Chapter Text
“You’re anxious.”
He’s wound tight like a bowstring, veins thrumming with tension under my easy gaze.
“What’s wrong?” I glance down to his hands, nails biting into skin.
“I just—“ He cuts himself off, melting into my touch as I entwine our fingers together softly. He rolls his head onto my shoulder, dropping into his sigh. I tip my head down on top of his.
“You just?” I implore gently.
There’s a pause.
One heartbeat. Two heartbeats.
Then he sighs in a completely different way. His entire body rolls with it, tension leaking out of him alongside the carbon dioxide.
I turn my face into his hair, pressing a kiss to what I can reach. He dips his head closer into my shoulder.
“Babe,” I say, and I can hear the responding groan.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I just hate this…tightrope we have to walk.”
It’s like cold water dumped down my spine. “Tightrope?”
He senses the change in my tone, sitting up immediately. “Not us, Coop,” he explains. “You’re the most stable thing in my life.”
It was only a few months ago that we thought I was going to jail for murder. I raise an eyebrow. “Pretty unstable life you got there,” I joke and he snorts.
“Maybe,” he relents. “But it’s true.”
I pause, then venture, “Tightrope?”
“With your dad,” he explains finally. “It’s all so precarious.”
“Big word,” I interrupt, lightly.
He laughs. “Unstable,” he swaps, making me laugh too. “I feel like I have to be so cautious all the time, and it is tiring.” He turns and looks at me, eyes pensive, and hurting. “I can’t imagine how you feel. I feel guilty for even admitting that it upsets me, because you must feel it so much more.”
I shake my head. “Don’t,” I tell him. “I get it. It’s exhausting. But…it’s my dad,” I add, hopelessly.
He drops his head against mine. “I know,” he whispers. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean—“
“Stop,” I tell him, again, bringing him in close to me.
He’s right, after all. It’s not fair that we have to act so cautious around Pop. It’s not fair that he can give and take away his approval so quickly. And it’s certainly not fair to drag Kris into it. But it’s not as if I have a choice, I crave Pop’s approval like it’s ingrained into me. Maybe after my childhood, it is.
Kris is relaxed into me now, lulled over my body like waves lapping over shore. “You alright?” he questions, low, quick, like he can hear the anxieties building under my skin like a bass drum.
“Yeah,” I tell him, hiding my smile at our role reversal. I glance up at my bedroom door, Pop will be home soon, dinner on the table.
There’s a chance it will be a tense affair. But I hope otherwise.
We sit wrapped in each other’s warm embrace until I hear Lucas’s thudding steps up the stairs.
He flings open my bedroom door, and the resulting crash against the wall makes Kris flinch in surprise.
“Jesus,” I tell Lucas. “There’s no fire. Calm down.”
“Pop said Kris is staying for dinner.” Lucas’s eyes ping pong between us, and I shrug, playing it cool.
“Yeah.”
He raises his eyebrows, he’s excited. He’s practically bouncing on his heels.
“Relax,” I tell him drily. “It’s not a big deal.”
Kris huffs a little laugh next to me, rolling to his feet. I follow, Lucas glancing up at us both.
“It is,” he insists, before thumping back down the stairs.
I watch after him fondly. “Little brat.”
Kris laughs. “He’s just happy you’re happy.”
“He likes the drama,” I correct him, but deep down I know he’s right.
Lucas isn’t bothered by Kris one little bit, and seems to take it a little personally when other people are. The feud between Pop and I has been mostly a cold war, but it doesn’t mean that Lucas isn’t well aware of it. I think it upsets him sometimes, having his loyalties pulled in different directions like that.
He’s probably most excited about the idea of us becoming a real family again, the way we were when I was with Keely. I’m not so sure that will be happening, but I suppose it’s nice to hope.
Kris follows us down the stairs, entwining our hands together. Mom is in the kitchen, Pop is barbecuing on the back porch, and Nonny is overseeing it all, perched on her chair in the middle of the dining room.
“Kris, darlin’,” she crows as she catches sight of him. He’s hard to miss, in his 6’4 frame.
He smiles at her. “Hi, Mrs Clay.”
“None of that,” she bats away dismissively. “You know it’s Nonny to you.”
“Kris,” Mom calls from the kitchen. “Do you like potato salad?”
He shoots me an incredulous look which I send back with equal confusion. “Um, yes, I do,” he calls back, shrugging at me.
“If I knew all it would’ve taken is a broken dishwasher to bring about all this, I would’ve taken a bat to our old one months ago,” I whisper to him and he sniggers into my shoulder.
It’s more than just a bit weird, Kris taking his place at my side, dining chairs pressed up tightly against one another as we attempt to squeeze more people onto the table than strictly built for.
His warm, strong hand in mine brings back echoes of Keely’s more slender, delicate grip in this exact setting, and I squeeze him back harder. In gratitude, in apology, in love, whatever.
Pop makes a big show of coming in from the back porch, with plates of meat stacked high in his arms.
He settles back into his position at the head of the table, and when he makes eye contact with me, his smile is just the wrong side of strained that makes me nervous.
Kris was right. This does feel like a tightrope. I’m tensing as if ready for a fight, like some part of me thinks this is a trap.
Kris soothes a thumb over the back of my hand, recognising and calming my inner turmoil in one easy gesture.
I serve myself and him a plate, quickly, methodically. The less time we’re at this table, the less time there is for Pop to change his mind.
“Danke,” Kris murmurs to me, as I hand the plate to him.
I’m not sure if the German was intentional, but it makes it feel more intimate. Like we’re having a private conversation, outside of prying eyes.
Kris waits, politely, until everyone else has started eating until he does too. Lucas, on my other side, holds no such restraint, and is already halfway through.
There’s a silence, companionable but also pregnant—everyone is waiting for someone to make the first move.
As pattern would have it, it’s me who breaks first.
“Thanks for dinner,” I say, meaning mostly thanks for inviting my boyfriend.
“Of course,” Mom dismisses.
Kris opens his mouth, presumably to follow me in thanking them, but Pop beats him to it.
“Cooper tells us you’re premed,” he says, matter-of-fact. There’s not much of a conversation to follow from the statement, but Kris, gregarious as ever, manages anyway.
“I am,” he says. “At least, med school is the hope. But, I really enjoy it so far. It’s nice to be able to choose exactly what courses you’d like to study.”
I almost want to applaud him. Where I would have answered a tense ‘yep’, he relaxes the entire table with his easy chatter.
Mom asks him a question about modelling, and he waves it away with the perfect amount of humility. I can’t help being awash with pride, watching my parents slowly realising how excellent a person he really is.
“And when did you meet?” Mom turns this question to me, her eyes keen.
We’re back in dangerous waters.
He glances at me, gives me permission to lie if I want to with a squeeze of his hand and an almost imperceptible smile.
I don’t.
“Early April.”
Pop blinks. “That’s a long time.”
Whether he means a long time to be together, or a long time to be lying about it, I can’t be sure.
I nod. “It is.”
Mom’s features soften. “Why didn’t you tell us?” she whispers, and all of a sudden, the conversation has taken another sharp turn.
“I couldn’t,” I say helplessly, my eyes straying to Pop.
He meets my eye contact, steady on. I don’t see regret on his face, but there is something lurking below the surface. “It’s not an easy life you’ve chosen.”
“I didn’t choose it.” My words have no bite to them.
He acquiesces with a small nod. “It won’t be easy,” he repeats, instead.
He’s referring to baseball. “People’s opinions aren’t new to me.” If there’s anything being outed publicly will do, it’s teach you how to drown out the bullshit.
“But their opinions might change things.”
I straighten in my chair, cautious to make direct eye contact. I want to be clear. “I love Kris. That’s more important.”
Kris watches on carefully. He doesn’t want to interrupt this pivotal moment. But he runs his hand over my thigh to show me he agrees.
Pop pauses, but he doesn’t push. “Okay.”
The conversation flows after that, but if I’m honest I’m not paying attention.
I’m giddy with relief, gripping Kris’s hand like a lifeline, and watching the profile of his face until he makes eye contact with me. I’m sure we make a very sappy picture, looking into each other’s eyes, but I don’t stop to care.
Kris and I pack away the dishes, placing everything into our new dishwasher. Pop claps a hand on Kris’s shoulder as it starts up.
“Thanks again, son,” he says and my whole heart seizes.
Pop freezes as if only just realising what words left his mouth, but he doesn’t take them back.
Kris and I share a small, private smile, and I wait until Pop has left the room to tug him in for a kiss.
“Your place tonight.” I don’t leave room for argument.
“You have a game tomorrow,” he points out.
I shrug. “You’ll come.”
He grins right back at me. “You know I will,” he says softly, tugging at my shirt to pull me back in for another warm kiss.