Between Boyfriends (18 page)

“Yeah, he’s cool. All your friends are nice. Sebastian’s a little out there….”

“I told you, totally second tier. And tell Rodrigo not to worry about being a third wheel or anything because Flynn is going to be joining us for dinner too. He’s like my mother’s other gay son.”

“Oh, don’t worry about Rodrigo. He knows that my best friend never has to feel like a third wheel.”

Damn, my man was thoughtful. I know it was information that should make me happy, but at that moment all I could think about was how I was going to convince Flynn to join us for Thanksgiving dinner.

“Thanks, Steve, but I’m really not up for a Ferrante holiday meal this year,” Flynn said.

I sipped my SU to calm my nerves. “I will buy you anything you want.”

“I make more money than you do.”

“I will clean your house. Naked. Admit it, Flynn, you’ve always wanted me to do that.”

“Honey, I’ve seen you naked when you were in your prime and I giggled.”

“You did not giggle! You smiled at me very tenderly.”

“As I suppressed a giggle.”

“Why, Flynn? Why would you laugh at my naked body?!”

Once again a conversation I was engaged in at a Starbucks café forced a family of tourists to flee.

“Oh, you laughed too. Listen, thanks for the invitation, but I would just rather spend a few days on my own.”

“The thing with Lucas got you down?”

“The thing with Lucas reminded me that there is no thing with Lucas.”

“Sorry about that. I haven’t had a chance to talk to him because his character’s doing undercover work in Bolivia, so he hasn’t been at the studio for the past few days. But I did think that kiss he gave you might actually turn into something.”

“Because you’re now playing the role of the optimist.” Awkward pause, then, “I have to get back to the office.”

I grabbed Flynn’s arm and asked him not to go. It was a little melodramatic, but it worked. Without going into excruciating detail I explained that he had to put his feelings aside, table his disappointment and depression, and help me out of a jam that I had gotten myself into single-handedly.

“You want me to rescue you, while I’m at the lowest ebb I’ve been at in years, because you told your boyfriend that he could bring along his platonic boyfriend to Thanksgiving dinner and that I would be sitting across from them at the table before you consulted me?”

“Lawyers really do have advanced comprehension skills.”

“This is not what I would have expected from you, Steven.”

“I’m sorry! I know I’m being selfish, but if it makes you feel any better I will force myself to be majorly depressed on Christmas.”

Flynn studied me and sipped his gingerbread latte. Despite the tense atmosphere the aroma of ginger goodness permeated the air and caressed my nostrils. Personally, I was dying to try one of the special holiday drinks, but I need order in my chaotic life so I only allow myself to taste specialty coffee drinks from Thanksgiving to New Year’s. Discipline would be needed for a few more days.

“Will your mother make her mashed turnips and squash thing-umajig?”

“She’s mashing them as we speak.”

“Will you provide round-trip transportation?”

“My mother is already in Sparta and I’m borrowing her car.”

“Will your brother wear those tight Levi’s that hug his ass?”

“I’ll dress him myself.”

“You got yourself a deal.”

Thrilled, I tried to hug Flynn, but he stopped me. “No, I’m still annoyed with you. I’ll be over it by tomorrow, but I don’t want you to touch me right now.”

“I understand. And I owe you, Flynn, just name your price.”

He studied me again more seriously, then said, “You can’t put a price on friendship, Stevie.”

Just like disco music, Thanksgiving is misunderstood. In the latter instance, however, it’s a misunderstanding as a result of the nationwide cover-up of the crimes of our forefathers. Bitter pilgrims learned how to till the land and make it productive, then stole said land from its original owners. But to prove they were generous they invited them to a thank-you dinner, though I’m sure anyone wearing feathers was relegated to the children’s table. Despite its scandalous origins, Thanksgiving is still one of my favorite holidays because it marks the beginning of the holiday season and is a time of good food, good will toward men, and days off from work. The only potential for disaster is spending an extraordinary amount of time with your family.

My brother Paulie was three years younger than me and heterosexual. Therefore my relationship with Paulie was and would always be that we loved each other, we would be there for each other in moments of crisis, but we didn’t understand each other and really had no desire to be close friends. The typical hetero-homo brother relationship. However, despite our differences we respected each other and I was especially proud of the life he’d created for himself. He had a gorgeous house in a ritzy part of Jersey, a lovely Italian wife with a hair-styling degree from the Bergenfield Academy of Hair who in an emergency could erase all traces of gray from my otherwise chocolate brown locks, and a thriving dental practice with an incredibly high family discount. Most important, he was good to our mother. He wasn’t involved in her daily life as much as I was, but she knew that when she needed him, he’d be there. The one trait that we did have in common was that he often lacked subtlety. In fact he’d told me just the other day, “I might have to make a quick exit after the lasagna to bring the wife upstairs to, you know, do her.”

My brother and I were the only male Ferrantes left, which meant he was the only one in the family capable of carrying on the Ferrante name. I knew Montgomery and Leilani-Anjanette might make an appearance in my life at some point, but in all reality the burden of keeping the Ferrantes from extinction lay on my brother’s shoulders. And it must have been a particularly heavy burden because Paulie and his wife, Renée, had been trying to have a baby for the past two years and although the doctors said both of them were healthy and fertile, a new Ferrante had yet to arrive. So now they were using fertility charts and on Thursday Renée would be ripe for the picking. So they might have to excuse themselves in between courses to attempt to fertilize her eggs. I told Paulie that as long as they didn’t mix up the turkey basters they had my blessing and I would entertain the family downstairs while they entertained each other upstairs. Interestingly, during their quest to become pregnant my mother had been uncharacteristically quiet and had not been badgering them incessantly to make her a grandmother. I think she enjoyed her freedom and knew that the minute a newborn was ripped from Renée’s vagina she’d be on babysitting duty. Maternal instinct sometimes ventures off to the dark side.

Her instinct toward cars was also off-target. A two-toned black and cream Honda Element is not the type of car that you would expect a senior citizen to drive. But that’s the type of car Audrey’s son-in-law sold, so that’s the type of car Audrey’s friend bought. With Brian next to me and Rodrigo and Flynn in the backseat of Honda’s sportiest SUV, I felt like we were driving to an excursion in the mountains and not a holiday dinner in the suburbs. By the sounds of silence that clung to the soft leather interior, however, it seemed as if we were driving to a funeral.

“Um, so, how’s um, the ride back there?” I asked.

“Good,” Flynn said.

“Yeah. Good,” Rodrigo added.

We had another thirty minutes to go before we could shove food in our faces, thereby making it unnecessary to talk. I had to think of a conversation starter.

“Do you think it’s windy enough so that another balloon in the Macy’s parade will commit manslaughter?”

“I hate parades,” Rodrigo offered.

“Oh, I see. I didn’t realize that,” I said.

“Almost as much as I hate soap operas.”

Brian’s head snapped so hard to glare at Rodrigo in the backseat that I thought it was going to break off. “Steven, do you think your mother will like the flowers? I got the idea to turn the pumpkin into a vase from an old Martha Stewart magazine.”

“Yeah, sure, she’ll love them.”

“So Rod,” Flynn started, “have you ever seen
If Tomorrow Never Comes
?”

“You mean that insipid piece of—”

I made a split-second decision to play the adult and not allow the conversation to disintegrate into a debate over the pros and cons of my livelihood—because as much as I love the genre of daytime drama, I knew from experience that it was foolish to try and convert nonbelievers.

“Rodrigo, don’t answer that question on the grounds that it could incriminate you,” I said. “I’m a producer of that show and while I know soaps aren’t everyone’s cup of tea, I love what I do.”

As a gesture of thanks, Brian put his hand on my knee and smiled sheepishly.

“Anyhoo, what exactly do you do? I don’t think Brian’s ever mentioned.”

“I’m a translator at the United Nations.”

“Really?” I said.

“That’s fascinating,” Flynn added with genuine interest.

“Some days I can’t believe it myself.”

“What languages do you speak?”

“English, of course, Spanish, French, and Russian. Oh, and Mandarin. I keep forgetting that one.”

Twenty minutes in the suburbs and I was already thinking like a conniving, manipulative, desperate housewife. Was I impressed that the guy in my backseat spoke five languages and worked at one of the most prestigious institutions in the world? No. Did I even think to ask him if he ever translated really important documents that he couldn’t talk about because they would risk our nation’s security? No. The only thought that kept repeating in my brain was,
Now I understand why Brian knows so much about history!

“…so even though Putin is a homophobe, he’s really hot.”

“Tell them the story about his bodyguards and the gymnast,” Brian suggested.

Before Rodrigo could regale us with a report on randy Russian rescuers, I turned into my brother’s circular driveway.

“And here we are,” I announced, speeding to the front entrance.

“Wow,” Brian said. “They don’t make houses like this in Alabama.”

“We’re in Jersey, Brian,” Rodrigo said. “Home of the McMansion.”

I wanted to correct Mr. McLingual and tell him in five different languages that he was wrong. McMansions are those ostentatious houses that are built on every available inch of a person’s land and adorned with stone columns, poorly sculpted lions, and oversized fountains. My brother’s split-level A-frame house, while big in the square foot department, was surrounded by five acres of beautifully landscaped grounds and the only animal on the property was Trixie Trueheart, Renée’s beloved long-haired dachshund. I wanted to say all this, but I didn’t because I was still trying to act like an adult. Before anyone could make another remark, adult or juvenile, my mother and Audrey ran up to the car like crazed Italian paparazzi.

“Happy Thanksgiving, boys!” they both cried.

Everyone got out of the car cautiously, like Jennifer Aniston and her personal staff on their way into the Stop ’n’ Shop. Anjanette wasted no time taking center stage, “You must be Brian.”

“Yes,” Brian said, allowing Anjanette to hug, kiss, and inspect him. “What a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise. I have heard so much about you. Steven just goes on and on, I try to tell him to hold a little bit back, but it’s like he has diarrhea of the mouth. Once he gets revved up he just can’t stop. I have no idea where he gets it from. Oh, are those flowers for me? That is so sweet. Mums are my favorite. Maybe because I’m a mum! And in a little pumpkin vase, they’re adorable.”

“Ma!” I screeched.

“Yes, Steven?”

“Can we please go inside?”

“Of course! What do you think? We’re going to have dinner on the front lawn? C’mon now, everybody inside.” She took Brian’s arm and escorted him into the house. “I haven’t forgotten about you, Flynn, I’ll hug you when we get inside.”

“I’m counting on it,” Flynn said, ever the trouper.

“And Steven?” Anjanette called out.

“Yes?”

“Who’s the little Spanish boy?”

Inside it wasn’t much better, but for completely different reasons. Now that I was finally at a holiday gathering with a boyfriend other than Jack I felt awkward and nervous. I knew my family was making a judgment about Brian and I wanted to know if they were giving him a thumbs-up. My brother’s lack of subtlety sometimes is a godsend.

“I give your boyfriend the thumbs-up, Steven,” he said after chatting with Brian. “He’s got clean fingernails, he knows the definition of a hedge fund, and he’s got good teeth.”

“Perfect. When we try to sell him at the next slave trade, he’ll bring in a good price.”

“Shut up, you know how important teeth are to me.”

“Almost as important as his wife,” Renée said, holding Trixie Trueheart in her left hand and a tray of food in the other. “I’ve got stuffed mushrooms in one hand and the most precious dog in the world in the other. Who wants what?”

“I want Trixie!” I yelled, grabbing my niece and immediately making those sounds only appropriate when in the company of an infant or a dog.

“She’s all yours,” Paulie said under his breath.

“Paulie! If Trixie goes with Steven so do I!”

“Who are you kidding? You couldn’t fit your shoe collection in his apartment.”

“That’s true,” Renée admitted. “Sorry, Steve, Trixie has to stay here.”

“As long as I get visitation rights.”

“Hey, Steve,” Paulie whispered.

“Why are you whispering?”

“I just wanted to tell you that I’m glad you found somebody. It’s a nice thing.”

Taken aback by my brother’s sincerity, I wasn’t sure what to say or do. “Thanks. Do I have to hug you now?”

“No, Renée gets jealous when someone better looking than her touches me.”

“You’re insane. Now turn around so Flynn can see your ass in those Levi’s.”

Paulie did a straight-guy imitation of a male model walk in front of Flynn. “Mama like?”

“Mama love!” Flynn said. “But mama hungry. Waitress! I’ll have a ’shroom.”

“Have two, I didn’t make them.”