Page 123 of The Unfinished Line

Welcome under her rooftop, my ass.

Jacqueline knelt beside me, calmly sweeping the fine white grains onto a paper plate. “After what happened with Kelsey,it didn’t elate me to learn about your very promulgated career. I’d been hoping her next relationship would be a little less—ambitious, for lack of a better word.”

I stared at the glistening granules sticking to my hands. What exactly was I supposed to say to that?

“But I was wrong, Kameryn—to judge you without knowing you.” She touched my forearm, prompting me to look at her. “You are nothing of what I expected. You are a treasure. And any parent should be so fortunate to find their child in love with someone as kind, as genuine and lovely, as you are.”

Before I could fully appreciate her unexpected words of laudation, she leaped up, cursing. “Damn it!” The pan on the stove had begun to smoke, the melted butter blackened on the bottom. She tossed it into the sink, flipping on the cold water as a hiss of steam rose to fog the bay window.

For a moment, her aimless gaze turned melancholy, but just as quickly, the sentimentality vanished, and she huffed a dry laugh, tipping her chin toward the trash can. “You know, just toss it,” she said of the salvaged sugar. “I don’t even like toffee.” Busying herself with a bristle brush on the soiled pan, she continued with her forthright candor. “Tell me about your parents, Kameryn. Have they met Dillon?”

“They—” I hesitated, “well, yes, last Christmas.”

Her umber eyes flicked up from the sink, settling on me for further clarification. After three decades in law, I was certain she could read me far better than she could read the blurred writing on her toffee recipe. “But they don’t know about her?”

I couldn’t help but look at the floor. “They don’t know about me.”

“Ah,” said Jacqueline. The single syllable made me feel like a coward. Uncomfortable under her scrutiny, I stepped too hard on the trash can lever to dump the spoiled sugar, sending the lid clanging against the wall.

Jacqueline didn’t flinch like I did. “Are you concerned how they will receive that information?”

“I…”

I didn’t know how to answer. I wasn’t honestly sure. On one hand, my parents were some of the most open-minded people I knew. Vocal on equal rights, fair housing, the gender pay gap. My dad had driven around with a faded bumper sticker on his work truck that readFeminism is for Everybodyuntil the old Ford finally quit turning over. Most of my mom’s friends in the horse industry were gay men.

But when it came to me?

I didn’t know.

“Isn’t everyone?” I finally said, drying my hands on a dish towel. I risked a glance at her. “Wasn’t Dillon?”

The subtle crease in her otherwise flawless brow was the only indication my question surprised her.

“It was never a conversation with Dillon.” Setting the pan in the dish strainer, she turned back to face me. “It was just who she was.”

“You just knew?”

Jacqueline shrugged. “She just knew. It wasn’t a question. When she was thirteen and brought home a girl named Cambrie who she introduced as her girlfriend, I don’t think any of us blinked an eye.” She flipped the recipe Rolodex closed and shoved it to the corner of the counter. “That was the thing that infuriated Bedwyr most about Henrik. Aside from the reprehensible ethical dilemma of him being her coach and the morally abhorrent truth that she was only a child—it was made a hundred times worse knowing it was so completely against her grain. I think it was that which my husband could forgive himself the least. But anyhow,” she said, picking up a soap bar and bumping the faucet on with her elbow, “that’s neither here nor there. Grab the sack of potatoes out of the pantry, will you?”And just like that, the whirlwind of the conversation was closed, swirling down the drain with the sudsy water.

Late that night, long after Dillon returned from her workout and Seren came back from the barn, after the evening had been spent wrapping presents while Jacqueline gave in and attempted a second round of toffee, well after Seren had begged her sister to sit at their grand piano—I was shocked to discover Dillon played beautifully—when the house was finally dark, and my body was slack with sleep and content from lovemaking, I lay awake, staring into the dark.

My mind was back on the conversation with Jacqueline in the kitchen. On the way she and Dillon’s father had so easily accepted Dillon for who she was. The way we were able to stay here, under her roof, sleeping in Dillon’s childhood bed—a double, for the record—without any hint of discomfort or judgment.

It made me want to call my parents. To come clean with them and unburden myself of secrets.

But I couldn’t. And not because I was overly concerned with their reaction. I imagined they would be surprised, but when the shock wore off, I anticipated they would be accepting.

The problem was—they’d both been over the moon when I’d put on a pretense of having reconnected with Carter. They adored him. They always had. When we first started dating, my dad joked about putting me up for adoption and keeping Carter if I ever broke up with him. Since rekindling our supposed relationship, I had no doubt my mom had once again been fantasizing about a wedding, and scoping out what future horse shows she could attend as a grandma.

So whileMarriage to Cartermay have been sitting in theThings Never Going to Happencategory for $2000, until Ifound a way to let my parents down easy, I’d have to allow them to keep smoking that pipe dream.

Which meant there would be no late-night “Merry Christmas, by the way, I’m gay” call to Palo Alto.

Beside me, Dillon groaned in her sleep, and I could feel a muscle in her back quiver with a cramp. I’d noticed she’d gotten more of them since increasing the distance of her afternoon bike rides, but she never mentioned it. Nor did she ever complain about the blisters on her feet, or the chaffing rash from her wet suit, or the endless sunburn on the back of her neck and ears, no matter how much sunblock she applied.

I’ve experienced worsewas her shrugged response whenever I would point out an injury. Enduring it all in silence seemed to be her steadfast motto.

Over the shadow of the uniformed stitches slowly healing across her brow, the moonlight from the garden window illuminated a sign hanging above her trophy shelf. The plaque was cut in the shape of a dragon, with the wordsBydd gryf, Ddraig Fachpainted in sweeping calligraphy.

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