51. Olivier

Jefferson opens the door to my parents' apartment and greets me like I was just here last week, and it hasn't been nearly six months.

"Monsieur Arnaud. Madame." He nods formally at Elodie on my arm, and then his gaze travels to the man standing behind us. "Your guest?"

"Yes, Drew is our guest," I say and lead the way into the penthouse.

Drew's hand rests on my lower back briefly, grounding me. I'm not overly anxious, but I think I'm appropriately on edge.

I could have been less of an asshole and caused a lot less upheaval for everyone involved if I'd had this conversation back in March when I knew I wanted to be with Drew, but I'd gotten hurt and angry and exacted a healthy portion of revenge. Time will tell whether I'll regret what I've done, or if karma will have anything to say about it, but what's done is done.

I did what I felt like I had to do for myself, for my friend, and for my unexpected soulmate—the love of my life. If I had it all to do over, I wouldn't change a thing.

Petra looks like she knows something's up, and she gives us all a brief hello before promptly disappearing into the kitchen. In the dining room, my father and mother sit in their usual seats.

Two places are set for me and Elodie. I pull out a chair first for my lovely wife, and then one for Drew before seating myself at the head, opposite my father.

My mother speaks first to Drew, breaking the heavy silence. "I feel like I recognize you from somewhere."

Drew nods. "Yes, we've met."

"I'm afraid I can't recall… Tricia's oldest?"

I roll my eyes hard. "Mom. Dad. This is Drew Riley. He's my partner."

Fuck that sounded awkward, and it only gets worse when my father asks, "Partner? Are you going into business?"

Lover? Boyfriend? Mate? Twin flame? "We're actually living together. We sleep together. Sharing a bed. That kind of thing, you know. Partner, in the gayest sense of the word."

My mother's glass of orange juice freezes halfway to her mouth.

Drew now has their full attention. Elodie hides a laugh with a cough behind her napkin.

Drew rests a hand on the back of my neck, and I swear, he's never looked better. He's rested, calm—glowing, really. He told me this morning he was happy, and that it had nothing to do with the fact that I'd just sucked him off. I'd made him specify.

"You're…gay?" This is from my mother, but it looks like she's asking Drew.

"I'm bisexual," he clarifies. "But I'm definitely in a relationship with your son. Have been for a while now."

"Olivier!"

This is my show and tell, and I need to take over. I came here to tell them who I am, what they've meant to me, and what I've done. They can do with that what they will.

"With that out of the way, I have something I need to say to you both," I begin. "You'll read a lot about this in the book, but I used to think I had a great childhood. And maybe it was na?ve of me, but I never thought I'd be able to do anything you wouldn't forgive me for. But after the accident, when you gave me this ultimatum," I gesture toward Elodie, "I started questioning things. Because it was just so clinical, wasn't it? I'd made a mess, and you had to clean it up—by arranging away the rest of my life to suit your needs."

"It was more than a mess, Olivier," my father says sharply. "It was a scandal."

"Whatever. I went viral, so what? What the fuck did you expect? I was basically drunk or high for eight straight years—Mom knows—and you'd been covering for me, welcoming me into your home like I was a part of your family."

"I did give birth to you."

"I can't imagine you let yourself suffer through that for long," I say. I've heard my birth story. My mother's water broke, and she practically had an epidural in the parking lot. She often boasts to her friends she never felt a single contraction. "Dad, what did you do when I almost died?"

"When you—?" he glances at my mother. "You told him that?"

"It came up."

"I—well, we hired another nurse, someone who could keep an eye on you throughout the night—we had your lungs evaluated for deficiencies—does that answer your question?"

"It does. Thank you. So, Drew just got out of the hospital a few days ago. He was depressed and was starting to have thoughts about harming himself. So we got him some help—like, I got him evaluated, too. But here's what I didn't do—what I can't even imagine doing—" For this I look at my mother. "Detach myself and write him off as someone who might not make it. Do you know why?"

My mother stares back at me, stone-faced and vaguely hostile.

"I love him. When it's hard, when it hurts, when it scares the shit out of me, I love him so much. I would do literally anything including steal your fucking money, write a book telling the world every shitty parenting decision you've ever made, and give up my inheritance to just have him."

Drew is trying to keep it together, but his hand trembles on my back, and I'm not gonna lie, my voice broke one or two times during my little proclamation, too.

"For what it's worth," Elodie says, "I support Ollie and Drew. They're good for each other. In a way, I'm grateful you and my dad shoved us together because I don't think I would have thought much of Olivier if I'd never been forced to get to know him—well, the new version of him once he started falling for Drew. Offense absolutely intended, but he was a real prick before Drew came along, and I assume you're both a little to blame for that, although this town probably had something to do with it, too."

To his credit, my father looks mortified, but I'm not sure it's because he's being told off by Elodie, because I'm in love with a man, or because I didn't keep my word about changing the book into less of a tell-all. I'm not holding out much hope that he actually has regrets, but there's not no hope either.

Watching what happened to Drew after he lost his father, whom he wasn't even close with, made me wonder what it would be like—what it will be like when that day comes for me. All I can really hope for, though, is there's someone at the end of the day to get me through it.

"I think we've heard enough," my mother says, without a hint of remorse. It's still such a cold, bitter slap in the face. "We'll sue the publisher. That book will never see the light of day."

"That's what you care about?" Drew asks.

My mother looks at him like he's a bug she stepped on. "Excuse me?"

"Seriously, after everything your son just said, your big concern is what it's gonna look like? Lady, do you really think the truth is gonna surprise anyone? I've known you five minutes, and it doesn't shock me at all."

"I don't know who you think you are, Drew?—"

"I was his doorman. On the night shift. You'll read all about it in the book."

My mother gasps, and even I have a hard time not laughing. Elodie, however, loses the battle. She dissolves into helpless giggles at my side, and what sounds like a loaded platter crashes in the kitchen.

My father drops his face into his hands. "I think you three should go."

Drew looks at me like he's in complete agreement. I don't need to be told twice.

I can't say I'm satisfied with how brunch went, but it had its memorable moments. Still, I don't feel great, and the hurt I was feeling when I came in hasn't magically disappeared now that I've come clean with all my dirty deeds.

Drew takes charge, standing first, offering Elodie a hand up and then giving my back a pat. My parents won't even look at me, so there's nothing else to do but get up, too.

He puts an arm around me, and we head for the door. Elodie still has a few laughs to get out as we wait for the elevator, but we make the ride to the lobby in silence.

Once we're on the street, Elodie tells us she's meeting up with Matthew, and Drew suggests he and I head to Brooklyn to check in on the brownstone.

It's a good idea. Keep it moving. Focus on the road in front of us instead of what we're leaving behind. Not that I'm sure it'll help me shake this sudden funk, but it's worth a try.

Still a little shell-shocked, I nod, and then somehow, beyond my control, we're on the subway.

"What is that smell?"

"Shh…" Drew says, and that's when I notice the homeless man across from us. Pretty sure that's where the smell is coming from.

It's a very, very long ride from the Upper East Side to Brooklyn, but the stinky guy gets off a few stops down, and though his body odor lingers a few stops more, it's eventually overwhelmed by the other sweaty people coming and going.

I'm in total sensory overload. The sounds, the people, the repetitive jostling as the train barrels down the tracks. "Never again," I tell Drew.

He just laughs.

Brooklyn was a pretty big surprise for me when I first came to see this house. I'd only ever been at night, and only a handful of times. But the neighborhood where we'll live has trees, it's relatively quiet, and there are so many people walking dogs all the time, I halfway wonder if it's a homeowner's requirement. I wouldn't mind a dog, I don't think.

It's a Sunday, so I don't expect any workers in the house, but I'm glad to see the front door is closed and locked.

"I love this place so much. You did so good, baby," Drew says, looking around the facade as I unlock the door.

"I hope the water's running," I say. "I need a shower after what you just put me through."

He leans in and gives my neck a good, long sniff. "You still smell good to me."

I shudder. "You're giving me chills. Stop it."

He chuckles before he pulls away to let me open the door.

The remodel has come a long way, even in the last two weeks. Everything had to go. Walls. Windows. Floors. Ceilings. The only thing in decent shape was the staircase, but I didn't trust it, so I had it reinforced and refaced, but tried to keep with the old-world style.

This place is nothing like the penthouse with all its airy blank space and minimal lines. One of the reasons I turned my bedroom into a Parisian bordello was because I wanted someplace cozier and sexier to sleep. Don't get me wrong—the penthouse was done exactly to my specifications—I'd wanted the space, the open living area, the high ceilings at the time. It just turned out I hadn't loved it as much as I thought I would.

The brownstone, on the other hand, even with no solid walls in place, radiates warmth, and I've worked enough hours with the architect and designer to be able to envision the final product. I'm constantly shopping for furniture and fixtures, rugs and art. Obsessing over all the different shades of white paint.

Drew steps into what will be the living room and turns in a slow circle, looking around.

The midday light coming in from the large windows attaches itself to him like it's seeking his beauty. It takes my breath away.

"This is what you want, right?" I ask, uncertainty and insecurity playing a nasty game with my mind after meeting with my parents.

I know he'll say yes. But what I need is what comes after the yes. The absolute reassurance that he still believes I'm the one for him—a man not even his parents could love.

Drew stops moving and looks at me, pointing to the subfloor he's standing on. "Come here."

I go, placing myself directly in front of him and meeting his eyes stoically.

"Are you asking about living in Brooklyn, the brownstone, the remodel, or are you asking if I want to call this place my home with you?"

I swallow on a dry throat. "All of the above?"

"You know you're my hero, right?" he asks.

I wince.

"What you did today…what you did for Elodie, for me… It would have been a real waste if I'd killed you that one time."

My lips curve up at the edges. "Totally understandable, though."

He touches my face and lets his hand rest on my cheek. I lean into his palm and hold his bright blue gaze. "Someone did something right with you," he says.

"I'm looking at him," I whisper.

Drew's eyes narrow. "I don't know about all that."

"Believe what you want—I know the truth. You're my hero."

"Oh, you poor thing. You know you could do so much better."

I run my hands up his solid abs, his sculpted chest, his broad shoulders, and I drape my arms over them. "It turns out I like fixer-uppers. Who knew?"

"It's important for the idle rich to have hobbies. I've always said that."

I smile. "Oh, really?"

He leans closer to me. "Really."

His lips are close to my lips, and the warmth of his skin rivals the sunlight.

"You know what I actually think I meant? About whether this is what you want?"

He gives his head a slow shake.

"It's just that I know—I think for both of us at first—we thought this might be a phase. Like why not fuck a guy—everything else sucks."

His brow furrows.

I continue. "Like, I acknowledge it started out really toxic—self-destructive, even."

"It was a rough month," he acknowledges.

"Do you ever regret it? Do you think you might be happier with a woman long term?"

He truly scowls now, and his hand drops from my face to my shoulder. "Do you?"

"I think I wanted you from the first time I saw you. Like there you were—my type. Like whatever latent part of me that was actually bisexual woke the fuck up and scared the shit out of me because I knew my parents would disown me, I'd lose all my friends, I'd lose everything if I were with a man. So, if you ever wonder if I'd rather be with a woman after having finally found out what it was like to be with you, I'd like to point you to the fact that I just rode a subway for forty-five minutes to Brooklyn and am standing in a construction zone begging you to tell me I'm not your worst mistake."

His gaze softens, forehead relaxing. "Baby, of all the mistakes I've made since I moved to this city, you are the only one I wouldn't take back."

"Promise?"

He kisses me gently, and I nearly stumble into him with the need for more. "I swear."

"When did you know?" I ask.

Drew's gaze narrows. "Do you really want the answer to that?"

I nod. For better or worse, I do.

He sighs. "It's not as sweet of an answer."

"I don't need a sweet answer."

His grin is filthy and hot. "That second blow job…on your couch. I slept like a fucking log that day. I knew it wouldn't stop there. You basically raised my sex drive from the dead."

"Because I can deep throat?"

He starts walking, backing me up until I hit the wall. "That, and because you're such a slut for my cock."

"I am," I admit.

"I was a goner, baby." His hand grips my throat, and my eyes all but roll back in my head. "Now, be a good little peach, get on your knees, and welcome me home."