Page 55 of In Frame
Leo had picked up the flowers with her favorite colors in mind, riotous pinks and purples and the occasional pop of white and gold; he said cheerfully, “Maybe they’re for Dad, not you,” and wiggled them at her. “Got a vase?”
“Oh, yes, somewhere.” His mother glanced back at her office, which currently held multiple bookshelves, one dozing tabby cat on his perch, two computer monitors, and ten toy knights arranged along her desk. “Not in here, obviously. Kitchen?”
“Logical,” Leo agreed, and trailed her back out to the world of copper pots and an old but much-loved teakettle and a covered pan of something mysterious but savory-smelling on the stove. Benvolio the tabby yawned, stretched, and sauntered afterthem.
“Your father’s been experimenting again, so it’s a sort of venison cobbler? I think? With horseradish scones.”
“I’m not even going to ask.” Leo peeked into the pan. “Actually, yes I am. Are those parsnips?”
“Probably? I really couldn’t tell you. I’m sure it’ll be delicious, though.” Harriet Whyte did not cook, famously so. Leo adored his mother and would physically stand between her and the stove if she ever expressed interest in attempting scrambled eggs again. They’d been simultaneously rubberyandcrispy. He to this day had many unanswered questions.
She got down on the floor to peek into a cupboard. Benvolio sat down beside her and put whiskers forward. “Here, will this work?”
Leo looked at the object in question. It was in fact a vase—odds had been against that—though it was a vase of a tall hand-blown murky green glass variety, with perplexing lumps and ripples in unexpected places. “Where’d this come from? And how can I get one?”
“It’s hideous.”
“It’s incredible. I want three on display somewhere. Mum, the cat’s in the cupboard.”
Harriet looked at the cupboard she’d just closed. The cupboard meowed plaintively. She said, “Oh dear,” and opened it again. Benvolio strolled out, tail held high, and went over to sit by his food bowl.
Leo put flowers into vase, water into vase, and vase on kitchen counter, next to the small sculpture of Dionysus with grapes. And then hugged his mother properly. And hard.
Harriet hugged him right back. “This is quite nice. It’s been a few weeks, hasn’t it? Oh, there, I know you’ve missed us, we’ve missed you too, what’s brought this on? Not that I’m complaining.”
“Nothing,” Leo said. “Just. I love you. And Dad.” He let go, reluctantly. “Where is Dad?”
“Wren!” his mother said. “That was where.”
“Mum, if Dad’s turned into a bird, I wish you’d told me sooner.”
“Wouldn’t it be marvelous if he could?” She considered this possibility, head on one side. “He could just swoop us all away, take us up for a sunset flight…”
“He’d be a large bird, then. Where you got the vase, right?”
“Oh yes. This lovely young man named Wren whom I’ve just hired to do some backdrop painting. He’s learning to be a glass-blower in his spare time. I believe he was practicing. That one was a gift. Your father went out for…something. Cinnamon? No. Sugar? Coffee?”
“Maybe the coffee. Should I feed Ben? He’s glaring at me.”
“It’s his default expression, you know that. But yes, if you wouldn’t mind. Wine?”
“Yes,” Leo said, wholeheartedly. He expected he might need it. He got out a tin of cat food, which prompted a yowl of anticipation, and dutifully served the cat, who went back to purring while eating. Benvolio had ruled the house for twelve years, and approved of Leo, provided that Leo knew his place in the household hierarchy.
He took a deep breath. He didn’t truly think his parents would react poorly to his sudden discovery of bi—or possibly pan, thank you, Jason—sexuality. He knew they loved him, he knew they had huge and generous and accepting hearts—
He had never imagined coming out to his parents. He’d honestly never realized he’d need to.
He wanted to tell them. He told them everything, or just about; they’d never had secrets, as a family.
He wanted to text Sam. He wouldn’t—Sam was meeting Jason, and that was important, and Leo couldn’t interrupt—but the presence of his phone was a reassuring weight in his pocket.
He didn’t have a plan, a script, a bit of dialogue to memorize. He did notknowhow they’d react; he thought it’d be all right. He hoped so.
He took the goblet—large and painted with dragonflies—that his mother handed over. Gulped wine without thinking.
Light golden flavors washed over his tongue: pears and peaches, summer sun, effervescence. Colby would’ve known the year and the winery; Leo just swallowed and appreciated the taste, the sensation. He focused on only that, for a moment.
“Oh dear,” his mother said, setting down her own glass—it wore hand-painted strawberries with pride—and looking over at him across it. “Are you all right? Is something wrong?”
