My father smiled, while my mother's face was stony. "Aver, my son, come in. Who is your…friend?"
"Hollister is my mate," I corrected him. There were more subtle ways of coming out to your parents, but after nearly forty years, if this was where the dinner ended, then so be it. I wouldn't let anyone address my mate as less than what he was. The fact we hadn't had an official ceremony meant nothing. He was mine.
"So that's been the difference I've noticed in you. Having a mate suits you, son. Welcome, Hollister."
Even though my father sounded happy, my mother had yet to blink. Either Glendon hadn't told her what to expect, or she knew and was still unhappy. But, when I looked into my mother's eyes, green like my own, I didn't feel any uncertainty in my decision. This woman could withhold her love for all eternity, and it wouldn't make Hollister any less of my mate.
Clarice had yet to speak, even though her husband looked at her, clearly waiting. "Thank you for coming home," she said stiffly, stepping to the side to let us in.
Hollister squeezed my hand. "Thank you," he said, though with an edge that made me think he was enjoying this discomfort now that he knew I wasn't going to be hurt by it.
Instead of leading us into the parlor like I'd seen her do countless times with important guests, she walked to the dining room. She spun, slightly lifting the hem of her blue cocktail dress. "While drinks before dinner would be customary, I believe we're all eager to eat." My mother must have had the same plan I did: for us to get out of there as soon as possible.
The table was already set, the dishes prepared and waiting in warming trays in the center.
"Tonight, we're eating roasted duck with a rustic mix of locally harvested vegetables and quinoa." She lifted the lids with a dramatic flourish.
Hollister made an impressed sound. "This looks delicious, Mrs. Walker."
My mother barely kept herself from pursing her lips. "Thank you."
We sat, and Clarice launched into serving. I assumed that was so she could have something to do and not be expected to talk.
"Aver, it's good to have you here," my father said. "And I'm glad you were able to bring your fr—mate. I guess I never realized how like your cousins you truly are."
The serving spoon slipped from my mother's hand and landed against the glass rim with a clatter.
"You mean gay?" I asked.
Hollister squeezed my hand, but I couldn't tell from his expression if he was urging me on or cautioning me.
"It's just—you never mentioned these…feelings," my mother said, her mouth as tight as a rubber band that had been stretched to its limit. "You never said anything when I set you up with all those nice young women."
Hollister snorted, and my mother's face turned red.
Served her right. She was clearly trying to stir up trouble, bringing up the blind dates.
"You're right. I never said anything. But, at the time, that was easier. I didn't enjoy any of the dates other than the handful of times we'd had interesting conversations. And that, I believe I did tell you. After each one." At this point, I didn't blame her. It had been my responsibility to speak up.
She'd finished serving, and with nothing left to do, she sat down, smoothing her dress as she did. "I just wish you felt like you could be more honest with me. At least that way I wouldn't have wasted all those nice young women's time."
"I agree," Hollister said. I turned to him, waiting for the rest. "You could have saved Aver's time too."
My mother's eyes dropped to the table as she clenched her jaw.
At the same time, my father looked between Hollister and me with an expression I didn't trust.
"Let's begin," he said brightly.
Clarice grabbed her fork with a white-knuckle grip. "Gladly."
Hollister took a bite. "This is delicious. As good as it looks."
"Thank you," Clarice replied tightly.
I cleared my throat. "Which one of your servants made it?"
Hollister coughed to hide his laugh, and I patted his back.
"Here, drink your water." I lifted the glass rim to his lips and poured as he drank. When I set the glass back down, both parents were staring. It was probably odd for them to see me so attentive to someone who wasn't my cousins or their mates.
"How long have you two known each other?" Clarice asked. She wasn't white-knuckling her fork anymore, but she had a grip on her wine glass that wouldn't easily be broken.
"Not very long. But I didn't need very long to know." I turned to look at Hollister, the one shining, bright spot in this dreary room.
I'd grown up in a house of repressed dreams and unattainable goals. It had started when my father who, while being born first, wasn't an alpha, making him ineligible to lead the pack. Then Patrick—Branson's father—had been born, and his anger had truly set in.
I didn't know what my mother had lost in her life, but I knew she'd treated me like an issue to be resolved for most of my childhood. I hadn't known how cold she had been until I'd witnessed my cousins and their omegas interacting with their children. The unconditional love and acceptance they had was awe-inspiring and eye-opening.
"And where do your parents come from, Hollister?" my mother asked.
My instinct was to jump in and answer first, saving Hollister any embarrassment or worry, and before today's conversation, I might have. But, Hollister was made of stronger stuff than that. Hell, he was made of stronger stuff than me.
"Washington. Though that's just an assumption at this point. We haven't spoken in many years."
"And what do they do?" my mother asked like she hadn't listened to a word of his first answer.
"Sudoku? They like to watch football. Well, my dad did. My mom just liked to cook and drink in the kitchen during the games."
"I meant, what do they do for a living?" my mother clarified, but from his sly smile, I assumed Hollister had known that.
"I'm not sure, really. My dad left for an office. I don't know what he did there, and he didn't talk to me about it. My mom was a part-time sub for a nearby grade school."
Clarice brought her glass to her mouth. She'd need a whole lot more red wine if blacking this night out was her goal. "I see. So you met my son days ago, and you have no family. Where do you live? The streets?"
"Clarice!" my father boomed. "Apologize."
My mother stood, throwing her napkin down but keeping her wine glass. "No, Glendon, I will not. If you are fine with our son being tricked by this—"
"Choose your words carefully," I warned quietly.
"Aver." Hollister shook his head. He was probably trying to tell me this wasn't worth it, that him being called names wasn't a reason for me to speak out.
He'd be wrong.
My mother's mouth dropped open. She wasn't accustomed to me opposing her, and certainly never in front of guests. She closed her eyes, her nostrils flaring as she breathed steadily, in and out. When she opened her eyes, the fire behind them had been extinguished. She smiled sweetly at my father before shooting Hollister and myself a regretful expression that was eerily convincing. "My apologies. I was up very late last night preparing, and I think I may be coming down with something. You must excuse me for the night."