Page 112 of When Ben Loved Tim
I’m standing on the front stoop of Tim’s house, wearing a button-up shirt and the coat he bought me. It’s finally happening. I’m about to meet his parents! I’m more excited than apprehensive. I usually do well at this sort of thing, having won over my fair share of mothers over the years. Dads can be trickier. Especially when you’re gay. The door swings open after I knock. Tim’s expression is grim, like we’re on the front lines and about to rush into battle.
“Are you ready?” he asks.
“Yeah!” I say, grinning broadly.
“Okay.” Tim hesitates. I can tell he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. Instead he ushers me inside.
“Hey, Mom!” he calls. “Benjamin is here!”
His mother meets us in the entryway. The fleeting impressions I’ve had of her previously are reinforced. She’s beautiful! Her long black hair has a healthy sheen, her body slim and graceful. She’s wearing a yellow dress that complements brown skin a shade darker than her son’s. His mother smiles warmly and extends a delicate hand.
“Welcome!” she says with the slightest hint of an accent. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Thanks for having me over for dinner,” I reply, gently gripping her hand before letting go. “To be honest, this entire thing is just a set-up.”
“In what way?” she asks, cocking her head in confusion.
“I invented an excuse to be here.”
Tim is standing a step behind her, his eyes already wide like I’m about to blow the whole thing up.
“Your son is always bragging about how good your cooking is, so when my Spanish teacher told us we needed to choose a subject to write about, I saw my chance and took it. But I really am interested in Mexico City and its culture. And especially your cooking.”
His mother’s eyes sparkle as she turns toward her son. “Such a charmer. You should have invited him sooner!”
“Yeah,” Tim says, managing a half-hearted laugh. “We’ll be upstairs. Just holler when dinner is ready.”
“Unless you need any help,” I offer. “I’m the worst guy for the job, but I’d try my best anyway.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” his mother says with a smile.
Tim ushers me up to his room and shuts the door behind us. “Did you watch the game last night?” he asks, sounding concerned.
“I put it on,” I say vaguely.
“Oh yeah? Who won?”
“The good guys?” I venture.
“Benjamin!” Tim scolds. “It’s important. My dad will want to talk about it!”
“I’ll manage,” I assure him.
We each contributed something to this plan. I came up with the idea of needing to write a paper and created a list of related questions to make it convincing. Tim ran with this, writing his own list of things I’ll need to know if I’m going to get along with his dad. Which are mostly sports-related facts that I just can’t seem to wrap my head around.
“Let’s study,” Tim says, grabbing a notebook.
“I don’tactuallyhave an essay to write,” I remind him.
“Shut up!” Tim hisses, like we’ll be overheard. “Sorry,” he adds when seeing my reaction. “But c’mon… If we’re gonna do this, we have to do it right.”
I agree on the first part, although we disagree about what “right” entails. Regardless, I can tell how nervous he is, so I sit on the bed with him and dutifully repeat athlete names and statistics. Eventually I start sniffing. “What smells so good?” I ask.
“My mom’s chiles rellenos,” he says with a grin. “They’re my favorite, so I asked her to make them for you.”
“Aww!” I say, leaning toward him for a kiss. “That’s so sweet!”
Tim pushes me away before our lips can meet. “Don’t say things like that!”
