Page 69 of Befriending the Bear
He missed them, I could tell, and my heart ached for him. “Are you g-going to call them to wish them Merry Ch-christmas?”
He hesitated. “I don’t want a fight on Christmas morning.”
I reached for his hand. “You d-don’t need to tell them about me. You can d-d-do that another time, when you feel the t-time is right.”
“No.” He firmly shook his head. “I’m not going back into the closet. I’m not hiding who I am…and that I’m in love. If they can’t accept that, then I have to draw my conclusions from that.”
We were still at the table, coffee cups warm in our hands, the last pancake sliced neatly in half between us. Outside, rain slicked the windows in slow, steady rivulets, softening the morning into a watercolor.
Fraser had just said he wasn’t going back into the closet, not even for Christmas morning. A deep sense of pride filled me. “You don’t have to do it n-now. Christmas d-doesn’t have to be the day for ultimatums.”
He looked at me and smiled, all tenderness. “I don’t want it to be an ultimatum. I want it to be truth.”
We sat for a while in the comfort of our shared silence. Then, as if the air had shifted around us, he stood. He walked over to the kitchen counter, where he’d left his phone charging, and picked it up. With a last look at me and a deep inhale, he touched the screen.
He stepped into the hallway, and my stomach clenched for him. Not with fear, but with empathy because I remembered too well what it was like to brace yourself against blood ties that didn’t bend when you needed them to. I couldn’t hear the words at first—just muffled tones, Fraser’s low rumble of a greeting. I busied myself clearing the table.
I heard the rise and fall of his voice, the careful words he delivered as he spoke measured truths. Then another pause. Another breath. Then the creak of the floorboards beneath him. And then he returned.
His face was hard to read. A little flushed, but not angry. Not sad. There were shadows in his eyes, yes, but no storm, no grief, no bruised silences.
“You okay?” I asked.
He nodded slowly, then walked over to where I stood by the sink, wiping down the counter.
“They asked if I was seeing anyone. I said yes.”
“And then?”
He looked at me with a smile that was half-worn and half-victory. “And then I told them about you. That you’re kind. Quiet. Brilliant. That you make the best tea this side of the Cascades. And that I love you.”
I blinked.
“And then w-what?” I whispered.
He exhaled. “My father said, ‘Well, all right.’ My mother asked if you bake.”
That drew a laugh out of me, low and surprised.
“I said yes. And that you’re a librarian and a writer and that I’m bringing you to Montana in January.”
“Oh,” I said, biting back the swell of emotion. “Well. Sh-she’s going to expect c-cookies.”
“She said she’s looking forward to meeting you and swapping baking recipes.”
I leaned against the counter, breath leaking out of me all at once. “That’s… That’s g-good.”
“It’s not a parade,” he said, stepping close, “but it’s not rejection either. And right now, I’ll take that.”
He kissed me again, soft and sure, his hand warm against my jaw. I melted into it, closing my eyes. He tasted like coffee and maple and something sweeter underneath.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against mine. “Thank you,” he said.
“F-for what?”
“For giving me something worth telling the truth for.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just kissed him again.
