Page 141 of Shut Up and Score
Across from me, Colton’s dad grunts—a low, short sound as he reaches for the green beans. “Rolls are getting cold,” he says, which I think is his version ofnice to see you againoreat all this food so we don’t have to throw it away in a week.
Colton’s sister elbows me under the table and smirks like she can read my mind. “Don’t let Dad fool you,” she stage-whispers. “He’s already smiling more than usual.”
“Am not,” Mr. Taylor mutters around a bite of casserole.
Linda catches my eye again before looking at her son, and leaning in like she’s sharing some grand secret. “We’resoproud of Colton,” she says, clearly trying to be The Supportive Ally Mom.
Colton smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Thanks, Mom.”
“And we’re proud of you, too, Micah. For… you know.” She gestures vaguely, trying to encompassbeing gayandexisting in the dining roomin one sweeping motion.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “Uh…thanks,” I say carefully, and Colton’s fingers brush my knee under the table in quiet solidarity.
From there, the conversation becomes a mix of teasing, catching up, and Linda attempting to pile more food on my plate every time I clear a section. Colton’s sister demands updates on every part of my life as though she’s been stockpiling questions for two years. His dad mostly listens, occasionally throwing in a dry comment that lands funnier than it should.
And somewhere between Linda insisting I take the last piece of pie and Colton’s sister telling a story about Colton falling into the lake in his jeans a year ago, I realize I’m…comfortable.
Really comfortable.
We’re halfwayout the door when Linda calls after us. “Wait! I almost forgot.”
She hurries over, digging in her purse like she’s about to produce a coupon or a pack of gum. Instead, she pulls out two identical rainbow-striped keychains—woven fabric loop, shiny silver ring—like something you’d pick up from the Pride merch table at a street fair.
“I saw these and thought of you two,” she says, holding them out as if they’re priceless family heirlooms. “Now you can match. You know—like the couple you are.”
I freeze, caught between laughing and melting into the floor. Colton’s ears go pink, but he takes them, one in each hand, as though this is the most normal exchange in the world.
“Thanks, Mom,” he says, a little too smoothly, and I can tell he’s seconds from cracking.
Linda beams, clearly pleased with herself, and shoos us toward the truck. “Drive safe! And don’t forget—next Sunday, same time!”
By the time we’re both buckled in, the second the doors shut, Colton loses it. A low laugh bursts out of him, head tipping back against the seat.
“Matching keychains,” he says, holding mine out to me. “You realize my mom just basically gave us a joint uniform?”
I grin, shaking my head as I take it. “Oh yeah. We’re branded now. Property of Linda Taylor.”
He chuckles again, sliding his own onto his truck keys. “Think we’re supposed to wear them on our belts like a badge of gay honor?”
“Only if you’re ready to be the poster boy for ‘small-town mom tries her best,’” I tease, slipping mine onto my keyring and giving it a little spin.
Colton glances over at me, and his smile softens in that way that still knocks the wind out of me. “She really does mean well, you know. She really took this whole thing better than I expected.”
“I know,” I say quietly, fingers brushing over the rainbow fabric. “And honestly? I’ve had worse first impressions.”
He laughs again, puts the truck in gear, and we pull out into the night—two rainbow keychains swinging in sync from the ignition and my hand resting easy on his thigh.
THIRTY-SEVEN
COLTON
Micah’s doorclicks shut behind us, sealing out the night and the lingering buzz of my parents’ house. The hum of the mini fridge fills the room, low and steady, like it’s been waiting all evening to welcome us back.
Micah drops his keys on the desk, the little rainbow keychain swinging once before going still. He kicks his shoes off with lazy aim and flops onto his bed, breathing out loudly as if he’s been holding his breath all day and finally gets to let it out.
Instead of following, I stand there for a second, watching him. There’s something about the way he looks right now—hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, hair a little messy from my mom’s hugs, the soft lines around his eyes from laughing—that makes my chest feel too full.
He glances over, catching me staring, and quirks a brow. “You gonna join me or just stand there creeping?”
