Page 99 of The Idiot

“You’re going to wear your Gaytoberfest cruise button to Christmas dinner at Pete and Cam’s?”

“Hey, I earned it.Weearned it.” Popping Delores into drive, I wave to Charlotte as she gets into her SUV to follow us. “I figure if there’re questions about how we got together, this will be a nice conversation piece.”

I thought that was a clever idea, but he sobers. “You’re not nervous? I know you said you told Cam, but we haven’t been together around your family since Thanksgiving.”

Reaching over, I grab his hand. Maybe it’s because I don’t like being reminded of Thanksgiving, but mostly, I think it’s because I like holding his hand when he’s worried.

“Nah. I told you already—I told Cam, which means Cam told Pete. And I then told Mom that we’re dating, which means she told the entire planet. You’ve heard of telegrams? Well, the only thing as efficient isTell-A-Lorraine.”

“I still can’t believe you told her in the middle of the grocery store,” he mumbles, looking out his window.

“Why not? I knew it’d be like killing fourteen birds with one stone. Literally, I think her entire quilting club was in there that day and heard her squeal. She might as well have gone on the overhead speaker and announced, ‘Bisexual! Aisle three!’ So, it was effective.”

“You told her there on purpose? You left that part out.”

“I want everyone to know you’re mine, and I’m sorry, but I have better ways to spend my winter than going door-to-door in Wenatchee. Okay?”

He’s quiet. Why is he quiet?

Taking my eyes off the road, I find the cutest love drunk smile on his face. He really shouldn’t do that. It’s a driving hazard.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Shaking his head, I can tell he’s trying to hide what I just saw as he looks out the windshield and squeezes my hand. His eyes narrow, though, like he’s fixed on something up ahead.

“Jesse?”

“Yeah?”

“Are those… my underwear?”

The navy blue checkered fabric swings from my rearview like a giant deflated balloon. Technically,they’rea driving hazard, but I haven’t been pulled over for them yet. They match the color of Delores so well, it just seemed fortuitous when I found them kicked underneath my bed the other day. Finders keepers. I guess that makes me an underwear thief. Maybe I should say, finders creepers instead.

Whatever. They’re mine now. And, honestly, I’m surprised it took him so long to notice. For an outdoorsman, he’s not very observant sometimes.

I give my dashboard a loving pat. “Delores needed an upgrade.”

“Did you write on them?”

“Favorite son-in-law,” I inform him. “Now, whenever I clean Delores and wash them, Lorraine will know whose they are.”

“Jesse… I don’t need your mom washing my underwear.”

“It’s fine! She loves doing laundry. It’s her maternal instinct to care for me, and this way she won’t give them to Frank. If my dad wore them, I’d have to burn them and steal another pair.”

That seems to settle that silly disagreement because he just shakes his head again and doesn’t say anything the rest of the way to Pete and Cam’s place. I love that he accepts when I’m right.

Whatever silly premonitions he had about showing up together are toppled when we walk in and my mother greets us with open arms. “Oh, my boys! This makes me so happy,” she says, cupping Murph’s face and kissing his cheek.

Is he blushing? Ha! MisterCan-you-hold-my-hand-in-publicis blushing. Shit. Guess I’d better save him.

Mom goes in for a hug to go with that cheek kiss, but I stick my arm in between them to hugblock her. “Hands off, Lorraine. Get your own man.”

It’s kind of disappointing what a lack of interest there is over my cruise ship story. Everyone seems more interested in kindly interrogating Cam’s brother, Randy, or making small talk with his mom. I’m glad someone from his side showed up after what went down with his family when they found out he was dating Pete, buthello! I wore my button and everything! Such bullshit.

No matter. I don’t need to gush about Murph. I think I much prefer having him all to myself on this couch now that dinner’s over. He finally loosened up halfway through the meal and slung his arm over the back of my chair. Now, it’s right where it should be—holding me close.

Letting out another food groan, I sigh as we stare at the Christmas tree in Pete and Cam’s front parlor that doubles as their business office. Tracing gentle circles over Murph’sstomach, I watch my niece and nephew play with the train set underneath the tree.

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