Page 110 of The Frathole
I sit in silence, feeling this ball of tension radiating through me, steadily growing until it feels like it’s so big, it might tear right through me. “Please stop,” I spit out, my face red, taking deep breaths as I try to remain calm. I don’t know how it came out, though, because they quiet and turn to me with stiff expressions. “How long have you been seeing Enzo?”
“It’s been about eight months,” she reveals.
Eight months when they’ve only been separated for a year. It seems fast, but if anything, it assures me that it was over between Mom and Dad long before they agreed to a divorce.
“He’s a nice guy,” she says. “I’ve told him all about you, and he’s excited to meet you when he gets a chance. We were thinking about doing a cruise for Christmas. Maybe you could come with us.”
“He might want to spend Christmas with me,” Dad rushes out.
She searches around uncomfortably. I’m sure she only mentioned Christmas to push through the awkward tension, but it’s only amplified it. She must realize that it’s too much for me because she says, “We can sort all that out later. We can manage with whatever you want to do.”
Even though there are no plans set, between Enzo and this tension about my hypothetical Christmas plans, it’s overwhelming. Fortunately, the waiter arrives, as though the universe realizes I need a mental break. I rush through the menu, flustered as my mind swirls. I swear I might throw up. When the waiter finally walks away, I say, “You know, maybe it’s too soon to talk about this stuff. Can we put a pin in it?”
“Of course,” Dad says.
“Sure, sweetie.”
Feels like some mercy knowing they’re willing to set it aside, but that can’t erase what’s going on inside me. And I feel like shit because even though I haven’t seen either of them in a month, after that pic on Mom’s phone, this awkwardness between us lingers, spoiling what could have been a lovely brunch by the lake.
Fortunately, there are other subjects. Dad catches me up on his job, and I tell them about mine, but I don’t tell them about Marty. I care about him so much, but I don’t want to share him with them when I’m in a mood.
By the time I head home, I’m stressed as fuck. When I arrive at the apartment, I’m relieved to find my boyfriend sitting on the couch, his MacBook Pro on his lap desk. He glances up, bright-eyed, clearly about to ask me how it went. But his expression shifts in an instant as he picks up on my mood. He sets his lap desk on the coffee table and pushes to his feet.
“Ryan?”
I start to say something, but it catches in my throat.
He moves closer, his arms finding their way around me.
“Fuck,” I mutter, batting at my eyes with the backs of my hands.
He doesn’t push, gives me time to recover.
Having him here, knowing I can lean on him, means everything. Gives me the strength to finally get it out. “It was hard when they first shared the news, but it still didn’t feel real because things were normal. I think a part of me wanted to pretend it wasn’t really gonna happen. That they still had time to make up or make things work. Not that that would have happened, but it’s something I wanted to believe, but then I saw this picture on her phone with another guy, and it’s like my world came crashing down all over again. And next thing, Mom and Dad were already getting into it about who I’d spend Christmas with. I think Mom was justtrying to keep things from being awkward, but it reminded me that nothing’s ever gonna be the same now.”
Marty’s quiet, just listens to my pain.
“I’m so sorry, Ry.”
His words are reassuring, offer that familiar soothing sensation. He pulls me in for a hug I eagerly accept, and the tears roll down my cheeks.
“I don’t know what to do, Mart.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
Of course, I know he’s not gonna have some magic answer to fix all this. Nothing can fix what’s been broken. I have to accept that now.
30
Marty
Ryan’s been ina funk since his visit with his parents. He’s not the smiley, friendly guy I’m used to seeing, the guy who doesn’t give a shit about anything. He’s not eating as much. He’s quieter. Even his kisses don’t feel as sincere. And we definitely haven’t been fucking as much.
Not that I expect him to be a fuck-machine all the time now that we’re boyfriends, but it only plays on my insecurities. I’ve tried to give him his space, not push, but I hate how it’s eating away at him.
It’s the same today, but at least he’s taking some of his frustration out on the build, hammering away like he’s got a grudge against the roof, while Lance and I toss chunks of debris into the dumpster in the driveway.
It’s been a few weeks since we’ve seen Lance and Ty here, so I’m glad they were able to make some time to help this weekend.
