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Especially me.
Which, of course, made Ken stand up and leave the room.
“…hates bein’ the center of attention. He’s shy, that one.”
Ken’s parents stood as well, smoothing the wrinkles from their Sunday best as they escorted us to the front door.
“It was nice to meet you, Brooke,” Mrs. Easton said with a polite smile.
Like my mother, she was a schoolteacher, but unlike my mother—who taught art at an overcrowded, underfunded public school where they let her wear tie-dye and Birkenstocks to work—Mrs. Easton looked like she was probably employed by a pricey private school where they let teachers hit kids with rulers.
“Nice to meet you, too.” I beamed, spreading my arms in preparation for a hug that was clearly not going to be reciprocated.
Mrs. Easton’s eyes went wide in horror as she realized what I was doing, her arms glued to her sides. I dropped my hands as heat crept into my cheeks, turning to face Mr. Easton.
Furrowing his brow as if he didn’t know what to do with me, Ken’s dad raised a hand and patted me on the shoulder. Twice. “Welp, y’all drive safe.”
“Uh…thanks for having me,” I said, distracted by the sight of Ken in my periphery, turning and walking down the front steps without so much as a goodbye. “The cake was delicious,” I sputtered, stepping backward onto the Welcome mat. “Happy birthday, Chelsea!” I called into the house before turning to hustle after Ken.
He had just opened his driver-side door when I dived into the passenger seat.
“What the fuck was that?” I asked as he cranked the engine and backed out of the driveway.
“What was what?”
“That!” I threw my hand out in the direction of his childhood home. “You just…left! You guys didn’t hug or say I love you or anything!”
Ken shrugged, shifting into drive. “We don’t do that.”
“What do you mean, you don’t do that?” I screeched.
Ken glanced at me in annoyance.
“You guys don’t hug?”
“No.”
“Never?”
Ken gave me a warning look.
“Oh my God.” I sat back in my seat, flabbergasted.
All those armchairs.
My heart hurt, thinking about Ken as a little boy in that house. No couch to cuddle on. No touching. No tickles.
“Have they ever told you they loved you?”
Ken kept his eyes on the road, his mouth set in a straight line. “Probably.”
“Probably?” I gasped. “You can’t even remember?”
Ken cut his hard eyes to mine, just for a second. “It’s not that big of a deal. They’re good parents, okay?”
“I know; I know.” I held my hands up. “They’re lovely—”
“Just because something’s different doesn’t make it wrong,” Ken cut me off. He’d never interrupted me before.
I turned in my seat, facing him head-on. “I’m sorry. I know they’re your parents, and they seem like wonderful people, but you going your whole life without hearing the words I love you…that is absolutely fucking wrong.”
Ken kept his eyes on the road and didn’t say another word. The conversation was obviously closed for discussion.
I didn’t tell him I love you as I stared at the side of his beautiful, impassive face, but I thought it.
I thought it as hard as I fucking could.
