Page 40 of More Than Scars

How does one address the issue of wanting to make their living with you permanent? Was it too soon? Before I could overthink that, my phone vibrated.

Mom: We’ve waited long enough. Dinner tomorrow night at our house at five. We want to meet Bowie, and Tony is invited too.

Ugh…

Me: Fine.

Mom: Don’t fine your mother. We’ve been patient.

But have they really? That was still up for debate given the five thousand somewhat threatening texts I’d ignored from my mother.

Me: What can we bring?

Mom: Your appetites. See you at five.

“What’s that look for?” Bowie’s voice surprised me. “Sorry, everything okay?”

“Well, that depends on what your version of okay is.”

“Do I want to know?”

“We’ve been summoned to my parents’ house for dinner tomorrow night.”

His eyes widened comically. “Oh. Are we ready for that?”

“You tell me. We’ve got a new member to the kitchen window. Is that your version of taking the next step?”

“Kinda.”

“Well then, it’s meet the parents’ time. I mean, we are living together, after all.” He’ll either run or agree. Guess I’ll find out where we stand for sure after he gets a load of my parents.

“Tony lives here too.”

“Yes, but it isn’t, nor will it ever be, Tony who shares a bed with me. Move in with me, Bowie.”

“I already live here.”

“I mean as my boyfriend who shares a room and a closet with me. Who goes to bed with me every night and wakes up with me every morning. Be my boyfriend in every sense of the word. Permanently.”

The blank stare of relationship death…

Had I gone too far?

Bowie set his notebook and acoustic on the table and went back down the hall. Fuck, was he packing?

I was afraid to look. The scrape of hangers across the rod echoed down the hall. Rustling of boxes scooting across the tile. Shit, he was packing. I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing his shit all boxed up again, it would break me. The chickenshit in me won out. Cup of coffee in hand, I snuck outside and away from the heartache.

Me and my big fucking mouth.

Stupid heart.

Emails checked, schedule read and reread so many times it was memorized. Fuck, this was killing me.

Finally, Bowie came outside with his guitar and notebook. “Done.”

Dare I ask?Be a fucking grown-up, Pressley, and deal with your mess.“With?”

“Moving.”