Page 9 of Overstaying His Welcome

"Don't try flirting with me. I know I'm not what you want," she said, a cautious air to her voice.

We both knew if anyone overheard us, all hell would break loose. We didn't talk about my sexuality in this family. It was too much of a problem to openly speak of.

Occasionally, they would bring up marriage, and I would shoot them down very quickly by telling them there was only one person, or rather, one type of person I wanted to marry.

The truth of it was there was only one person, but they didn't need to know that. The less they understood about my personal life, the better.

"Come on in. Let's get you to the dining room. They’re already seated,” she said, patting me on the shoulder and leading me down the hall.

My parents' home was ostentatious. It had been since the moment they purchased it when my father won his senate seat all those years ago.

Since then, it has become sort of a mausoleum in my mind. It's stuck in a period of time that I never hoped it would turn to. If I had it my way, I would set the place on fire and then sweep away the ashes.

Ornate paintings and glossy floors did nothing to hide the darkness lurking everywhere.

The berating comments.

The snide looks.

The man who convinced me I would never be good enough yet somehow fostered a desire in me to attempt to do so anyway.

It was a fucked-up situation.

I knew it.

My therapist knew it.

I just couldn't seem to break free from it no matter how hard I tried.

When we reached the dining room, Roberta pressed a soft kiss to my cheek after waiting for me to bend over since I was so much taller than her. Then she shuffled towards the staff entrance to the kitchen.

Part of me longed to follow her. I could greet the chef and sample a few of the dishes, maybe hide and pretend I never showed up, yet still get the delicious food.

It wasn't an actual option, though. I had to be here. Otherwise, they would show up at my office and make a scene.

Not a real scene, but enough of one for people to know that something was wrong. Devlin Sheppard never came to my office. Neither did my mother.

Inside the dining room, I found them in the same spots they always were. My father at the head of the massive table, and my mother to his left.

I often wondered why he put her there. You would think your partner would go to your right, given the phrase ‘right hand man’ and everything. My father obviously did not find my mother to be on that level of importance, hence where she was seated.

And unfortunately, I was put there. I calmly walked over and sank into the seat at his right.

“About time you showed up,” he barked at me.

No ‘hello,’ or ‘how are you?’ Not even a ‘It's good to see you, son.’

That was it.

Devlin Sheppard’s way was to give you shit from the start.

“I'm here now, Dad,” I said, forcing away the bitterness in my tongue.

My mother eyed me, though she didn't say a word. I tilted my head slightly and said, "Hello, Mother."

She raised her glass up to toast me, then took a large sip. To be honest, it was more of a gulp, but she was a lady and ladies don't gulp. Yet another one of their teachings.

My father picked up a bell from beside his water glass and rang it twice. The doors in the back of the room burst open as staff rushed in with the first course of the meal.

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