---

Elaine Arbogast placed a wedge of coffee cake in front of Brandon. He looked down at the crumbled topping, which had slid onto the bone china like an indelicate avalanche.  His father’s beloved Wedgewood—the ones with the gold band and the scalloped edge which used to be reserved for Sunday afternoon visits from his grandmother. He never understood his father’s obsession with collecting china. It always made him wonder—more than just a little bit—about the source of his own leanings. 

“Thanks, mom. It looks great.”

“I have that creamer you like. The amaretto.  Do you want some?”  She had already started pushing back from the table and rising.

“Yes, please!”  He watched her disappear into the kitchen and gave a small shake of his head. Nothing changed here. The dining room was still all shades of rose and sage, fussy silk draperies framing the tall windows with their fastidiously gathered swags. The mahogany table still gleamed with its mirror-like top, and the same brass candelabra adorned the center—without tapers in it (there never were).  And as always, Elaine’s version of Brandon still drank coffee with sweetened, non-dairy, flavored creamer, which he hadn’t actually taken for at least a decade. 

She swept back into the room and placed the creamer on his placemat before sinking back into her chair. It was a full bottle. She had bought it just for him. “So, have you talked to Faith?”  

Brandon watched in utter fascination as she commenced with buttering her piece of cake, a questionable habit that stretched back as far as he could remember.  “No.  Not for a few weeks, anyway.”  He poured the creamer into his coffee and watched the clouds plume to the surface. 

“Matthew got a substantial raise. New management is wanting more retention. So he’s gotten something like 20%. Imagine that.”  She primly brought her fork to her lips. 

“Wow. Certainly isn’t the kind of thing you hear about happening anymore.” He sipped his coffee. It was sickly sweet and tasted like countless other uncomfortable Sundays in this room.  “Are they going to take a vacation or something?”

“Maybe. They’re gutting their entire kitchen.”

“Again?”

She shrugged and paused with her coffee cup partway to her mouth. “Well, you know how she is.”

“Yeah, I guess.”  His fork scraped against the china. He resisted the urge to look up to see if she was looking down at it disapprovingly. Now that dad was gone, maybe she didn’t care.  

It was no family secret that things were tense between Brandon and his mother. At least, they had been since the day he came out to her sometime during his college years. Before that, the two had been best friends, going on coat shopping excursions together, pouring over fabric samples for the new living room throw pillows, taking afternoon walks. Any outsider had had Brandon’s number in a heartbeat—if not for his own mannerisms then certainly for the relationship the two of them shared. But Elaine hadn’t seen it. Had refused to acknowledge even the possibility. 

The unraveling between them began that night when he knelt next to her bed and tearfully choked on words he couldn’t force himself to say. He knew she would be shocked, and probably disappointed. But he could never have guessed that she would say “just say it, Brandon. But whatever it is, please just don’t tell me you’re gay.”

“Oh, and Mark has ordered a Tesla.” She dabbed at her mouth with a crumpled corner of floral paper napkin. “Have you ever been in one of them? I hear they are quite impressive.”

Brandon dropped his fork, which clattered loudly in the cavernous space between them. “Mom, why don’t you ever seem to want to talk about me and what’s going on in my life? We’ve talked about Mark’s car, Faith’s kitchen, and even Mrs. Benneck’s ailing dog next door. But there hasn’t been one question for me. Why is that?  I dunno, wouldn’t you think a mom would want to know about all of her children?”

Elaine peered over the rim over her coffee cup, which remained suspended during this small tirade. She blinked, then took a sip. “You told me not to ask.”

He scoffed. “I did no such thing!”

“Two months ago. You were here.  We were sitting in the living room.  I was asking you about what was going on with your move and with you-know-who and you told me not to talk about him or ask about you again. I believe your words were that there was ‘never anything worth discussing anyway.’”

Brandon slumped back, the spindles of the wheat sheaf chair back digging into him through his shirt. Of course she was right. “You can say Anthony’s name,” he muttered. 

She rubbed her fingers over her plate. “I was simply trying to respect your privacy. Privacy you had requested, I might add.”

“Right. Yeah. Sorry. I did say that.”

She clasped her hands under her chin and stared at him for a long minute. The clock in the living room chimed the quarter hour. “Well?” She finally asked, exasperated. “Is there something going on I should know about?”

---

Brandon felt rooted to the floor. He stared at Sam, seeing the rising and falling of his heavy breathing while feeling his own.  Brandon’s lips were parted in preparation for words that hadn’t formulated yet when Sam spoke again. 

“I’m going to just step outside.  Please look around all you want.”  He started toward the door, which given the tiny house, was about five steps away. 

“Sam, wait.”  He paused with his hand on the doorframe, his eyes on the floor.  “You seem like an…an amazing guy.”  Brandon caught the small exhale of a bitter chuckle—Sam knew where this was going. He pressed on. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t attracted to you.  But…”

“You aren’t ready,” Sam concluded. He turned his head and looked squarely at him. His Adams apple bobbed with a hard swallow. 

Brandon shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know that it’s that.  I just—” he eyed a tomato that had come to rest against a barstool leg. It was bruised.  Flattened on one side. 

“Brandon, really. You don’t need to explain yourself.  If anyone should, it’s me. And…I can’t even imagine what I should even say.”  He pushed through the door. “I’ll be outside.”

It was a few minutes before Brandon emerged onto the deck. Sam had once again settled into a chair—one facing away from the house and looking out over the hill—his leg was  crossed at the ankle, his hand resting on his shoe.  God, he was fun to look at.

“There’s a bruised tomato on your counter that you might want to use up soon,” Brandon suggested. Sam’s head dipped in acknowledgement. “And also your spice rack…well, it was dumb. It’s alphabetized now.” 

Sam slowly turned, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “You messed with my spices? I had a system.”

“You had chaos.”  Brandon sank into the chair next to him. “Though honestly, it was the only chaos I could find in there.”

“Really? That was the only chaos you experienced in my house just now? That I had paprika to the left of the oregano?”

Brandon’s chuckle decayed into a long dramatic sigh.  “Sam. I’m flattered. Truly. And not terribly long ago, I would have rolled with it without hesitation. But…you’re divorced.”

Sam furrowed his brow. “I see, and you’d prefer I was still married?”  

“Not exactly.”  Brandon absently flicked an ant scurrying across the arm of the chair. “Anthony—my boyfriend—”

“The one who left you?” Sam interjected, a slight edge in his voice. 

“The one who left me.  He was divorced. Yet now he’s living with her in another state. They just celebrated the birth of their son.  And I’m still living in his house.”

Sam looked at him dolefully a moment. “That sucks, Brandon. I’m really sorry. I get that you have a past. And I get that it makes you wary.”

“But—?”