Page 7 of Romance Languages

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No,I didn’t have gay dads. Although that would’ve been cool.

Greg, Ethan, and I had all gone to college together back in the day. Greg was my big brother in our fraternity, showing me the ropes of university life, and continuing to look out for me in the adult world. I’d done an absolute shit job of adulting in my twenties and was hoping to turn things around in this new decade.

They’d let me move into their basement so I could shore up my shitastic financial situation. And if living here rent-free meant I had to put up with their dad/son jokes, I could handle the good-natured ribbing.

Plus, these guys could cook.

The pull of the salty aroma of Greg’s turkey meatballs was like a tractor beam yanking me into my seat at the dining table. Greg had remembered to buy fresh garlic bread, which meant I’d have something to clean my plate with this time.

I set the table while Greg and Ethan did their little dance in the kitchen, working in unison to make dinner. This was their thing, cooking together, and it illuminated how crazy in love they still were with each other. Greg gave Ethan a little pinch on his ass; Ethan held out the wooden spoon for Greg to taste. It was all a bit nauseating, but ultimately very adorable.

In college, they came from different worlds. Ethan was a straitlaced academic, Greg was all about frat life. But they’d found each other and made it work.

Their relationship almost gave me hope that I could find a love like theirs.

Almost.

“This is incredible,” I moaned when the first forkful of food hit my tongue. Who needed love and sex when I could have two gay guys cook for me on the regular?

“I added a little more basil this time,” Ethan said, taking his cooking as seriously as his casework for his big, fancy law firm. He was still in his dress shirt with rolled-up sleeves, his dirty blond hair combed in neat waves.

“Yeah, you did.” I spun a thick glob of spaghetti on my fork. I knew how to eat like an adult, but perhaps all their jokes were making me revert to my teen self.

“How was school today, Shay?” Greg asked. “Were the kids nice to you?”

“Ha,” I deadpanned. “Let’s see. One of my students found a Reddit thread of sexual idioms in Spanish that he decided to share with the class.”

Having my students ask each other tomojar el churro(wet the doughnut) right as Principal Aguilar, who spoke Spanish, walked by was something I wouldn’t likely forget. Fortunately, he wasn’t up on Spanish slang because he asked if we were having churros and if he could have one. My life and teaching career had flashed before my eyes.

“I won’t be including that in my next BlingBling video.”

“Do we actually get to see a sneak peek of the next Mr. Shamwow video?”

“It’s Mr. Shablahblah.”

“I should’ve trademarked that name when I gave it to you in college.” Greg turned to his husband. “If Seamus becomes a mega-famous and wealthy BlingBling influencer, do I have any legal claim to his fortune?”

“Well, that depends. Is there documentation of you giving him this nickname?” Ethan fought sarcasm with cold, hard legal facts.

“We’ll have to look at our old videos.” Greg darted his eyes left and right. I had the same thought. We shuddered to think what shit we might find from old party and frathouse footage. “Or not.”

“Yeah, or not.” I gulped down my water.

“I don’t want to know,” Ethan said.

“I was a lost man before I met you.” Greg went full sappy Hallmark card, kissing his husband’s hand.

“Please.” Ethan rolled his eyes, but his blushing cheeks said otherwise.

It was still strange to see Greg with his husband. In college, Greg was known for getting with lots of chicks. He was proud of his manwhore status. Then one day, he told the frat he was dating this nerdy, kinda uptight guy. It was like a lightswitch had been flipped, and he was gay. Of all the people who I’d suspected might bat for the other team, Greg had been at the bottom of the list.

Greg pulled off the crispy end of the garlic bread. “So what’s your next video about?”

“It’s about the random things my students are obsessed with touching in class. Books on shelves, the corner of my desk, hitting the top of the door when they leave class.”

“That’s…accurate.” Greg taught in middle school, a hell I never wanted to subject myself to. He was able to gain their respect and get on their level, though. His charm knew no bounds. “My students don’t like to read books, but they love touching them. Is it the same thinking behind dogs peeing to mark their territory?”

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