Inside Out, page 7
“That’s Peter,” Rome said softly. I was so caught up in looking at the shelf and staring at the photo of Rome and Peter I hadn’t heard him walk up behind me. Rome placed his hand at the small of my back, and I relaxed into his touch. “He made this massive beast as an anniversary present. He locked me out of the garage for months while he built it.”
“It’s a beautiful work of art.”
“Peter got so tired of me storing my records and CDs in ‘the tackiest possible ways’ all over our house and designed this.”
“How tacky?” I asked, wanting to know that side of Rome and not just the neat and orderly vibe I picked up from him all the time.
Rome groaned, and I turned away from the picture to look into his blue eyes. “The worst! I’m talking fruit crates and any hideous thing I could find that would hold my treasures.”
“You strike me more as an IKEA guy,” I said, gesturing around the clean, modern room. “You’re always so neat when I see you. There’s never a wrinkle in your shirt or a crooked tie around your neck.”
Rome snorted. “You’ve met my secretary. Do you think she’d let me represent such an esteemed position in a wrinkled shirt and an askew tie? I keep extra shirts in my closet because I can be a bit of a train wreck with condiments.”
“Huh. I never would’ve guessed.”
“Are we okay here? Do you have questions you want to ask?” Rome sounded worried and I wanted—needed—to put him at ease.
“About your slovenly ways?”
Rome’s deep chuckle warmed me in places that had gone cold seconds before when I saw proof he was a man who’d loved hard. Was there room for anyone else in his heart? “I was talking about Pete.”
“I could tell by our conversation this morning about Howie you were a man who’d experienced great love and an equally great loss.”
Rome nodded. “Some days, it feels like Pete died just yesterday, and other days, I struggle to remember his voice.” He shook his head. “This isn’t exactly the tone I wanted to set on our first date. First, I sound and look as stiff as a robot when you arrive, and then—”
I silenced him with another soft kiss. I allowed my lips to linger a little longer than the first time, but I didn’t slide my tongue between his lips when they parted to gasp in surprise. I cupped the back of his neck and rested my forehead against his. “I’m attracted to your realness.”
“Maybe I should make a fool of myself more often,” he said then chuckled. I hated the idea of anyone besides me in Blissville seeing this vulnerable side of him. I opened my mouth to express the sentiment, but the oven timer went off.
“How about we continue this conversation over dinner?”
“Sounds great.” Like after our first kiss, Rome linked our fingers together and led me to the kitchen.
“If music be the food of love, play on.”
~William Shakespeare
“Music fuels the soul and becomes the rhythm of the heart.”
~Romeo Bradley
“I thought we’d eat at the kitchen nook since it’s a bit more intimate than a formal dining room. Is that okay with you?” I asked Jules. God, I sounded as breathless as I felt. He’d rendered me senseless with his kisses, and I was still reeling. Then again, I liked the sensation that I was floating and the only thing keeping me tethered to the ground was his hand.
“It sounds perfect to me.”
Before he arrived, I set the table with my good china and crystal wineglasses then placed the salad bowl and matching crystal carafe filled with my homemade vinaigrette dressing. I thought about lighting candles but decided it might be too much. Damn, I was so out of practice at this. I had wound myself up so tight before he arrived I practically vibrated with nervous energy while somehow managing to be rigid at the same time. It was a recipe for a disastrous evening, but Jules fixed that with a simple kiss. His lips were even softer than they looked, and I could easily spend hours kissing him, learning their shape and memorizing his taste.
“Please have a seat, and I’ll bring the rest of our meal over,” I said, reluctantly releasing his hand.
“Are you sure I can’t help?”
Oh, there were so many ways he could help me. Take off my clothes, kiss me all over, put me out of my fucking misery by joining his body to mine. I knew that wasn’t what he was offering though, so I smiled and said, “You can carry the chicken parm over to the table while I get the breadsticks if you want.”
“Sure.” Jules slipped his hands inside the oven mitts I’d set beside the steaming casserole and carried it to the table, placing the dish on the chrome serving rack. Jules wearing my oven mitts was such a small thing, but it felt as huge as the lump in my throat. I really liked seeing him in my space and liked him touching my things. His presence settled and grounded me in ways I never expected. Jules fit as well in my kitchen as he did the light blue sweater and dark denim jeans he wore. Too soon, Romeo. Take it slow.
I placed the breadsticks in the bread basket and grabbed our bottle of wine. “You have excellent taste in wine, Jules.” I lifted the bottle and began pouring a fair amount in his wineglass.
“I’d love to take credit for it, but I asked the guy working the wine section what paired best with chicken Parmesan. He started talking about the different types of notes and accents found in wines then must’ve taken pity on me when my eyes glazed over and pulled two different types from the shelf.”
“The guy knows his wine. Would you prefer to drink something else? I have a variety of beer, liquor, and soda. I never know what I’m going to be in the mood for and tend to grab a little of everything.”
“This is fine, Rome,” he assured me. “I enjoy a glass of good wine, but I don’t know enough to choose a decent one without help.” Jules took a sip of his wine then licked his lips. “This is delicious.”
I wanted to lean across the table and taste it on his lips but instead picked up my glass and took a sip. “I love a good cabernet sauvignon.” Neither of us said anything while we filled our plates with perfectly seared breaded chicken smothered in Lily’s scrumptious marinara sauce and melted mozzarella. I took the tongs and gave the salad another quick toss before filling my bowl and asking, “Can I interest you in a tossed salad, Jules?”
He chuckled, and a wry grin spread across his face. Jules cleared his throat then said, “I’ve been known to enjoy it on occasion, but I usually like to get to know someone first.”
“Oh my God! Did I say something really inappropriate? Why must the younger generation take the tamest of words and phrases and turn them into something dirty? Did I proposition you without knowing it?”
Jules’s chuckle turned into a deep-bellied laugh which I couldn’t help answering in kind. “Kids these days,” he said, imitating the shaky voice of an elderly man.
I groaned. “How bad is it?” I asked. “Did I just offer to blow you under the table?”
Jules laughed until tears ran down his face. “Not quite.”
“What then?” I asked, but Jules shook his head. Groaning, I pulled my phone out of my back pocket and googled the phrase. My heart sank to my knees. According to the urban dictionary, I had just offered to give Jules a rim job. “Dear God, take me now.”
“Is that my cue to pounce, or are you praying that the good Lord calls you home right this minute?”
I laughed and snorted at the same time which only added to my list of clumsy first-date transgressions. It was a miracle Julius didn’t jump to his feet and run out the door. “I would totally understand if you left my house and never spoke to me again.”
Julius stopped laughing and reached across the table for my hand. “I’m not laughing at you, Rome.”
“You’re laughing near me then?”
“You have to admit the situation is a little funny.”
“I didn’t want to be funny. I wanted to be suave and sexy.”
“You could do that without breathing because it’s part of your genetic makeup. Sometimes suave comes across as unapproachable, and I…” He let his words trail off while he carefully chose his words.
“Want to approach me?” I suggested.
“Yes, I do, and I find it easier to do that sitting in your kitchen laughing over silly phrases with double meanings than in my classroom or your office.”
“I like laughing over my ridiculousness in my kitchen with you.” It was the most fun I’d had in ages. “Why don’t we tuck in to our dinner while it’s still hot, and we can see how obvious I can make it that I haven’t dated in a long time?”
Slicing into his chicken cutlet, Julius asked, “How long?”
“Seven years,” I admitted.
Julius’s hands stilled, but he snapped his head up to meet my gaze. “Seven years? Is that how long you’ve been a widower?” It was a fair question, and one he had the right to ask. I had pursued him because I wanted to get to know him better, and I’d opened the door for the line of questioning with my remark.
“I’ll answer, but only if you take a bite of your dinner while it’s still hot.”
Julius tipped his head to the side to acknowledge my request and took a bite of the chicken parm. He closed his eyes and chewed slowly, savoring the flavors on his tongue. “This sauce did not come from a grocery store.”
“You are correct. It came from my next-door neighbor, Lily. She grows the tomatoes and herbs in her garden. She gave this to me before school started, and I’ve saved it for a special occasion.”
Julius took another bite and then another before he said, “I’m a grateful recipient of her talent and generosity.” He pointed his fork at my untouched plate of food. “Your turn to eat. We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to discuss. I was just surprised to hear you haven’t dated for so long.”
I took my time slicing through the tender chicken then swirled it through the sauce and put it in my mouth. I’d sampled the sauce when I opened the jar and knew it was remarkable but adding in the meat and mozzarella amped the flavor to a whole other level. While chewing, I debated how much I wanted to talk about Peter on the first date with the man who finally made me feel alive. How much was too much?
“Because I’m such a catch?” I teased. I held up my hand to cut off whatever he was going to say. “Please don’t answer that. It sounds like I’m digging for compliments when I was only trying to crack a lame joke.” I set my fork down and looked across the table in time to see Julius do the same. This felt like a make-or-break moment to me, and I didn’t want to screw it up. “Peter died seven years ago. We weren’t married because same-sex marriages weren’t legal in Ohio at the time. The photo you saw was taken during our commitment ceremony seventeen years ago when we were twenty-eight years old. It wasn’t legally binding, but it was the best we could do at the time. The day meant so much to both of us.”
“How long did you date before your commitment ceremony?”
“Ten years. We met on our first day of college at The Ohio State University.”
“Wow, you were together twenty years,” Julius said softly, briefly breaking eye contact.
“Jules,” I said softly, pulling his eyes back to mine. “I wouldn’t have asked you to dinner if I wasn’t ready. My reason for not dating until now was because I hadn’t met a man who interested me enough to…” What? Put forth the effort? Risk the heartbreak? None of those sounded right. They either made me sound juvenile, lazy, or afraid. I was none of those things. I decided to go with another approach. “I’m not the kind of man who wants to use a dating app or pick up strangers in a bar. That’s just not me. I am a man who knows what it’s like to have a loving relationship, and that’s what I’m looking for now. I’m not assuming you want the same thing, but you make me want to put myself out there to find out. I loved Peter with every fiber of my being, and I am grateful for the time we shared because he made me a better man. Peter wouldn’t want me to live the rest of my life alone. He’d want me to fill my days with laughter and love. I know this because I would’ve felt the same way had the situation been reversed. I can’t erase his existence, nor would you want me to.”
Julius nodded and vehemently said, “I would never want to deny you the memories you have of Peter. Oddly, this reminds me of a conversation I had with my mother on the way over here. I told her about our date then gave her a hard time when she started giving me dating advice and telling me to wear good underwear. I told her to go find her own silver fox and stop obsessing about mine.” I just blinked at him. His silver fox? That was how he thought of me. “Um…”
“Oh no. You’re not walking that back now, Jules.” My smile was so big it made my face hurt.
“Anyway,” he said, spearing a forkful of salad, “I used the same reasoning with her as you gave for Peter. My dad wouldn’t want her sitting home alone each night, especially now that Marcus and I are both gone.”
“I’m sorry to hear your dad passed away,” I said gently.
“Thank you. Eight years ago, he kissed my mother goodbye then dropped my brother off at school on his way to work. He had a ruptured aneurysm on the job and died suddenly. To say it blew our world apart was putting it mildly, so I understand why it takes a person a long time to recover and put themselves out there again. My mom will know when the time is right for her, just like you know the time is right for you now.”
“You have an old soul, Jules. Wise way beyond your years.”
“That’s what my grandmother says too. Maybe I’ve always been mature for my age, but I know a lot shifted in my brain after my dad died. I felt like I needed to step up and be a rock for my family to lean on.” I wondered who he had turned to when the burden became too heavy for him to shoulder alone. Jules ate the bite of salad then took another sip of wine. “Even though I don’t know you well, I trust you to know how you feel and what you want. I’m not going to waste precious time second-guessing your motives.”
“Thank you.” I decided to steer us away from heavier topics and asked, “When did you start playing music?”
“My father taught me how to play the piano when I was five years old then I moved on to the cello, violin, and guitar when I was older. If the instrument has strings, then I can play it. Well, except for the harp. I’m just not a big fan of its sound.”
“What about writing music? When did that start?”
Jules snorted. “Angsty teen years, of course. Man, I had a notebook full of tragic melodies.” After another bite of chicken, he asked, “When did you start theater?”
“I was probably seven years old. I auditioned for a part in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory at the kids’ theater. My mom said I was too dramatic and needed a healthy outlet for it.”
“Did you get a part right out of the gate?”
“Sure did. I was cast as Charlie, and let me tell you, it didn’t go over well with the parents of the kids who’d been acting for a while. Here came this upstart taking the lead role. It was the first time I realized I performed best when people didn’t think I was capable.”
“It was the same for me while auditioning for spots on the children’s orchestra. I grew up in a predominantly black neighborhood, and there weren’t many opportunities to play classical music, so my parents took me to a wealthier, whiter neighborhood. I’m not sure anyone took me as a serious threat when I walked in with my secondhand cello. I already stuck out because I was taller than most of the kids, but then my skin was darker and my instrument not as shiny.”
“Then you began to play, and everyone took notice.”
“Yes, they did. Being part of an orchestra was heavenly to me. All of those different instruments coming together to create magic.” Jules closed his eyes and smiled contentedly. I wondered where his mind had taken him, but I wouldn’t interrupt the serenity of the moment by asking. Then he reopened his eyes and I fell into their hazel depths. “Music transcends all the labels people want to slap on us like race, religion, gender, and orientation. People might not always rise above the fray, but music does.”
“I think you’re beautiful,” I said then immediately felt myself blush. “Um…”
“Oh no. You’re not walking that back now, Rome,” he said, echoing my words from earlier. “I think you’re beautiful too, and I’d love to explore your music collection more. I was too busy admiring the unit Pete built for you and didn’t look at the titles on the albums or CDs.”
“That’s not my entire collection,” I confessed.
“It’s not?” he asked, eyebrow lifting.
“That’s a small part of what I own. Peter had planned to make additional units, but he never got around to it. I’ll show you the rest after you eat.”
Our conversation for the rest of the meal turned to the play and the plans we had for the next part in the production. I told Julius my concerns about allowing the playwrights to audition for parts they created because I felt it would be unfair on many levels. First, they knew the parts better than anyone else because they created them. While reading the play, I could see the three kids created characters in their spitting images, and I wondered how much of the story was about their lives. Second, if they did try out and land the parts, I would be accused of favoritism. Lastly, I wasn’t sure how they would handle me directing them. They saw the characters one way, but I might see them in a different light. I didn’t want to spend countless hours arguing with them. The most prevailing thought in my mind though was that no one other than them could play those roles as well. They were tailor fit for them. How could I even think about giving those roles out to anyone else?
