some faceless ogre their son has fallen in love with, but a real person. An amazing person. God, I hope they can see that.”

  Elliott hoped so too, but he was still stuck on another thing Simon had just said. “The big word. That was the big word.”

  “Yeah.” Simon looked at him gravely. “I’m not going to unsay it either. I love you, Elliott. Only reason I’d subject you to my coming out gala. Unless I hated you—then I might drag you along too.”

  It was the damnedest thing. Elliott wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. He wanted to yell at Simon for foolishly falling in love with him, and he wanted to drag Simon back into the house so they could tear off their clothing and not come up for air until the next day. He wanted to run up and down the street yelling at the top of his lungs: He loves me! And he wanted to stay in this quiet moment for the rest of his life. Instead, he did the one thing he really had to do.

  “I love you too, Simon.”

  Simple and true.

  They kissed after that, of course, and kissing a beardless Simon was a new sensation, one Elliott was keen to explore. They finally reached a point where they had to either stop kissing or take it inside. With unspoken consent, they decided on Thanksgiving dinner.

  But when Simon stopped at a light just a few blocks from Elliott’s house, Elliott must have made a noise. “You okay?” asked Simon.

  “More or less. What you don’t realize is that I’d be nervous as hell even if your relatives were charter members of PFLAG who’d painted their house like a rainbow. Meeting all those people—bad enough. Meeting my boyfriend’s people? Uncharted territory.”

  “I was less scared when I was being shot at,” Simon admitted. “But one way or the other, we’ll be okay.”

  Usually Simon totally ignored speed limits—a habit from his cop days, probably. But today he drove as if he were leading a funeral procession. Kids on bicycles could have passed them. No matter how slow he went, however, the few miles were covered too soon. His parents lived in an older ranch house with a well-kept front yard. Three vehicles were squeezed into the driveway and many more lined the street. Simon finally found a parking space two blocks away.

  Elliott grabbed the bag holding his gifts, then glanced over at Simon. “Do you want your cane?”

  Simon considered the folding version stashed in the footwell. “No. Potential weapon.” He grinned, but Elliott wasn’t sure he was completely joking.

  It was a long two blocks—and yet not nearly long enough.

  When they were one house away from their destination, Simon stopped Elliott. “You need to know this. My parents? They’re good people. Kind and loving and generous. They’re not even raging homophobes. If you and I weren’t lovers, they wouldn’t care that you’re gay, and they’d treat you well.”

  “I get it.”

  “They’ve got hundreds of years of tradition and religion telling them it’s wrong for one man to love another. That’s a really hard thing to shake. I think they’ve made an effort to be tolerant.” He tried to stroke the beard that wasn’t there. “But it’s harder when it hits so close to home.”

  “I get it,” Elliott repeated gently. “You love them. I wish this was as easy for you as it was for me, but I’m n
ot going to judge anyone. I just want you to be happy.”

  Simon stared at him wide-eyed, like an archeologist who’d unearthed a long-lost treasure. “Jesus, you’re amazing.”

  And they walked to the front door.

  Simon opened it without knocking, and a wall of sound and smells and sheer volume of humanity hit Elliott so hard he almost stumbled back. Mustering his courage, he followed Simon inside. The door led directly into a living room so packed with people that it was difficult to see anything else. Elliott had a vague impression of fussy old-fashioned furniture, like the stuff in Simon’s house, and clusters of photos on the wall. He would have liked to examine those pictures more closely, because some of them probably showed Simon as a child, but suddenly he was face-to-face with a man and woman.

  Sargon Odisho looked very much like his son—the same strong features and tall, solid build, even the same soft brown eyes. He was less muscular than Simon, carried extra weight around the middle, and had hair that had thinned and grayed, but there would be no problem identifying him as Simon’s father. Nahrina, on the other hand, was quite short and somewhat round, her thick hair dyed red. Ah, but she had Simon’s mouth, wide and soft and, Elliott suspected, prone to smiles.

  She was smiling now, in fact, and so was Sargon, but it was easy to read caution and concern behind the welcome.

  “Mom, Dad, this is Elliott Thompson, my—”

  Nahrina interrupted him with a click of her tongue. “Later. Now, please introduce him to everyone. We will get to speak soon.” She looked about as eager for that as Elliott felt. Still, she and Sargon thanked him for the gifts—with sincerity, Elliott thought. Then they hurried away, probably into the kitchen.

  “So far, so good,” Simon mumbled.

  Next came an extremely dizzying round of names as Elliott met some of the people in the living room. He felt like an exotic creature transplanted to a new continent, but everyone was polite, many even appearing eager to get to know him. He saw the light of recognition in Ashur’s eyes when Simon introduced them, but when Ashur opened his mouth to say something, Simon shook his head, and Ashur just grinned.