Page 139 of Icing on the Cake

Listen up, pipsqueak. Compliment his mom’s cooking even if it tastes like sawdust. Laugh at his dad’s lame jokes no matter how painful they are.

And for fuck’s sake, keep the PDA with Gerard to a minimum. No one wants to see you two sucking face at the dinner table.

NO ONE.

Drew

Kitten! You HAVE to check out Mr. G’s ass when you get the chance. That man is packing some serious heat in the rear!

Once you see it, you’ll totally understand the meaning of the apple not falling far from the tree.

Or in the Gunnarson’s case…cantaloupes.

Oliver

Dude, what the hell? Elliot doesn’t need to be thinking about his boyfriend’s dad’s ass right before meeting the man.

Kyle

As much as I hate to say it, I’m kind of with Drew on this one, Ollie. I mean, have you SEEN Mr. G’s ass? That thing should have its own zip code.

You’re a lucky bastard, Elliot. You’re about to be inducted into the Gunnarson family.

Cherish the view, my friend.

Me

Oh my gosh. I’m deleting this conversation.

Oliver

Elliot, all joking aside, you’ve got this.

Be yourself and enjoy getting to know Gerard’s family. They’re really good people.

Good luck. We’re all rooting for you!

Kyle

Pipsqueak. I may give you a hard time, but you know I’ve got your back. You’re going to crush this whole meeting-the-parents thing.

And if things get awkward, just remember that you’ve endured sleeping in the same bed as Gerard and his farts.

Drew

Elliot, my adorable little kitten. I know I can be a bit much sometimes, but in all seriousness, you and Gerard are perfect for each other. In fact, I’m jealous of the connection you two have.

His parents will see exactly what we all see.

After the pep talk from the guys, I feel slightly better. I exit the stall and head over to the sink to wash my hands. I may not have taken a shit, but there are still germs everywhere.

I dry my hands with paper towels and head for the door. As I walk out, I slam into a solid wall of muscle.

The collision knocks the wind out of me, and I stumble backward.

Before my ass can make contact with the grimy bathroom floor, a pair of strong hands grip my shoulders and steady me. “Whoa there, son. You alright?”

I look up at my savior, and my jaw drops. Standing before me is a man who can only be described as a fucking mountain. He’s easily over a foot taller than me, with shoulders as broad as a linebacker’s and a chest that says he could bench-press a car. But it’s not his size that has me frozen.

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