Page 107 of Call Me Sir

Surely people recalled going to her funeral? I sigh.

I want to call him and chew him out. But I’m pretty sure is sleeping peacefully, and rightfully so. He worked his ass off today.

Once I’m done with the dishes, I wipe off the counters and eventually move to the table.

Picturing Cole choked up about someone yelling at him irks me deep in my chest. It makes me want to look up his previous employee and have some choice words with them.

Sure, he dresses casually and seems carefree, yet something tells me he was far stricter at the jobs he attempted as a cook.

I try to wrack my brain for some way to resolve this problem for him. Except, his dream coming true would mean him leaving our work place.

Selfish, I tell myself.

I’d give anything to see his eyes sparkle from his dreams coming true.

Loads of questions fill my brian now. Like, did he go to culinary school? Could I use my connections to get him a job doing what he loves most?

Washing my hands, I turn off the low jazz music and the lights.

It’s pitch black and I use my phone to make my way to the bedroom. I flick on the bathroom light and Cole doesn’t flinch, he’s out like a light.

Changing into my silk bottoms, I use the restroom, brush my teeth and give myself a once over in the mirror.

I don’t think I come across as gay. I’ve reveled in that. And while I don’t want to change my nature, I remind myself that it’s okay to be gay, in case there’s a little piece that needs to accept that.

It’s okay to be gay.

I flick off the light and crawl into bed with Cole. As soon as I’m under the covers with him, his body shifts to mine.

Holding him, I eventually fall asleep after looking out the window for a while.

Thirty Seven

Cole

Meeting with the team to plan the gala has been an experience. There’s so much I didn’t know about my coworkers. I thought they were boring because they didn’t have sex on their breaks, or talk about epic things. Turns out, I wasn’t paying attention.

Rumi goes on about some of the artists she’s found to create art pieces to auction off. Some she knew personally from the groups that she’s in. After a bit of egging, she’s showing some of her own pieces on the tv from her laptop.

“These are epic,” Kahlid says, squinting at the multicolor, space-esque painting in front of us.

It really is.

“You gonna sell it at the gala?”

Rumi scoffs, tucking her black hair behind her ear.

Her delicate hands cascade across the keyboard. “No way.”

“Why not?” I argue, wrapping my arm around my leg.

She shakes her head, her cheeks turning a deeper shade of pink.

Obviously she’s not gonna cave, at least not right now.

“You should at least think on it, Rumi, these pieces are sick.”

“Thanks,” she mumbles, closing the laptop. Changing the subject, she sits up straighter. “Did you get Oliver to agree to giving a speech?”

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