Page 48 of I'm Your Guy
Mom Calling.
I answer immediately, of course. “Hey, Mom. Everything okay?” I squint at her image on the screen. Her hair still looks shiny, but her face is a little too thin.
“Everything is absolutely fine,” she says with a smile. “Just calling to see if you’d made it home from your road trip. Your lip looks better.”
“Doesn’t it? I just got home. But look!” I turn the phone around. “See my new furniture? This place is really coming together.”
“Wow, baby. That is nice.”
“Wait until you see the living room. Hang on.” I trot down the stairs and stand in the center of the room. “See? It’s beautiful.”
“Look at you! Furnishing that place like a grown up.” My mother cackles. “I never knew you had such nice taste.”
“Oh, I don’t,” I assure her. “But I had some help…”
“Tommaso? You want fries or mashed potatoes?”
I turn instinctively toward Carter, who’s hovering in the entranceway to the kitchen. And since I’m holding my phone away from my body, my mom immediately asks, “And who is that?”
Fuck. I turn the phone around to face me so fast that I almost drop it.
“Who’s your new friend?” my mother presses. “He’s so cute.”
“Mom,” I say, startled. “Don’t jump to conclusions. That’s Carter, who’s helping me furnish this place. It’s his job.”
This conversation is weird. I don’t like it. And I hurry upstairs again, so we can talk privately.
“Oh, honey. For a second there, I thought…”
Whoa. My blood stops circulating.
But she clears her throat and doesn’t finish the sentence. That’s what we do. We don’t finish difficult sentences.
Even so, my heart has resumed pounding madly inside my chest. “I hired him to help me furnish this house in time for your visit. He worked late tonight.”
“Oh,” she says again. “That’s nice.”
“It is,” I agree.
“You know what would be nicer?” she says with a shrug. “If you had someone waiting for you when you came home from a road trip. Someone who wasn’t just a friend or a helper.”
“Mom.”
“What? I’ve learned this year that you should never wait to be happy.”
“Got it,” I say tightly. But I’m replaying what she’s just said. The recent lack of gender-specific pronouns. First my sister, and now her? Maybe they’ve been discussing me. The idea makes my skin prickle.
I don’t talk about my sexuality. Not to anyone. And I’m not starting now. My only move is to change the subject. “Besides nice furniture and chocolate-covered cherries, what should I be sure to have in the house for you when you visit?”
“Not a thing, baby boy.” She smiles. “Groceries can be ordered. I’ll bring my own tea, because I have a new favorite. I just want to see you. And meet any new friends that might be around.”
I don’t take the bait. “Sounds fun, Mom. I’d better go. I’m supposed to look at… I don’t even know what. Lamps or fabric or something.”
“Enjoy!” she says with a cheery wave. “Sounds fun!”
I disconnect. And not a moment too soon.
EIGHTEEN
