Page 18 of Mortgage of Convenience

When Mom finally confessed that she’d started talking to him, clearing the air and getting closure decades after their divorce, I hadn’t approved. I love her more than anything, but I didn’t like it. I still don’t, a year later, but my mom is more than capable of making her own choices, and she’s never pushed him on me.

Until now.

“Fuck.”

Yep.

“It gets worse,” I add. “On top of her usual spiel about how much he’s changed, she’s asked me to talk to him. Face to face. Probably so I can’t cuss him out.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Fuck, I don’t know. The last thing I want to do is see him. It’s been over twenty years. The only things I have to say to him start withfuckand end inyou.” So what if Mom is adamant that Jon has changed? So what if he’s gotten help for his anger issues and is now, according to her, acalmer, clearer person? “She said he wants to make things right, as if that’s possible.”

“Not unless he’s built a time machine and has learned how to be a good father.”

“I told her I’d think about it, which, fuck, feels like such a lie. But what else was I going to say? She went through so much more of his shit than I did, and she’s found a way to forgive him.” As glad as I am that she’s been able to move past it all, I’m not sure I can.

“It doesn’t mean you have to. What did Lewis say?”

I huff a laugh. My therapist had a lot to say when I brought it up. But no matter how many circles I talked myself into, it all came down to the same problem. “I’m having difficulty reconciling the man I remember with the one Mom’s talking about.”

What I didn’t tell Lewis, or even Aiden, is that it isn’t only my father I’m struggling to reconcile. It’s me. The part of me born of him, the parts I inherited from him. Habits I learned from him. All the terrible instincts I’ve kept buried since the day I lashed out and punched him to defend Mom.

She might have raised me right, but I still see parts of him reflected when I look in the mirror. When I look deep enough inside myself. Anger, insecurity, pain.

I’ve worked hard to not let them control me the way he did.

But I’m fairly certain it will all go out the window the minute I see him again.

Aiden grips my shoulder. “You’re the best guy I know, so you’ll make the right decision. And if you needsomeone to have your back or hold you back, you know I’ll be there.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it. Not sure I trust you to hold me back with those T-Rex arms, though.”

Aiden laughs, affronted. “Fuck you. You’re lucky I love you.”

We stop at a red light, jogging in place. “Love you too,” I return. It’s easy to say. I honestly don’t know where I’d be without him. Aiden is a straight-up good guy. When I came out as bisexual, he stood by me. He was the first example of nontoxic masculinity I had, and he’s everything my father isn’t.

Knowing Aiden has made me a better man.

I work Thursday through Saturday at the club. They’re open all week, but Rochelle, the owner, is a fair boss. She’s also a bit of a foster parent to our merry band of misfits. Which is hilarious, since she’s a year younger than me.

It’s not a Vegas review, so the club is intimate. Rochelle painted the walls and floors dark, which has an amplifying effect on the colored lighting and rich velvet touches. Rather than a blank floor facing a stage, she favors a cabaret style with small tables in groups of two and four.

Lady Luck started as a dare. At least that’s what Rochelle tells customers. The reality is that she started dancing when she was twenty-one and was misfortunate enough to work in some of the shittiest clubs imaginable. When she had enough money to open her own, she made it a point to treat her employees well and pay themhandsomely. If someone doesn’t like it? Rochelle has never had a problem telling them where to shove it.

Now, Lady Luck is a staple. It’s also queer as fuck, the staff included.

“Why are you holding a cactus?” I ask her.

Rochelle looks offended on its behalf. “It’s not a cactus. It’s a succulent.”

Right. That clears everything up.

She holds it out to me. “And it’s for you and Bee. Consider it a housewarming gift.”

Tentatively, I take it, like she’s just asked me to defuse a bomb. Everything I know about plants boils down to one thing. They need water.

“It’s great too. The botanist said that you barely need to water it.”

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