Page 86 of The No Touch Roommate Rule
“Aw, and you fell in love,” I say.
“Eventually. Took me a minute to admit what was happening. I’d been married to Parker’s grandfather for twenty years, thought I was straight as a ruler.” She grins. “Turns out rulers can bend.”
“Did people around here give you shit?” I ask, then catch myself. “Sorry if that’s too personal.”
“Honey, the only thing that’s too personal is my bank account and my vibrator settings.” Nana refills our glasses. “Sure, people talked. Some of my colleagues at the university got their panties in a twist. But Dorothy and I were happy. Disgustingly, annoyingly happy. And that’s all that mattered to us.”
Parker meets my gaze across the table, and my cheeks flush again.
“Love finds you when it finds you,” Nana adds. “Doesn’t matter if it’s convenient or conventional or what people think. And when it happens, you’ve gotta grab it with both hands, babies. Love’s not the kind of thing you want to let slip by.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Parker says quietly.
“Good boy.” She stands, stretching with a soft groan. “Now, who wants to see my new series? I’m calling it ‘Don’t be a Dick, America: Penises as Protest.’”
“Obviously, we want to see that,” I say. “As soon as possible.”
The tour that follows is part art show, part archaeological dig through a life lived boldly. Nana’s studio takes up the entire converted attic—canvases stacked against walls, sculptures in various stages of creation, and an entire wall dedicated to penis paintings that look suspiciously like portraits of controversial politicians.
We wander through the house like it’s a museum. Every room tells a story. The guest bathroom wallpapered with rejection letters from galleries (“Motivation,” Nana explains). The hallway lined with photos—Nana and Dorothy at a pride parade, at parties, in their garden, growing old together with defiant joy.
I pause at a photo of Parker, maybe seven years old, covered in paint and grinning at the camera. Even then, his smile could light up the world.
“He stayed the whole summer that year,” Nana whispers, appearing at my elbow while Parker’s in the bathroom. “His parents were having one of their ‘rough patches.’” She makes air quotes. “Sent him to me for three weeks. Ended up being three months.”
“Poor kid.”
“Yeah, my son…” She trails off with a sad shrug. “I wish he had made different choices. Become a different man.” She brightens. “But he gave me a soul friend to love, so I can’t complain.”
“Soul friend,” I murmur, liking that. “Parker’s definitely a soul friend. And a good man. You’re right to be proud.”
Nana squeezes my shoulder. “I know. But I’ll try not to be obnoxious about it.”
We’re laughing as Parker rejoins us, but we don’t tell him why. Back downstairs, Nana ends the tour in the guest room where we’ll sleep. Inside is a four-poster bed with a quilt that looks handmade, more art on the walls, and windows overlooking the back garden where her tomatoes run riot.
“Towels in the hall closet,” Nana says. “Parker knows where everything is, but try not to fornicate too loudly. The neighbors are Baptists.”
“Are Baptists not allowed to fornicate?” I ask.
“I don’t think so, baby.” She winks at me. “At least I’ve never heard anything fun going on over there.” She leaves us with a promise to have dinner ready at seven, but we’re free to “relax” as much as we want before then.
“So,” Parker says, when she’s gone. “That’s my nana.”
“Sure is,” I say. “She’s the best.”
“The very best,” he agrees.
We unpack and take a walk around the neighborhood before jumping back into his truck to fetch Nana some extra potatoes from the store for dinner. After another fantastic meal on the porch, with fireflies dancing in the shadows beneath the trees, we get ready for bed with the easy rhythm of people who’ve been sharing space far longer than we have. Parker flosses while I wash my face. I brush my teeth while he takes off his knee brace. We move around each other with grace, easily making room, space.
The sheets smell like lavender and sunshine from being hung out on the line, and I make a mental note to grab a clothesline for the backyard so I can hang our sheets out to dry, too. I curl into Parker’s side, my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow.
“Thank you,” I whisper as we drift off. “For bringing me here.”
“Thank you for coming.”
“I didn’t know family could feel like this,” I confess, my throat tight. But I’m not sad. This feeling is something else.
Something that feels like roots finding good soil.
