Page 17 of Sterling Clay

“I made you dinner,” I state instead, and then decide I’ve made it awkward anyway. Announcing dinner sounds like an accusation, like I made it, waited for him, and he didn’t tell me he’d be late. Or not present. When neither case is necessary. I’m a guest, nothing more. He doesn’t owe me explanations. I owe him everything right now.

Clay’s head lifts. His brows flinch. Confusion fills his cheeks. “You did?”

“I just thought . . . I assumed . . . I—” I take a deep breath, hating how I sound like I’m cowering. Removing my hands from my back pockets and rubbing them along the side seam of my jeans, I try again. “I thought it’d be nice for you. For letting us stay even though you’re on the mend.”

Although, I misjudged. He clearly doesn’t come home for dinner, and I hate how I waited on him. Hate how I questioned where he was, who he was with, what he was doing.

He isn’t Wesley.

Clay steps further into the room. “I don’t typically eat at home.” He glances around his living room, as if looking for something. Or someone. Or maybe he’s simply reminding me of what he already admitted. There hasn’t been anyone here to eat with him in the past.

“But I’ll make more of an effort tomorrow.” He takes another step closer to me. “Not that you need to cook for me. But if you were cookin’ . . .”

He reaches for the back of his neck and tips back his head, blowing out a breath. “I’m making this fucking weirder, aren’t I?”

I chuckle, hoping to ease the subtle tension between us. “Not used to someone in your home. I get it. I don’t need to make you dinner if you prefer to eat out.”

“No.” He’s suddenly in front of me. He smells like earth and fresh air and the misty fall rain. “I’m so used to just working and working, I don’t stop half the time until the shop closes at eight. Taking dinner late.”

“Did you eat?” I question, then worry at my lower lip with my teeth.

“I did. But I’m still curious what you made.”

“Fried chicken and homestyle fries.”

Clay closes his eyes and tips back his head again. He inhales and hums like he’s tasting the meal. When his eyes flip open, he says, “How about a second dinner?”

I laugh. “You don’t need to do that. I packaged it all up as leftovers. You can eat it tomorrow for lunch, maybe.”

Placing his hand on my upper arm, he says, “I’m sorry you went through all the trouble. I’m a terrible host.”

I shrug. “I don’t want to be an overbearing guest. It wasn’t any trouble.”

He nods and we seem to agree to drop the dinner debate.

“Where is Dutton?”

“In bed.”

“Already?” Clay’s brows lift.

“It’s after eight. And he was tuckered out. There’s a saying about boys playing hard from son rise to son set. That’s him. We explored your yard a bit more today.” The outdoors was our science classroom, as approved by the homeschooling curriculum I’d been using.

“Sounds like a healthy boy to me.” Clay chuckles.

I clear my throat, about to impart on a difficult discussion. Maybe it’s more of a test, which doesn’t feel fair, but a test nonetheless, for Clay’s reaction, and I utter a silent prayer he’ll pass. “You might have noticed how his nails are painted and he wears a lot of typically female-defined clothing.”

Clay stays very still.

I take another deep breath. “Love is love, Clay. And I love Dutton more than anything in this world. He’s discovering who he is. Who he wants to be, who he’s destined to be, and I’m giving him the freedom he needs to define himself in a world that wants to label everything.”

Clay swallows. “Is your boy gay?”

“I don’t know that he understands what that means but he knows what he likes. He likes pink things and glittery unicorns. He likes to play with my makeup and nail polish and enjoys watching female-led animation programs like Princess Power.”

I don’t know if Clay is familiar with Princess Power, but now isn’t the time for explaining a television show.

He nods, his expression pensive, thought-filled, like he’s really listening to me and not judging Dutton.