Chapter_19_Millie_and

The three of us sit in shock, without a scratch or a bruise on us, that we can tell for now. The car is thankfully upright. It’s like we’d reached a higher plane of consciousness for a few seconds, aware that we just survived a potentially fatal accident.

We flew into heaven, fist-bumped God, who told us everything is going to be alright, and descended back down to Earth in slow motion.

“Are you okay?” I ask Biz, winded, my whole body still a bundle of nerves.

“Yeah, are you?” Biz asks.

We turn in unison to see Matilda. She gets comfortable on her bed like nothing happened.

We inhale and exhale, watching the rain, collecting ourselves. A pickup truck zooms by and we know how lucky we are that no other cars were around when we spun out of control.

“That was intense.” I exhale, trying to process.

“That scared the shit out of me,” Biz says. “I’m so glad it was you behind the wheel and not me.”

“For a split second during the spin, I imagined our baby being born into the world without parents,” I say. “Sorry if that sounds morose but it’s the truth.”

“The newborn’s dads met their destiny in a small town in Ohio after buying expired donuts,” Biz says, imitating an imaginary news reporter.

Relief setting in, we check our phones to find zero reception.

“I don’t remember how to get back on the highway and there’s no visibility.”

“You know I have no sense of direction,” Biz admits.

I can’t help but let my next thought slip out. “I’m not saying we shouldn’t have stopped for snacks but...”

“Here it comes. I knew you were going to somehow blame me for this,” Biz says, throwing his hands in the air.

“I’m just saying you could’ve waited,” I say.

“I’m sorry that I need food to survive.”

“Survive?! You had like three lunches. You ate both of our sandwiches and Taco Bell. It’s like you constantly—”

“I’m sorry, are you counting my calories too? I was hangry. And I was just going through the motions of eating Taco Bell, remember? I didn’t even enjoy it. Fine, I loved it,” Biz admits.

“So you won’t eat Taco Bell but you’re perfectly fine with roadside junk food?!”

“Actual meals shouldn’t be fast food. Snacks are different.”

“Says the supposed food expert. Your logic makes no sense.”

“Don’t question my logic,” Biz says, which we both know is impossible. “And I am a food expert.”

“Just be happy we’re alive right now,” I say, trying to redirect the course of our conversation. “Let’s figure out how to get out of here.”

In the distance, two blob-like figures come into focus through the rain. They look like the aliens from Arrival: faceless and shapeless but somehow able to mobilize.

“What the fuck is that?” Biz asks.

“Are we being abducted right now?”

The blobs quickly approach the car.

“Oh my god, it’s the creepy couple from the knife and donut shop,” Biz says.

I roll down my window just enough to talk, trying to avoid the rain.

“Don’t roll down your window!” Biz screams. “We just cheated death and now we’re possibly inviting it into our car. We have no idea what this couple is capable of.”

Before I can join Biz’s panic party, the blobs are right in front of me.

“You boys okay?” the man asks. The couple is wearing matching army green ponchos with hoods. I’m just happy they aren’t white ponchos with hoods.

“We’re fine. Just a little shaken up,” I say. They both look inside our car and nod at Biz. He throws them a tiny thumbs-up through the window. They glance in the back seat at Matilda with smiles that suggest they want to make her their chew toy.

“We saw the whole thing. You’re lucky there’s no traffic in this area,” the man says.

“Where you headed?” the woman asks.

“Illinois.” I decide it sounds better to say the rural sounding Illinois rather than reference the big city of Chicago.

“You can’t drive out tonight,” the man says. “Not in this vehicle.”

I look at Biz. We both know it’s true. With the steady rain and the time, it’s nearing pitch-black outside.

“Rain’s supposed to go all night. Won’t let up till morning,” the woman says.

“Well, thank you. For that... kind info.” I have no idea what else to say. And by the worried look on Biz’s face, he’s still not sure they come in peace.

“There’s a bed-and-breakfast about a mile down the road. I hear there’s vacancy.”

“Cute little homey place. They take doggies, too. ’Bout five stop signs down. You can’t miss it... Unless you’re on drugs.” She raises an eyebrow, suspicious. That came out of nowhere.

“We don’t do drugs. But thank you for the tip,” Biz says.

“We’ll discuss and figure out our options. So nice of you to come out here in the rain like this,” I say.

“Take care now,” the man says. They slowly step away and casually walk back to their store like there aren’t gusts of wind pummeling them at a hundred miles per hour.

I quickly roll up the window. “Do not eat those donuts. They could be laced with something then we wake up locked in their sex dungeon, hanging by our genitals.”

“Trust me. I won’t.”

“What should we do? This rain is awful and I can’t see anything,” I say, thinking a bed-and-breakfast sounds pretty good at the moment.

After ten minutes of weighing the pros and cons, we pull into the BB down the street with a wooden sign out front that’s creatively named “Bed Breakfast—Since 1972.” Sure enough, as promised by the couple, the sign says there’s vacancy.

It’s an old, three-story home, every room lit up, with a grand, wraparound porch, set back in the woods. I half expect a crack of thunder and lightning to appear as we enter.

Inside, Matilda shakes out her wet fur, spraying rainwater all over the reception area. It’s deadly quiet. We look around the ornate foyer, complete with wooden armoires containing dozens of ceramic animals of all shapes and sizes.

The room smells like Clorox wipes and eggs.

An older woman with bleached-blonde hair and excessive eyeliner appears behind the reception desk. “May I help you?”

Biz looks like he’s in shock. He’s holding an are you kidding me right now face. It slowly dawns on me that she’s the knife and donut woman.

“Hi. It’s us,” I say to zero face recognition. “Yeah, so, we’d love a room?”

“Let me check what we have available.”

Biz glances at me, losing all patience. “Um. Hello. We just met you on the road and I was in your store?”

“Oh, right. How are you two boys doin’?” She licks her forefinger and flips through her reservation book.

“You guys own this place too?” Biz asks. It’s the question on both of our minds.

“Yup,” she says, not acknowledging the weirdness of omitting this factoid before. She flicks through the reservation book again. “I’m afraid we only have one room tonight.”

“Sold!” I say, wanting nothing more than to take a hot shower, have dinner and go to sleep.

The lady looks up at us with one raised eyebrow. “One room for both you fellows?”

Oh no, I think. Here comes the conversation where somehow it’s our job to make her feel comfortable that we sleep together.

“Yep. We’re partners,” Biz says without even thinking. He’s so much better than me when it comes to not caring what people think.

She gives us a quick little smile that suggests she has our number now, which I’m not sure is good or bad. I’m betting two guys sharing a bed is the furthest thing from her mind.

She writes something in the hotel guest book with perfect penmanship. We wait one full minute until she’s done. Matilda whimpers, hungry, tired and cold. Same, Matilda, I think, same.

“Where you boys from?” her husband asks, appearing from the back room, also not acknowledging we just met them. Biz and I share a quick look.

“New York,” Biz says, almost defiantly. “Brooklyn, actually.”

“Bless your hearts,” she says. Again, this could be good or bad. I’m still not sure. “I’m Millie. This is Dennis.”

After several minutes of explaining we live nowhere near Times Square, we get our room key and walk up to our third-floor room.

It’s a voluminous space with a working fireplace, wood trim and more ceramic lambs, frogs and ducks. It somehow feels less like a guest room and more like someone has been living here as recently as thirty minutes ago.

“Feels like we’re in their actual bedroom,” I say. I’m admittedly not as easygoing with hotel rooms as Biz. I like things a certain, sterile way. Not lived-in. In fact, I’d prefer a sign in every hotel room that reads, “No human being has ever stepped foot in this room.”

“It’s totally clean and fine. And it’s just one night,” Biz reminds me. We stare at the antique lamps, flowery window treatments and wooden rolltop desk. “At least there are no creepy ceramic baby dolls staring at us.”

I silently point to the corner of the room where there is, in fact, a glass cabinet full of creepy ceramic baby dolls staring at us.

“Should we have dinner?” Biz says.

We can’t get out of there fast enough.

The living room has been reconfigured into a restaurant with a few tables comfortably dotted throughout. So basically, it’s a living room with a few tables.

“Any apostrophe?” Biz asks.

“No apostrophe,” I say, as we share a laugh at our inside joke.

In the beginning of our relationship, Biz and I had discovered that neither of us had been to Maine so we took a romantic road trip one Valentine’s Day weekend where we stayed at our first ever BB with the cutesy name “Sweethearts Inn.” We were still celebrating all our milestone firsts. “Should we introduce our friends to each other?” “Is it okay if I leave my toothbrush here?” “Let’s go on a trip somewhere.” We couldn’t wait for our love nest in a log cabin.

Once inside, we quickly realized that the “Sweethearts” in the name of the bed-and-breakfast wasn’t referring to “sweethearts” plural having a lovey-dovey getaway.

Sweetheart was the nickname of the owner, a gregarious woman with a loud, piercing voice and jackhammer laugh who was on top of every guest at every second of the day. Let’s just say, you had to be in the mood for Sweetheart.

She wanted to have breakfast, lunch and afternoon wine and cheese on the porch with everyone every day, and if you weren’t on time, she’d knock on your door, expecting you to join the group. She demanded we play board games, try her latest homemade cherry pie and listen to her long-winded stories. She even persuaded Biz to arm-wrestle.

We laughed that Sweetheart, the smothering host, neglected to put an apostrophe in the name of her fine establishment. “Sweetheart’s Inn” would’ve been more accurate than “Sweethearts Inn.”

In contrast to Sweethearts Inn, the dining room at “Bed Breakfast” is completely empty. The only noise is the rain splattering the windows outside. We wonder if there are actually other people staying here like Millie told us.

We look around, taking in the eclectic décor with the mismatched chairs, red and white checked tablecloths and framed needlepoint of various farm animals on the walls.

I reach under the table and squeeze Biz’s knee as Biz squeezes my hand. We smile at each other, both finally feeling warm and safe after today’s scare.

Movement suddenly catches our peripheral vision and we both turn to see an incredibly skinny brown cat with an elongated tail walking slowly across the room. The cat turns to see the human strangers and yawns, revealing serrated teeth. It looks like a mini velociraptor unhinging its jaw, ready to make us its supper.

We hear a throat clear. “That’s Steve,” Millie says, standing directly behind us, startling both of us.

I’m sure Biz is thinking what I’m thinking: the name “Steve” sounds like a first draft.

“His full name is Stephen King. Named after our favorite writer,” Millie says in a gleeful, macabre way.

To recap, the owners of a completely empty, possibly haunted bed-and-breakfast have named their cat after a legendary horror writer. Not sure if we need to hear this right now.

“Is it possible to have dinner?” Biz asks, chopping his way past the weirdness with a virtual machete.

“Of course. Daddy’s putting on the finishing touches as we speak.”

Biz and I discreetly share a look. Daddy. There’s no way that guy is her dad. They look the same age and, if anything, she seems slightly older than him.

“Oh. Daddy’s what I call my husband,” she explains, detecting our confusion. “After six kids all calling him Daddy, I sometimes forget his first name.” She laughs, which makes the two of us force polite laughs. I guess we’re relieved?

“Six kids. Wow,” I say.

“Tell me about it. Got the stretch marks to prove it. Lasagna okay?” Millie asks.

To me, this sounds like the perfect rainy night dinner. To Biz, the Italian food connoisseur, they are setting him up for potential disappointment.

Sitting at a table by the large bay windows, still alone in the dining room with a nearby fire flickering hello every so often, it does feel strangely romantic.

My heart races with warmth that I can share an intimate moment with Biz, until Millie and Dennis return with salads. Dennis serves me and Millie serves Biz. They time it perfectly in unison the same way a team of servers would perform at Le Bernardin in Manhattan. Crisp lettuce with fresh tomatoes and tasty goat cheese.

Before we know it, the couple serves our lasagna entrees and Biz is delightfully surprised by the complex flavors and high-end presentation. Millie and Dennis linger during our first bite, watching raptly. We shower them with praise for a home-cooked meal.

Out of nowhere, Millie dramatically changes the course of our small talk.

“We know you’re gay,” she says.

I almost do a spit take. Biz freezes mid-bite. I swallow, wondering how to navigate this.

“Congrats?” Biz says. He can’t help but administer a sarcastic tone as his defense mechanism. We stare at the couple, unsure of where this is going.

Did they poison our lasagna after all?

“We’d just like to say...” Millie pauses, maintaining a poker face for five seconds too long. The air of suspense makes us both unsettled. “Our son is gay too.”

“And so is our daughter,” Dennis adds.

“And our other child is nonbinary. They’re bisexual.”

We smile. This could’ve been game over but instead we’ve hit jackpot and our slot machine just keeps spitting out gold coins. The couple stands by our table expectantly.

“Would you like to join us for dinner?” I’m guessing they don’t have many people in these parts to talk to about their kids.

They bring out the pan of lasagna and a bottle of red wine and we share the meal. We ask them questions about parenting three queer kids and three straight ones. Millie tells us how their son wrote them a letter to come out, their daughter revealed it to them (and her entire high school) in her graduation speech as the valedictorian and how they walked in on their other kid having sex with their boyfriend.

There’s talk of our upcoming baby and the couple asks us every question under the sun. Did you meet the egg donor? You mean the egg donor and the surrogate are not the same? How did you find the surrogate? What if she wants to keep the baby? Did you try adoption?

Millie and Dennis tell us they feel less alone hearing our stories.

After at least three bottles of wine, a delicious chocolate cake and lively conversation, the night comes to an end. There’s nothing I want more than to go to sleep in our cozy, weird room.

I carry in our luggage, deciding to bring the bundle of letters from my father to our room. Spending the night with these two awesome parents has made me forlorn for my own.

I wonder if my own father would’ve loved me the way Millie and Dennis love their kids.

Biz and I collapse in bed next to each other; I read through a couple of my father’s letters while Biz texts with his sisters.

Two sentences into reading one letter and I’m filled with an emptiness I wasn’t expecting. At the exact same time I put away the letters, Biz puts away his phone. There will be more time to read what my father wanted me to hear but for now, it’s time to sleep.

We turn off our lamps and hear a scratch at the door. We look at each other with mild fright. Are there ghosts here after all? Another scratch. And another.

“What is that?” Biz asks.

Deciding to be the butch one, I throw off the covers and cautiously open the door.

I look down. “It’s Steve the cat,” I say. Stephen King confidently strides in and glides into Matilda’s bed. Matilda doesn’t mind as the two furry creatures exhale and fall asleep next to each other.

Biz and I fall into each other’s arms, like it’s the most natural thing to do. I have a smile on my face, realizing that we’re cuddling for the first time on this trip.

Maybe our unexpected hosts brought Biz and I a little closer together tonight.

I listen to the pitter-patter of the tempest outside, feeling safe and not wanting to let go of Biz, but wondering when the storm between us will finally clear.