18. Art

Art

Lisa eyes my outfit with obvious distaste. If I didn't know her so well, I wouldn't notice her disapproval because she's wearing a face mask, but I do know her, and her disgust is evident. "That sweater is ugly."

"Yes, that is the point. Dean Miller said it's a tradition for people to wear ugly sweaters to Christmas parties."

She grimaces. "But it has puffballs, Art. Surely you don't have to wear something with puffballs."

I look down at the sweater in question. It is, in fact, spectacularly hideous, and it does have a puff ball. "That's the top of Santa's hat. It's festive."

"Dean must be amazing in bed if you're willing to wear that for him. The Santa looks a little like those troll dolls."

I'm just about to explain to her that Santa is a fictitious character, and so it doesn't matter that he looks like a troll, when the doorbell rings. Lisa saunters over to the door and opens it. On the other side, Dean Miller is waiting with a sweater of his own. His has an octopus wearing a Santa hat on the front.

It's adorable, which is unfair. I thought we were supposed to wear something ugly.

"What do you think?" he asks, holding his arms out to show off his sweater.

Lisa shakes her head. "An octopus would never wear a Santa hat. Do you have any idea how impractical hats are under water?"

Dean Miller smiles at her good-naturedly. "Okay. One vote no. How about you, Art? Do you like it?"

"Yes," I admit, folding my arms across my chest.

Dean Miller's smile fades. "But you don't want to like it?"

"No. My sweater is ugly, Dean Miller. And your sweater is delightful. That isn't fair."

He throws back his head and laughs. When he laughs like that, it's hard to stay angry with him. He's too breathtaking.

Damn Dean Miller and his aesthetically pleasing everything.

"We should leave, otherwise we will be late," I say.

He glances at the clock by the kitchen cabinets. "We still have time. Would you like to switch sweaters? I don't mind."

"The party starts in fifteen minutes."

He shrugs. "It would be fine if we were fashionably late."

"Tardiness is not fashionable, even if you're wearing a nice sweater."

Lisa walks toward the door. "That isn't true, actually. Tardiness is fashionable in regards to parties. But I should go. I need to rinse off my face and pack for my flight tomorrow. I have a tournament in Prague this week."

Dean Miller waves at her. "Good luck!"

"I won't need any luck," she tells him, matter-of-factly. "I'm the best player who registered for the tournament."

With that, she walks off.

"What I wouldn't give to have that kind of confidence," Dean says.

"You do have confidence. It's one of my favorite things about you."

Dean turns to me, a soft smile on his face. "Thanks, Art. That's sweet. Are you ready to go? We don't have to be fashionably late, if that isn't your thing. I just thought you'd rather wear a sweater you liked." He holds out his hand to me. He's wonderfully dashing with his nice sweater and the thick scarf around his neck. I still can't believe he's my temporary mate.

"I think I'd rather look at you wearing that sweater than wear it myself," I say, taking his hand and letting him guide me out of my apartment. We get to the elevator before I remember that it's 5:45 on a Friday night. That's my parents' date night. Every week they go out to dinner together at 6:00, which means that the elevator slides open to reveal my mother in her latest "little black dress." She has a whole closet-full of them because my father once said she looked good in black. He's standing next to her in his best suit and cufflinks. They dress up every week for each other. When I was younger, I loved watching the way they stared at each other before they left for dinner.

I've always wanted someone to look at me like that.

Mom's face lights up when she sees us. "Good evening, Art. There's plenty of space for more in the elevator."

I step inside, tugging Dean behind me. "Mom, Dad, this is Dean Miller."

Dean releases my hand and holds it out to my mother. "It's wonderful to meet you."

Instead of shaking his hand, she wraps her arms around him for a hug, extending her tentacles out to hug him with those too. Dad also extends his tentacles, ready and waiting the moment she finishes with Dean. He gives Dean a hug before Dean has a chance to greet him. And it isn't a mild, polite hug either. He almost squeezes the life out of Dean.

A lot of people think of cephalopods as cold, but we aren't. At least not with the people we love.

Dean Miller makes an alarming strangled noise.

"Dad, Dean can't breathe," I say.

He releases Dean and steps back. "I apologize. Art has never introduced us to a boy before."

"A man," Mom corrects him. "You must come to dinner, Dean. We would like to get to know you better. Also, we would like to meet your parents."

My stomach twists in a knot. In cephalopod culture, all of that would be normal and welcome when someone introduces a mate to their parents. But Dean Miller and I are temporary mates, and we haven't been together long. I'm not sure what the social protocol is in our current arrangement.

The elevator door slides open. We've made it to the lobby.

"I would love to come to dinner. What day would work for you?" Dean asks.

"Next week." Mom hands him her phone. "Please add yourself as a contact."

"Mom, Dean might not want?—"

Dean gives me a quick kiss on the lips. "Don't worry." He takes Mom's phone and inputs his number. He has no idea what a frequent and aggressive texter she is, especially during the winter months. She'll be asking him about his health way more often than is probably appropriate.

"What is your favorite food?" Dad asks.

Dean glances at me. "Oh, um, I like anything."

"That's nice. What is your favorite?" Dad repeats.

"Uh, lasagna? But like I said, I'm good with anything."

Dad smiles. "I will find you the best lasagna in the city."

Mom winds a few of her tentacles around his arm and pulls him forward. "We should not interrupt their date. They have a party to get to, otherwise Art would not be wearing that horrible sweater. Have fun! I'll text you details about dinner tomorrow, Dean. Please bring your family tree and corresponding medical history."

Oh my God . This is mortifying. Sure, it's standard practice for cephalopod shifters to compare family medical histories and ancestry prior to mating. We're a small community and have a strong commitment to genetic diversity. But none of that is relevant in this situation.

"Mom, he's human and we're gay," I remind her.

She waves my concern away. "I refuse to treat him differently just because he's a human man. I'm not prejudiced." Before I can argue further, she drags Dad off. He waves to us, promising Dean once again to find the perfect lasagna.

I turn to Dean Miller with my heart in my throat, not sure how he'll react to their intensity. But he's just watching them walk off, that secret smile on his face.

"They're great," he says.

I wring my hands together. "Yeah? You think so?"

"Yeah." He steps out of the elevator and drags me with him. "Lucky for them, my mom is obsessive about family history. She'll be thrilled when I ask her for our family tree. It will make her year."

Maybe my eyes get a little watery at that. After all, I love my parents more than anything. How can I not get emotional when Dean admits to liking them, even though my mom accosted him for his family medical history? It's only reasonable to have an emotional reaction.

"Thank you," I say.

"Of course."

He acts like it's nothing. Which means he must not know why my mom wants to know his family's medical history.

"She doesn't quite understand the temporary part of temporary mates. That isn't done in cephalopod culture," I explain.

He squeezes my hand. "I know. It's okay. And maybe this doesn't have to be temporary."

The thought had occurred to me. It seemed more like a pipe dream than a true possibility, but there was a time when I thought sexual intercourse with him was a pipe dream too.

"Just so you know, my father will find you the best lasagna in the city. He's excellent at research," I say.

Dean chuckles. "Why am I not surprised?"