And the awkward cloud fell out of the sky and landed right on us.

  “Dane’s come over to visit Khalid,” Mom said sounding hopeful. I leaned back in my chair and waited for the condemnation to begin.

  “Khalid the Muslim boy you dated after high school?” He didn’t move, just stayed rooted to the tiny throw rug by the back door. I inclined my head, my lips pressed tight, arms now crossed over the freshly laundered polo shirt I’d pulled on with some tan shorts, also cleaned by the Silver Fir laundry service, thank God for them. “How is he doing?”

  “Good. He’s back at the Silver Fir Lodge in a managerial position.” My brain was sluggishly trying to keep up with this new dynamic. My father was talking with me, civilly. We’d not exchanged this many words in ten years.

  “Oh, really? That’s good. We have a new loan officer at the bank, his name is Asad. He’s originally from Somalia but moved here ten years ago.” Dad bent over to untie his tacky golf shoes and leave them on the throw rug. “He’s Muslim. So is his wife Jamilla. We had them over for dinner, remember, honey? You were going to make a pork roast and I told you not to because Muslims don’t eat pork. Did you know that, Dane?”

  “Uh, yeah, I did.”

  “I need to shower. Will you be here when I get done?”

  “Probably.”

  “Oh good. Maybe we can catch up a little…if you have time?”

  I glanced at my mother whose lips were trembling as she fought back something huge.

  “Yeah, okay. I’m here for the afternoon,” I finally replied.

  “Good. Good. It’s nice seeing you here at the table, son.” He patted my back as he walked past. I watched him go, his yellow shorts and robin’s egg blue shirt making my eyes water. Yep. It was the clothes doing it. Shit. I buried my face in my hands then wept like a baby. Mom was at my side instantly, sniffling and coughing, pulling my face to her belly while stroking my hair and saying all manner of soothing things which made me yearn to be eight again.

  “He…called me…son.”

  “He’s missed you so much,” she murmured, caught up in her own emotions. I clung to her as a needy child would. “Can you just give him a chance, Dane? Have coffee with him? Just one cup of coffee?”

  “Okay, yeah, I can do a cup of coffee with him.” She released my head and kissed me on the brow just as Khalid always did. We sniveled and blew noses, splashed water on our faces, and were just sitting back down when my father returned, looking less sweaty and way more uncomfortable. He’d pulled on some shorts and a green T-shirt. He’d aged a lot since I’d seen him face-to-face. Mom’s pictures were always a bit blurred, so I’d not really been ready for the aging I was now seeing. He was still lean as a whippet, and his hair held no silver at all, but the years had settled on his face. I wondered as he gave me a tentative smile and he took his usual seat to the right of my mother if I was the cause for most of those wrinkles.

  Mom fussed about, pouring coffee, nervously filling the sugar bowl, and complaining about not having more cream but would I like her to open a can of condensed milk?

  “Mom, it’s fine. Please sit down.” Her nerves were infecting me. I willed my left foot to stop bouncing under the table. And then there we were, the three of us, holding coffee cups, staring at the mugs in our hands. I took it upon myself as the wordsmith to say something that might open the discussion in a calm and gentle manner. Dad blundered into the lovely little speech I was writing in my mind, scattering the words like a cat leaping into a flock of goldfinches.

  “I’m glad you’re not with that Frenchman anymore,” Dad stated. Mom groaned. “What? I’m being honest. Are we not supposed to be honest now?”

  “No, no, it’s fine,” I quickly reassured him, my mother looking less than happy. “Mom, no, it’s fine. Everyone is happy that I’m not with René anymore, me more than anyone.”

  Dad nodded and pushed right on. He sat there talking about how everyone had to be so politically correct now that people like him were now afraid to be honest.

  “It’s one thing to be honest,” I slipped in when he lost his train of thought. “I have no issue with being honest, it’s when people use honesty as a weapon, just as they do with religion. It’s fine to have your beliefs, just don’t use them to justify cruelty. I get that you don’t like gays—”

  “Dane, I have never once said that I dislike gays,” Dad was fast to point out. Mom tapped on her mug nervously with her fingernails, her face set, bracing for another war she was sure was on the horizon. “Not once. I just don’t understand that lifestyle.”

  “Okay.” I drew in a long breath and then released it through my nose. “My lifestyle is the same as yours. I work, I eat, I laugh and cry. I watch TV and buy groceries and bitch about politicians. I fall in love and I get my heart broken. That is my gay lifestyle. Where does it differ from yours aside from the fact that I sleep with a man?”

  Dad gave me a long look. “It doesn’t, not really.”

  Progress! Hallelujah! It took all the self-control I had not to throw my arms in the air and shout, ‘Praise Jesus, he has seen the light!’ as I danced around the room.

  That only took ten years. Ten years lost…

  “Thank you,” I whispered instead of being a jerkish boor. “I’m glad you can see that now.”

  He nodded, his gaze lingering on the coffee in his mug. Mom squeezed my knee under the table. His eyes met mine. Then he talked about golf for five dreadful minutes which was okay because Rome wasn’t built in a day as my mother had been known to say. It had taken him this long to come around, but he had, and while it was a small concession, it was something for us to hopefully work on. Not sure how to proceed after coffee, I asked him if he’d like to come to dinner with us, but he shook his head, citing some work he had to complete since the bank had closed early for a charity golf event. When he left us sitting there to retire to his den, I felt a sadness move back into me.

  “Dane, don’t push him too hard,” Mom said, reaching across the table for my hand resting beside my empty cup. “This has been a huge day for him, but he’s still the same man. Give him time.”

  I wanted to point out that I’d given him ten years, but I bit my tongue. Perhaps dinner out with his gay son was too much right now, and Christ did that hurt, yet I didn’t push him or her. Perhaps he assumed Khalid would be there and that was too big for him yet. Maybe he would never move past this half hour of coffee and golf chit-chat. Whatever. It wasn’t my place to do more than I had all those years ago.

  “Why don’t you get changed and we’ll go meet James and Gloria?” I patted her hand, graced her with my most brilliant smile, and stored everything away word by word so that I could relay it all to Khalid later. He’d probably tell me to keep working on being graciously patient. Instead, he told me that Allah is with those who patiently endure. Which is a noble sentiment but just how long is a man supposed to endure before he simply refuses to endure any longer? Khalid had no answer for that, and neither did I.

  ***

  Time gave me another glorious week to enjoy the wonders of our rekindled sexual chemistry. Perhaps my memory was faulty, but our time in bed now seemed somehow better than it had when we were younger. Richer perhaps would be the better description. We were now surer of ourselves and the pleasure we could give each other. Our touches were skilled, our movements smoother, the fumbling ineptness of that far-off summer gone now as long as we stayed in bed. Once we ventured out of the sack the bloom sort of faded from the rose a bit. Not that I wasn’t still madly in love with the man, I was. That had and would probably never change, but he seemed unwilling to say the words that were now far from unspoken. We’d said them once. It seemed saying them again would be easier. It was for me and so I found his reluctance to talk of what the future held upsetting.

  I began to doubt myself, the feelings I was having, and the overall intelligence of even reaching out to him in the first place. There had to be more between us than just amazing sex. Right? Or was I trapped in the past?

  When the call came from Ruth one incredibly hot afternoon, I laid aside my laptop, feeling accomplished for finally ending the romance of Odom and his Elven lover, and picked up my phone. Khalid was at work, just five minutes away if I had need of him, but the lure of typing ‘The End’ had kept me here at my little cabin, toes in the grass, Cranberry Creek just a pebble toss away.

  “Hello,” I said, bending over the arm of my chair to place my laptop to the tiny table I’d pulled down to the water’s edge. I lifted my wine glass, sniffing the fruity Riesling resting in my glass. How surprised had I been to find this on the wine menu! I’d called up for a bottle and some especially pungent blue cheese spread paired with some artisan crackers. The kitchen here was a joy and greatly improved since my first trip even if the baker was lacking. Christ, I was such a snob at times.

  This was the first celebration for Across the River. Later I hoped to carry on the festivities by having Khalid fuck the living wits out of me then falling asleep in his arms.

  The flow of French out of the phone by my ear was so rapid I had trouble following her. Finally, she slowed down, like a balloon with a prick that had finally expelled all its air.

  “I hope Mireille is there to catch you when you topple from your chair,” I said. My editor snuffed rudely in my ear. Guess her wife wasn’t there. Shame. Marcel was far less prone to speed-talking and had a wicked sense of humor.

  “Marcel is not always thinking you are as funny as you seem to think you are.”

  Ah, we were speaking English. She was more than a little putout with me.

  “I sent you the blurb and new title,” I was quick to point out as I wiggled my toes while watching a titmouse scampering up an oak tree.

  “The new title is fine, although the first one I felt had more punch.”

  “Maybe but it wasn’t true to the story.”

  “We have no more time for swapping so if this must be the title and blurb we are running with.”

  “Why the huge rush for the damn blurb?” I took a drink of wine my mind wandering to Khalid, as always.

  “Because the house is demanding it for the party next week.”

  I lowered my wine glass and sat up, my toes falling still. “What party next week?”

  We then lapsed into rapid-fire French for the rest of the call which ended with my editor telling me that the house was investing a lot of money into this party and I had better be there, new lover or not. I thought to correct her by saying I was with an old lover, but the woman seemed to be running a little hot today, so I simply mumbled that I would be there in time for the damn party. I called my agent right after that to inquire why he wasn’t updating me about such things as parties and signing and readings as a good agent should. He wasn’t in the office but would get to me as soon as he could. I cursed him out in two languages and promised myself as soon as I got back home I’d find a new damn agent.

  Feeling much less cheery than I did ten minutes ago, I collected my laptop and the wine then made my way to the main lodge. Khalid looked up from the computer at the main desk, a sexy smile lighting up his face when he saw me.

  “It is done.” I placed the laptop on the admissions desk, grinned at the old lady beside me who then gave my bare feet a sour look. “We creative sorts are known to be rule breakers,” I whispered to her then wriggled my naked toes. She threw her nose into the air before stalking off with her keycard. “What?”

  “You. So, it’s done?” He tapped the young lady working with him and told her he was taking a break before coming around the heavy cherry wood monstrosity to take my hand. I grabbed my laptop, eager to get him into his office for a celebratory kiss and slug of wine before I told him I had to be back in Paris in four days.

  “It’s done. My first romance novel is completed.” I padded along beside him, soles cushioned by thick carpeting that ran all the way into his little office to the right of the grand staircase. I sat down at his desk, opened my laptop, and then hooked my computer up to his printer. “I’ll leave you the first draft to read while I’m gone.”

  I peeked through my lashes at the man settling into a small leather chair on the other side of his desk. His dark eyes flared when my words sank in. I reached for the wine, took a slug right from the bottle then offered it to him but he shook his head, so I placed it within easy reach.

  “Gone? I thought you were able to be here as long as you wish.”

  “Yeah, well, I did too.” The printer began sucking in sheets of paper and spitting them out into the tray. He leaned up in his chair, elbows to knees, face rather tight and stared at the machine spitting out my manuscript. “My publisher is putting on some sort of party at this amazingly funky independent book store on Rue de Rivoli who has been one of my biggest selling stores in France. The owner and his wife are old hippies with this incredible eye for new trends. They’ve kind of adopted me and I just cannot miss this party. Come with me. Let me introduce you to Patrice and Kim, the owners of P & K Books. They’ll just adore you like I do. Come with me.”

  His gaze flew from the printer to me. “Come with you? Where? To Paris?”

  “Yes, to Paris. Come with me. I can get us tickets together. We can spend a couple of weeks getting to know the city, my city, the one I love almost as much as I love you. Come with me. Let’s continue working on the new us. Come with me. Please. I can’t imagine going back to that house without you with me. Please.”

  As soon as his head fell forward I knew he was not coming. “I can’t, Dane. I just can’t.” He did pick up his head to look at me, I’ll give him that. His eyes held all manner of agonies. “I have a job.”

  “I know but you also have two weeks of vacation time. You told me that. You said you were going to fly home in August. Come with me to France now, it’s just a couple of weeks early! We can go visit your mother. I’d love to meet her. I’m sure it can be arranged, just shuffle the schedule to get someone to cover you and—”

  “Dane, I can’t.”

  The printer ran steadily.

  “You can’t or you won’t?”

  “Long distance never works…”

  Sitting still was hard, but I made my ass stay in that seat because if I got up I’d probably throw myself on the floor, prostrate myself, and beg him not to cast me aside yet again. My ego really could not take that kind of battering again.

  “Tell me the real reason you’re not going to at least try to work on a new us. At least be honest with me, you owe me—us—that much.”

  He drew in a deep breath then let it out through slightly parted lips. The fucking printer kept right on printing. My palms were sweaty, and my gut unsettled. Damn that stupid cheese.

  “I’m not sure if I trust you enough yet.”

  Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. He had just run a spear through me, penetrating several organs as it slid through flesh and muscle. Well, I had asked for honesty. I hadn’t thought it would leave me disemboweled but I suppose I should have expected it.

  “Okay then.” I pushed to my feet, the printer running steadily, page after page stacking up in the tray.

  “Dane…”

  “No, no, do not try to make it hurt any less because that simply is not possible. Fine. I get that. I do.” He stood up, his eyes wet with unshed tears. I wanted to slap him and kiss him. I did neither. “I get it. You’re never going to forgive me even though you say you know deep down that I had never been unfaithful to you. I’m not sure what it is you want from me, Khalid, but I’ve laid all of me open to you, again. I love you. I want nothing more than to grow old with you, maybe adopt some kids and some cats along the way, but I guess I’ll leave the happy endings for the books. So, enjoy the romance.” I waved my hand at the printer which had thankfully fallen silent now, one green light blinking as it waited for its next assignment. “I hope life treats you well. I love you.”

  “Dane, would you stop with the drama and give me a chance to explain?” He took a step back to block the door, planting his feet then folding his arms over his chest. With a huff, I took the same stance behind his desk. “Thank you.” He was a little snide but that little snipe was nothing compared to the gaping wound in my belly. “That sounded bad.”

  “You think so?” I snapped wishing I had never broached this topic. I should have been grateful for the two weeks of incredible orgasms. Fuck knows that a lasting romantic love seemed to be something Dane Forrester was never going to achieve. I felt a massive drunk coming on.

  His lips flattened. “Yes, I think so. I’m sorry for that. Just…” He bit down on the inside of his lower lip for a second. I waited. Where was I going to go? The window was too small for me to shimmy through. “When I say I don’t trust you enough that’s not exactly what I mean.”

  “Again, you’re giving me fucking whiplash with how you speak about us. What the hell is so hard about just saying what you feel, Khalid?!”

  “I’m not sure what I feel, Dane. I mean, I feel so much when it comes to you, and you keep pushing me to do things that I’m not sure I’m ready to do.” He tossed his hands around in the air, the formidable body posture shield gone now that he was getting into his shit. “Why do you always want me to change my life to suit you?”

  “Suit me. Right. Okay, so coming to Paris for a vacation is me being a miserable cock, right? How dare I offer to bring you to France, wine and dine you, show you one of the most beautiful cities in the world, and make passionate love to you every night? What a fucking bastard I am.”

  His dark eyes were angry. “You don’t have to be a sarcastic prick.”

  “Then stop acting like I’m forcing you to do something that’s so distasteful.” I paused as a thought sprang to life. “Or is the idea of being with me really that disgusting?”

  “Dane, you’re being an ass. If I found you disgusting would I have brought you to my house—to my bed—night after night? You’re so self-centered at times.”

  I rolled my eyes and chuckled, the bark full of acid. “Yep, that’s me. Greedy Dane. Exactly who was it that ran off to the UK when we had planned our lives out. Was that me? Nope.” I made sure to pop the P just to be a dick. “Also, who was it that decided spending time with his cousins was more important than being with his boyfriend? Was that me? Nope.” Again, that popped P. He was not amused. Good. I wasn’t trying to be funny. “All of the heartache we’ve suffered was because you were a greedy fuck who gave no thought to my side of things.”