Page 35 of A Merry Christmas for Art… and His Tentacles

“What is your favorite food?” Dad asks.

Dean glances at me. “Oh, um, I like anything.”

“That’s nice. What is your favorite?” Dad repeats.

“Uh, lasagna? But like I said, I’m good with anything.”

Dad smiles. “I will find you the best lasagna in the city.”

Mom winds a few of her tentacles around his arm and pulls him forward. “We should not interrupt their date. They have a party to get to, otherwise Art would not be wearing that horrible sweater. Have fun! I’ll text you details about dinner tomorrow,Dean. Please bring your family tree and corresponding medical history.”

Oh my God. This is mortifying. Sure, it’s standard practice for cephalopod shifters to compare family medical histories and ancestry prior to mating. We’re a small community and have a strong commitment to genetic diversity. But none of that is relevant in this situation.

“Mom, he’s human and we’re gay,” I remind her.

She waves my concern away. “I refuse to treat him differently just because he’s a human man. I’m not prejudiced.” Before I can argue further, she drags Dad off. He waves to us, promising Dean once again to find the perfect lasagna.

I turn to Dean Miller with my heart in my throat, not sure how he’ll react to their intensity. But he’s just watching them walk off, that secret smile on his face.

“They’re great,” he says.

I wring my hands together. “Yeah? You think so?”

“Yeah.” He steps out of the elevator and drags me with him. “Lucky for them, my mom is obsessive about family history. She’ll be thrilled when I ask her for our family tree. It will make her year.”

Maybe my eyes get a little watery at that. After all, I love my parents more than anything. How can I not get emotional when Dean admits to liking them, even though my mom accosted him for his family medical history? It’s only reasonable to have an emotional reaction.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Of course.”

He acts like it’s nothing. Which means he must not know why my mom wants to know his family’s medical history.

“She doesn’t quite understand the temporary part of temporary mates. That isn’t done in cephalopod culture,” I explain.

He squeezes my hand. “I know. It’s okay. And maybe this doesn’t have to be temporary.”

The thought had occurred to me. It seemed more like a pipe dream than a true possibility, but there was a time when I thought sexual intercourse with him was a pipe dream too.

“Just so you know, my father will find you the best lasagna in the city. He’s excellent at research,” I say.

Dean chuckles. “Why am I not surprised?”

Dean

The normally boring conference room has been transformed into a festive Christmas wonderland. Even though Art and I were both here for the decorating, there’s something magical about seeing it at night with all the twinkling lights and the tree shining in the corner.

Beside me, I hear Art take a deep breath in. “Dean Miller, it reminds me of the bioluminescent beaches in the Maldives my parents and I visited a few years ago. We did a lovely and thorough job with the decorating.”

“We totally did,” I agree.

We’re standing just inside the door, marveling at the decorations, when James comes over holding two glasses out towards us. “Good! You’re here! I got you guys eggnog, and I nabbed a table over there for us to sit at.”

He gestures toward a table filled with a variety of humans and cryptids that James and I are both friendly with. I smirk at James as I see Bob, the bigfoot security guard he’s been crushing on, sitting at our table. I grab the drinks, handing one to Art, and then I lean over and ask, “James, are you finally chatting with Bob?”

James blushes, then looks back nervously at the table. “He just sat with us. In the chair next to mine.”

I clap James on the back with my free hand. “Well, go talk to him! Just do it before you dip into the eggnog,” I laugh.

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