The Fiancé (It's Just Us Here Book 6)

by Christopher X Sullivan

  “I know.” There was a bubbling nervousness in my stomach. “I feel so strange, so squishy. I feel... excited, I think.”

  “Good. When this is over and things settle down, then it's going to be great.” His chest was a perfect place to lay my head. Nod. Calm down. Breathe.

  Then I let him go and the hug that almost lasted forever was over. I shouldn't have let him go; I should have allowed him to stay by my side as he had requested. Actually, I should’ve gone straight over to visit my parents on that Sunday afternoon after talking to Father Dunworthy. I should’ve called my mom on Monday after work and let her know that she should prepare Dad for the news I was about to deliver.

  I did none of that preparation. Instead, I went in blind and without a legitimate plan. Sure, I had different scenarios laid out in my head, but you couldn't call any of it a plan. Not really.

  My parents showed up. I wiped the sweat off my hands and took one final breath as my old self as I opened the apartment door.

  My mother was dressed professionally. My father wore a button-down shirt, which looked incredibly strange on him. My mother must’ve forced him into it. Even when they went out to eat, my dad would wear shirts that said ‘born to fish, forced to work’ or other such silly fishing-related phrases and they often had paint flecks or sawdust or drywall powder on them—even when they went to nice restaurants.

  “You guys look nice,” I said nervously.

  “You too. I like the orange pants.” My mom gave me a long hug.

  “They’re copper,” I said.

  My dad grunted. “Let's get this over with.”

  “What's the news that you want to share with us?” my mother asked.

  “That can wait until after dinner,” I said. My logic was that if everyone was well-fed, then our tempers would be kept in check.

  I placed the chicken and salad on the table. I had fresh Italian bread for my dad even though I didn't eat it.

  “I hate chicken,” he complained.

  “I know... I guess I forgot.” My apology was stilted. “I guess I'm so used to eating chicken and gluten-free that it didn't cross my mind. I should’ve made you my turkey meatballs, I got the recipe—”

  “I hate turkey.”

  I stared at my hands. The three of us sat quietly at the table. I sent up a silent prayer hoping there was someone watching from the heavens that could possibly make this easier on me. My sister... perhaps. If she were watching over me, what would she be saying... wanting? What would she think of my father?

  “This is nice,” my mother commented. “Such a cozy atmosphere.” She was trying to make up for my father's bad attitude. He was in a horrible mood. Grouchy. Grumpy. He barely ate. He turned over the chicken with his fork and stared at it. He cut it into little pieces and pushed it around.

  My mother had to reprimand him.

  It didn't work. My dad was as surly as a child—he always acted more like an adolescent than me. Even when I was in grade school.

  “You guys didn't have to get dressed up for me.”

  “It sounded like big news,” my mother said, somewhat knowingly. “I don't think you've ever cooked for us before. Not in your new apartment.”

  “This isn't the best place to throw a dinner party,” I said while thinking of Mark's beautiful kitchen with that amazing view of the city.

  “Anywhere you are is the perfect place,” my mother said. “We love you and we’re so proud of you.” The way she laid out her compliments sounded strange and out of place. My father stared at his food and did not join in the lovefest. His silence was unsettling. He was always a talker. He would talk talk talk talk talk... even when we were on the work site (especially when we were working). He would talk with the homeowners. He would talk with the construction crew. He would talk with the electricians. He would talk with anyone who would listen. Half the time, I felt the only reason he took me to work was to be an extra pair of ears to listen to his comments.

  I hated working with him on those days. Those were the days that I felt like I didn't have to be there and could have been home honing my writing craft. Those years were the Dark Times and it took a lot of energy to prove to my parents that I could live off my writing (because it took many years to get to that point). I didn't want to be reliant on them ever again.

  Yet here I was, emotionally weakened. I still craved their approval and didn't want to rock the boat. It was too late to be the perfect son... and my father was already in a bad mood.

  Dinner continued.

  My mother repeatedly attempted to elbow her way into my plan and ask what this beautiful dinner was about, but I deflected (again and again). I probably would have gone the whole night without breaking the news if my mother didn’t keep pestering. I had to keep Mark in the front of my mind, but even he (and the promise of all that we could become) wasn't enough. I was terrified.

  Finally my dad did it for me. “Just do it already. We know why you're here. Get this shit over with.” He crossed his arms and glared at his food like it was poison.

  “Hun!” my mother yelled. “Don't be like this. Let him do it on his own!”

  “What are you guys talking about?”

  “Nothing honey, nothing. We're just wondering why we're here for this fancy dinner and you haven't told us anything about it.”

  “Like normal,” my father grumbled. “When has he ever told us anything?”

  “That's not true,” I argued.

  “Well, now you know...” my mother started, a clear signal she was about to side with my father and didn’t want me to get mad. “It's not like I ever know what you're writing. Or when the next book is coming out. You always were so secretive, even as a kid.”

  “Okay, now is not the time to get on my case!” I threw my arms out like they were knives. “Why are you talking like this? What do you know?”

  “Your mother got a call,” my dad said, still grumpy and unmoving.

  My heart rate plummeted. “What kind of a call?”

  “Nothing,” my mother interjected. “There was a... really nice man who called me earlier this morning. He told me what was going on with your dinner.”

  “Mark!” I huffed and crossed my arms, unconsciously mimicking my father. There were many curse words running through my head—all directed at my partner. Why would you do this to me? Why would you ruin everything? Fucking dunce!

  “He was very nice, sounded like a proper gentleman. Gave me quite a fright at first.” She laughed lightly. “I can't wait to meet him.”

  “Well then, I guess the cat's out of the bag...” I’m out of the bag. “Mom and Dad, I have a boyfriend.”

  That was the line I had settled on last night and was determined to say it. Technically, I had already been outed, but that didn't matter. It felt great to say, like a bubble had burst inside of my chest—like I could breathe again and the claustrophobic walls in my head had fallen backwards to reveal clear open skies for as far as the eye could see.

  “Oh honey,” my mom said woodenly. “That’s such a surprise.”

  I bet Mark told you you had to say that.

  I looked up at my father cautiously, expecting him to explode in a fit of rage. He took this kind of stuff personally. He would listen to things on Fox News or hear them on talk radio and then he would get so morally offended. It was confusing to me how he could get that worked up over someone he would never meet—like Ellen DeGeneres. Here I was... someone he would see... someone he would probably curse and disown... and yet, somehow, he contained himself.

  “Very surprising,” dad added robotically. “Now let's get out of here.”

  “Hun!” my mother barked like a marine general. “Be nice.” She glared at her husband. They were having an invisible conversation and it seemed to be a continuation of a long-running argument that predated this dinner.

  “He is very nice,” I said, breaking the silence. “I love him very much.”

  “Oh,” my mom said, like I had just put a cute kitten on the table.<
br />
  “That's it,” my dad said. “I can't take it. I came here. I heard it. Let's get out of here before I say something I'm going to regret.”

  “If you can't say anything nice, go sit out in the car,” my mother commanded. “This is important.”

  “I'm fine,” my dad said, cowed. He re-crossed his arms.

  “Now that’s better,” my mom said, like a mollified queen accepting an apology from a misbehaving subject. She looked at me... and her gaze was absolutely ferocious. My mother has always been a fighter and has always been on my side—especially when I went through my stint at the hospital looking for an answer to my fatigue. My one regret in the writing of this self-portrait is that my family—especially my mother, grandmother and grandfather—didn’t get to play a greater role. “When are we going to meet this nice young man?” she said.

  “He's waiting down the street, actually. If you'd like to meet him, I can give him a call.”

  “We'd love that very much,” my mom said, as if willing it to be true.

  I snuck out of the apartment and gently shut the door. Hopefully I could kill two birds with one stone—my mother would yell at my father and get him in line while I got Mark in line. Mark picked up on the second ring. You should have known never to call my mom! What were you thinking! Dunce!

  “How's it going?” he asked immediately.

  “It's fine.” I didn’t raise my voice. “They want to meet you.”

  “I'm on my way,” he replied. “I'd love to meet them. How are you holding up?”

  “Fine. I'm surprisingly fine. Everything has been going better than I could have ever imagined. My father is in a bad mood, but what are you gonna do? I think my mom is probably yelling at him right now.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I'm hiding out in the hall.”

  “I'll be there in thirty seconds.”

  “I'm kidding. I'm not actually hiding. Well, maybe I am...”

  “Twenty seconds,” he said. “I'm running up the stairs right now.”

  “Where were you?” How did you get here so fast?

  “I was sitting in my car, ya dummy. I thought you were going to call me an hour ago. What took so long?”

  “I almost chickened out,” I admitted. “How long were you down there?”

  “I saw your parents as they walked in and assumed you were going to tell them right away. Like we planned.”

  “I told you I got nervous. Just be happy that it's done.”

  Mark walked into my line of sight. “Hey,” he said into the phone.

  “Hey,” I said, hanging up. “Let's get this over with.”

  “It's not like you're walking the plank.”

  “I know. I love you.” We shared a quick kiss. I had a love-hate relationship with his cologne, but I was loving it that day. “No doing that in front of my dad. I think his brain is about to explode.”

  “We don't care about that. All that matters is the two of us. We're doing this for us.”

  “The good news is I didn't even have to come out.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked. “You haven't told them yet?”

  “Don't play coy with me. My dad can't keep a secret.”

  “Well,” Mark said defensively. “I wanted you to have an easy time. The way you talked about your father... I didn't want him to yell at you. I went through enough shit when I was younger. You can't blame me for wanting to protect you from that.”

  “I don't. It all worked out for the best. Let's go meet the crazies.”

  “I've already met one,” he said happily. "And he liked me."

  “That’s before he knew you sodomized his son.”

  “Gross. Don’t say that.” He recoiled. “Yeah, don’t say it like that.”

  “You’ll be fine,” I assured him. “Everybody loves you, remember?”

  Mark plastered a grin across his face as I opened the door. How does he make that look so natural?

  Apparently, my mom and dad had reached a detente. My mother stood excitedly when we entered the kitchen. “Well... Mom and Dad...” I cleared my throat. “Here he is.” Mark walked in behind me. “This is Mark.”

  “Oh my goodness!” my mother said, clasping the sides of her face like she just won the lottery. She walked up to Mark as if in a daze, then twittered nervously. “He's so handsome,” she said, shocked. She scooted closer to me with a wide grin, like she was on a sugar high. “Oh my goodness,” she said again with a flutter in her voice. She took Mark's outstretched hand, and when he kissed her fingers, she nearly passed out.

  “It's nice to finally meet you,” Mark said evenly. He put as much warmth and seduction into his voice as he could possibly muster. “Chris has told me so much about you.”

  “It's nice to meet you, too.” My mother was breathless and she touched the side of her hair. “Oh my goodness. Look at him.”

  “Hello, Mark,” my father said. They shook hands.

  My mom was thrilled with the change in my father’s demeanor. “Oh how nice.” She grabbed her husband's arm. “Be nice to him,” she muttered darkly, slapping the arm she was holding.

  “We've already met,” my father explained. “We met last week.”

  “We got to know each other over a couple beers,” Mark added proudly.

  “What do you mean?” My mom was suddenly sharp, veering towards danger so that Mark’s eyes bulged in fear.

  “Nothing,” I interjected quickly. “He wasn't drinking. Mark was making that up... it was me and Mark who were sharing a beer. Dad was just here eating the pie.”

  “Because if I was having a couple beers on a work day, my wife would yell at me about it,” my father explained with some levity. This was his first attempt at humor after an hour of stilted, canned responses.

  “He was sober when he got in the car,” I promised.

  “He shouldn't drink at all before he drives. He knows I don't like it.”

  “Well,” Mark said sheepishly. “I brought wine for all of us to share. I guess I didn't know any better.”

  “Oh don't worry about it, honey,” my mother was once again all smiles and her tone changed completely, almost instantly. “Don't worry about it at all. We can share a glass this once, just to relax.”

  My mother was one of those women who fell immediately and completely under Mark’s spell. She pulled me aside when Mark had his back turned and gave me a look that said: well done. She laughed at Mark’s jokes. She watched his face as if he was a famous movie star. Mark charmed her with his smile and his stories.

  “We did meet before,” Mark pointed out after his second glass of wine. “I was Chris’ publicist. At his party.”

  “Oh!” my mother said. “I remember. This makes so much sense now. Suhail’s girlfriend’s brother.”

  “That’s me,” Mark said with a grin. “Suhail’s girlfriend’s brother.” His leg tapped mine under the table. “Actually, Suhail met my sister because we kind of set him up.”

  “We did not,” I reminded him. “Mark thought Suhail was going to get eaten alive by his sister.”

  “But he didn’t. So we set them up!” Mark laughed at me. I rolled my eyes. My mom seemed to be in heaven and would have laughed at anything Mark said.

  My dad had thawed significantly, but he was piecing things together, finally. “So last week when I saw you two...”

  “It was a date night,” I confirmed.

  “Huh. I did like you, Mark. You’re a cool guy.”

  “Thank you, sir. I was excited to meet you, but you nearly gave Chris a heart attack.”

  I laughed nervously and the air pumped weakly out of my lungs. “Let’s not go there.” It was like speaking through a cloud, each breath making me even more dizzy. Mark was at my side and chatting with my mother like they were old friends. Surreal. And it didn’t help that mom was basically drooling over him.

  “So...” my dad pondered. “You really are a fruit.”

  Dad! Fuck!

  “And your son is too,” Mark q
uipped.

  I nearly swallowed my spoon. Mark got a swift kick under the table for that one. “I ain’t no fruit,” I said. “I don’t walk runways and shit.”

  “Christopher!” my mother said. “Language!”

  “Sorry, Mom.”

  “You should hear him when you’re not around, Gwen. He swears so much that my ears burn.”

  “Do not.” And I got it all from you, you fucking asshole. So shut your fucking mouth. I’ve got plenty of dirt on you.

  Mark was flying high and absolutely in his element with a captive audience showering him with attention. When Mark is on fire like he was that night, he truly is something to behold. My father was still reticent and grouchy, but he didn’t rain on our parade.

  In the end, it had been a good idea for Mark to warn my mother so that she, in turn, could warn my dad. I had been prepared for the worst—for my dad to completely explode. The masochistic side of me may have even wanted him to pick a fight.

  I did like to punish myself and have never grown out of the need for some good old-fashioned self-flagellation. I don’t know why I make things harder on myself.

  “Chris is the smartest man I know,” my mother said, her usual reserve slipping because she wasn’t used to drinking so much. “He’s smarter than me and my husband combined. I always worry about him... well, I guess it worked out. Though he never tells me what he works on.”

  “He doesn’t tell me either,” Mark confirmed. “Did you know he stopped writing?”

  “He writes every morning,” my mom said, instinctively. “I still remember the first time we had that conversation, don’t you Chris? You sitting on the couch and me standing with laundry in my arms. Mom, I made sixty dollars last month, and I’m going to make sixty dollars the next and the next and the next. I can do this. I’m going to be a writer.” She tried to make her voice deep, but she sounded like a frog. “You said you were going to write every day and that it was all going to work out. I didn’t believe, but now I’m so proud of you. More proud than I can possibly express.” She sighed happily.

  I’m not a writer anymore.

  I clutched Mark’s hand under the table. He didn’t take the hint.

  “He hasn’t written in months,” Mark revealed.