Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 75720 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75720 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“You’ve got my mouth watering,” I said.
“We should grab some food there sometime. After you cook me some of that ropa vieja.”
I smiled at Noah’s butchered attempt at speaking Spanish.
“I don’t think I can make it as good as my grandma used to, but I’ll try.” I pressed the wine opener to the top of the bottle and pushed the button, the whirr of the machine filling the kitchen, followed by the pop of the cork as it was lifted off. The glug-glug of wine being poured came next as I filled two glasses up to the brim.
“You’ve got a heavy hand, there,” Noah said, smiling and mouthing a “thank you” as I handed him his glass.
“I think we’ve earned this after today.”
“I agree.” He delicately brought the glass up to his lips and sipped, some of it dripping down his chin. He wiped it with the back of his hand, lips glistening. I swallowed, looking away, focusing instead on recorking the wine bottle and placing it back in the fridge.
Just friends. Just friends.
We left the kitchen with our wineglasses in hand, moving to the living room, where we sat on opposite ends of the couch. I put down two coasters—one from a trip to London and another from a trip to Austin—and settled in, the soft, plush leather feeling like a cloud against my back. Noah sat with his legs underneath him, hands on his knees, smile on his face. I noticed that he was the kind of guy with a perma-grin, which was the complete opposite of my sometimes severe resting bitch face.
“So where are you from, Noah?” I asked, avoiding the hypnotizing effects of his toothy smile. If we were going to keep this friend thing going, then it was important to know a little more about each other. Book club may have been over, but I was still excited to read up on Noah’s history, flicking through the chapters and figuring out what made this golden retriever of a man tick.
“I was born in North Carolina, in a small town about an hour from Asheville. My parents own a dairy farm. They wanted me to stay and take over the reins, but I’m really not about that life. I wanted to work indoors, with air-conditioning, and I also wanted to live in a city that had more than four gay people in it. Hence, Atlanta.”
“When did you come out?” I asked, reaching for my glass, giving it a swirl, and drinking.
“When I moved to Atlanta after high school. I actually came out to my parents on the phone—yeah, I know, not the greatest, but it worked. They kind of already knew, especially my mom. Moms always know. It’s like a sixth sense. A homo-sense, if you will.”
I laughed, feeling relieved that Noah’s coming out story was on the lighter side of things. A stark contrast to my painful experience.
“How ‘bout you?” Noah asked. My smile wavered, the buoyant mood in the room being drained out as if someone took a pin to the balloon we were currently floating around in.
I decided to start with the simple stuff first. “Well, both my parents are Cuban. My mom came when she was twelve, and Dad when he was sixteen. Both of them ended up in New York—that’s where they met, at some nightclub. They danced salsa all night and never stopped.”
“Aww, that’s sweet.”
“Yeah, my dad loves saying that story. They really were a loving pair, never scared to hold hands or kiss each other, even when other parents never seemed to be that touchy-touchy. They really did teach me what love meant.” Memories flooded back: my parents driving and my mom playing with my dad’s hair, us walking through the mall and my dad wrapping my mom up in a random hug and dipping her down for a kiss.
My dad, red-faced and shouting, cracked through the glossy memories. Vitriol, anger, fear, all directed at me.
“Then I came out to them, and it changed everything.”
Noah’s eyebrows shot up, nearly disappearing under a swoop of dark brown hair. He ran a hand through it, setting it messily back in place. “Ah, crap, I’m sorry. What happened?”
“I came out to my mom first. She was okay, but she knew my dad wouldn’t be. He came from a very traditional Cuban family, with all the toxic bullshit that sometimes comes with that. He was extremely masculine, followed the traditional roles down to a T. My mom would have to serve him at parties, always cook, always clean, that kind of stupid shit. And rolled up in that was an intense anger toward anything queer.
“When I told him I was bi, he blew up. I’d never seen him so angry. I thought he was going to kick me out of the house, and I was only seventeen. I was scared, crying, shouting. My mom was doing the same. It was a fucking disaster. But I didn’t get kicked out, and the next day came, and he acted like nothing ever happened. I never forgot that night, but I never brought it up again either. And we won’t get the chance… he died three years ago. Heart attack.” I pulled in a deep breath. I hadn’t talked about this with anyone.