For a moment, the memory wavered, split, and this became a point of contention. They were sleeping together, right? They had moved in as a couple, right?
Or, wait, they weren’t sleeping together. They’d moved in as friends.
IN the present, Cully’s vision sharpened on the plate, and he remembered the point of the memory, and how it didn’t matter if they were lovers or not.
DANTE had maneuvered him into his own bedroom, underneath the bargello quilt he’d made so lovingly back when they were in college and he’d learned the technique. His eyes were now freely running with tears of tiredness, with frustration, and—as Dante had so neatly nailed the problem—with fear.
“I’ve got to finish that dress,” he wailed. One more dress. God. But that he could do. “And send everything out. Dante, the boxes are there and the invoices, and I suck at paperwork so bad. It’s going to take me all day. I need to fill out the paperwork and… and it’s got to be out by tomorrow. It’ll take me hours! I can’t sleep now.”
“You have to,” Dante said firmly. “And don’t worry. You got no faith, Cully. Have some faith. Ask for some help. Don’t worry. I’ve got your back.”
But Cully wasn’t used to that. “My whole life,” he whispered. “My whole life I got told if I didn’t do my chores, I wouldn’t get the things I needed. That I couldn’t deal with the real world if I couldn’t do the simple shit.”
Dante crouched by his bed, feathering his fingers through Cully’s hair, nodding, although he’d heard it before. They’d both talked about their homelife—it was almost a rite of passage, deconstructing one’s childhood during college. Figuring out what the good stuff was, what the bad stuff was, and what they wanted to do with what they’d learned. Cully knew from late-night talks, the four feet between their bunks a short hop for when they’d be ready to go further, that Dante’s parents still sent him birthday cards, still sent him Christmas presents. But they also still asked if he was still gay, which was why he spent most of his Christmases and holidays with Jordan, along with Bartholomew and, sometimes, Cully. Alex’s parents were adorable. Alex had brought the whole batch of friends, at one time or another, to the tiny San Francisco house in which he’d grown up, to meet two sweet liberal college professors who believed in environmentalism, health care, and doing what made sense. But Bartholomew’s parents were awful—not so much about Bartholomew’s sexuality, but about, well, everything. There was nothing that poor Barty could do to make them happy, nothing he could say that would elicit any pride or any joy in their child.
And Cully’s father was….
Well, difficult.
Cully knew his father loved him and sort of understood about his being gay. But his father was a truck driver who worked his small plot of land for vegetables and raised pigs and generally felt as though his fine-boned, theater-loving son had been found under a mushroom.
He’d never said as much to Cully, though. Cully’s mother had left them when he was small, and Tommy Cromwell had raised his son with the qualities he’d been raised with. He’d been hardworking, and he taught his son hard work. He hadn’t gotten anything for free, and he’d taught his son to suck it up—sickness, health, sadness, joy, you worked your way through them all or you got nothing for dinner and less for dessert.
And on the one hand, it had been a good way to grow up; Cully knew his work ethic had gotten him ahead in a business that most people didn’t know existed.
But on the other hand… there was never enough work. There was never good enough. And his father’s fear—often expressed and through gentle, gruff “Son, I don’t want to burst your bubble” tones—permeated Cully’s every waking breath.
And Dante knew this. Dante’s parents had been absently proud of him, tossing off a casual “Let us know if you need anything—we can help make bills” in the card they’d sent from Orange County. They’d apparently had things to do when their son was graduating. Dante’s brother had knocked up his girlfriend, and they were getting married in two weeks.
Well, Dante wasn’t surprised.
But Cully’s father had attended graduation, looking embarrassed and sweaty in a suit he probably hadn’t worn since his ill-fated wedding, twenty-three years earlier. Cully’s friends—oh, bless them—had greeted him enthusiastically, had shaken his hand, had swept him off to the big party Jordan’s dads had thrown the lot of them at their house. Alex had ridden with Cully and his dad on the way up—they’d had to double up because everybody’s dorm stuff was going into Asa and Sebastian’s garage until they could move into rentals. But Alex had kept the conversation going, and Cully had wanted to cry. His father’s seeming chronic embarrassment of his son hadn’t rolled off him like the heat from his polyester suit.
During the party Cully had noticed that, while he was ushered away to talk to Kate’s parents and Josh’s mom, and to say hello to Alex’s parents, his friends never let Tommy Cromwell alone to be awkward. It had been like they’d planned it—and Cully had been so grateful.
Tommy had left first, and Cully had walked him out to his car. For a moment, Tommy had looked around, obviously enjoying the property with its tall pine trees and dusty foothills beauty, before turning to Cully. “It’s a nice place,” he said softly. “They bought it after property values went through the roof—it must have cost a fortune.”
“Jordan’s dad, Asa, is a contractor, and he’s pretty in demand,” Cully said. “He designed and built the house.”
“Mm.” Tommy had looked at him unhappily, like he knew he had to break some bad news. “They’re nice people. And I get some people can make their way in this world doing what they love, son. I… don’t count on it, okay? And these people are your friends, but… you know. Friends aren’t family. They’re not going to catch you when you’re down. I’ll be there for you, if you need me, but… you know. I don’t got much. Make your own way if you can. It’s not too late to get a degree in something… you know. Practical.”
Cully had slow-blinked, trying hard to contain his hurt. Bartholomew and Dante had things so much worse; he had to remember that. His father loved him. And worried.
“Dad,” he’d said, barely holding on to his temper, “I literally just graduated. It’s way too late to change my major.”
Tommy grimaced. “Yeah. You know. Just… you know. Don’t dig too big a hole, okay? I really can’t bail you out.”
And that had been it. He’d gotten into his old Ford pickup truck and driven off, leaving Cully to wander dispiritedly back to the party.
And now Cully was in the middle of his first big assignment after graduation, and he was so scared.
Oh God. What if his father was right?
He tried so hard to keep his face from crumpling as he stared at Dante, but Dante wasn’t buying it. Using the privilege of being the guy about to clean fifty-zillion coffee cups that weren’t his, he smiled a little and wiped Cully’s tears with his thumb.
“Your dad’s wrong,” Dante whispered. “You’re going to do fabulous. And he loves you. He’s doing all the worrying, Princess. Let him. You do all the creating and set his mind at ease.”