Page 118 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

“Yes,” I said. “Why?”

He shrugged, still holding me against him.

“You’re okay with all of this, I mean?” he asked. “It’s four days.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s fine.”

“Sure?”

“Yes,” I laughed and waved through the window at Peter’s mother as she looked up from the walkway that led up to the house. She waved back excitedly. “I get it. Your parents…you want things to be perfect for them. And we’re working towards fixing things anyway, right? It’s okay.”

Peter’s arm slid from my shoulder and he gave me a small smile, though his eyes seemed sad as he made his way to the front door. Opening the door as his father raised his fist to knock—as though they hadn’t seen us waiting on them—Peter’s parents poured into the house with greetings and open arms, bags, frivolity, and crisp, icy winter air. Peter’s mother swooped me into her arms before I had a chance to even respond to her greetings and “Merry Christmas!”

Of course, the front door wasn’t even shut, and Peter was still hugging his father when the elephant in the room was addressed. Pulling back so that she could look at me, her hands clutching my upper arms, Peter’s mother spoke up.

“I thought we wouldn’t see you this year,” she said. “After last year, I wasn’t sure…”

Smiling, I gave myself a moment to collect my thoughts. Before I could respond, Peter spoke up.

“Enzo has an apartment downtown,” he said evenly. “He’s been staying there for a while. We’re working through some things. But he’s staying here with me over Christmas. So he could see you guys.”

Peter’s mother, to her credit, didn’t gasp or resort to dramatics. Her hands tightened on my arms slightly, but after a slight pause, she gave me a smile.

“Well,” she said, “I missed your cooking last year. My son is not the best chef.”

The four of us laughed. It wasn’t quite forced laughter, but it was a bit tense since Peter had dropped a bomb on his parents without warning. However, his parents handled it amazingly, taking the news in stride. Certainly, when they were ensconced in the privacy of the guest room upstairs later in the evening, they would whisper their thoughts to each other. But that was their marriage. We had ours. After a few moments, and more exchanged hugs and pleasantries, Peter ushered the two of them towards the den, telling them we’d bring in some snacks and drinks after we took their luggage upstairs. Then we could all catch up.

With his parents headed towards the back of the house, Peter stepped over to me and put his hands on my shoulders. Leveling me with his eyes, he stared at me for a moment. Then he leaned forward and kissed me.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I said.

“We’re family. You, me, them. Family should be honest.”

I gave him another kiss.

“They handled it well,” I said.

“Well,” Peter mumbled, “I’m sure I’ll get some shit later for lying to them last year.”

I laughed. “Maybe. But your honesty has earned you my admiration.”

Peter grinned wickedly. “Does that get me something else once everyone is in bed tonight?”

“I can’t believe you’d even talk to me like that with your parents in the other room,” I turned my nose up haughtily and stepped around him to grab one of his parents’ bags. “And I won’t tell you the answer even if you grab that other bag and follow me upstairs where no one is around to hear or see us.”

Peter grabbed his parents’ other bag and chased me, the two of us actually giggling as we raced up the stairs.

“Real food,” Peter’s mother groaned. “Last year was a disaster, Enzo.”

Standing at the kitchen island, Peter’s mother seated on one of the stools on the other side, I was chopping vegetables. She was on her third glass of Chardonnay and her eyes were a bit glassy. I was no expert, but she seemed to be doing fairly well for an older woman with an empty stomach working on her third glass of wine.

Peter and his father were watching some American sports of some kind in the den, arguing loudly—but jovially—over one thing or another as they sipped bourbons. Since everyone was treating themselves, I had my favorite soda. Even after so long of not taking my medication, and having new rules I could follow, I found that I cared little for the idea of alcohol.

When I had been a teenager, and even in my early twenties, I had thought it would be nice to have drinks with friends. Alter my brain with a substance and see how I handled being altered. Dance wildly at parties and sing loudly to songs without inhibition because a chemical had changed my brain for a brief time. After my surgery, I found that I didn’t want to change my brain any more than necessary. And I’d experienced enough life to know that if I wanted more experience, I didn’t need to rely on chemicals.

Eventually, I knew I would drink. Why not try everything that life has to offer? Within reason. During Christmas with Peter’s parents when I wasn’t living at home was not the best time to take that step, however. So, soda was a perfectly acceptable treat instead. It had kept my head clear while catching up with Peter’s parents in the den during the early afternoon.

When dinner time came, Peter had offered to help me cook. I knew Peter would have rather spent time with his father, watching sports, and the fact that he had even offered—something he hadn’t done in the past—was good enough for me. Quite honestly, having him try to help in the kitchen had never been a good idea. So, I gave him a reprieve. His mother had insisted on helping, however, which basically meant she drank wine while watching me cook.