I risk a side-glance to Brian, but he’s moved a few paces to my left, hands steepled at his stomach, lips pressed together tightly.  I have the barest moment to contemplate what that steely expression is hiding before my father’s arms wrap lightly around my body.  His soft arms enfold an inflexible frame and I try to remember that this is the man who took me to countless baseball games, who cheered when I finally got the hang of riding my first two-wheeler, who patiently helped me build a weather vane for my 4th Grade science project.  I try to push away the grating sound of his voice as he railed against my “disgusting lifestyle”, the sharp crack of his hand against my cheek, the dull thud of his well-worn loafers against Brian’s prone body. 

He finally pulls away, releasing me from his limp grip.  He presses back against the table, leaning against it as his eyes dart from shirt to trousers to eyes to shirt to eyes.  Probably doesn’t believe I’m really here. I’m more than willing for this to be a Raaz-Pees-induced hallucination myself. 

He clears his throat.  Cocks his head, and I can almost see the wheels spinning as he fast-forwards past school-art-work-sex-relationships-family before settling on something relatively safe.  “Your mother didn’t tell me that you were planning a trip to Spain.” 

No shit.  Why the fuck would my whereabouts be any concern of his?  But… maybe Mom has been telling him stuff about me.  Maybe… maybe he’s been asking stuff about me.  No.  Fuck no.  There’s no way.  He made his position perfectly clear and I really don’t need to dwell on my fucked-up family dynamics today, thanks. 

“I wasn’t,” I answer, and my voice sounds cool and calm and perfectly composed.  I don’t elaborate further, because it’s none of his business.  We’re just two acquaintances who happened to bump into each other unexpectedly.  “I could say the same about you.”

He gives a half-laugh, the skin around his eyes not crinkling the way it should, flesh that should be supple instead pulled taut, and I suddenly realize that he’s had a facelift.  Eyes, chin, brow.  Creepy. 

“As a matter of fact, Susan and I--” he begins, before cutting himself off abruptly and gesturing to the woman still seated at his table.  She swivels in her chair, blinking up at me with big doe eyes.  “You remember Susan, don’t you?” 

“Actually, we were never introduced.”

“Let’s correct that oversight,” Dad says, as though not introducing his son to the chick he’d been schtupping for over a year last time I saw him was no big deal, oh no, not at all.  “Susan Wiler, this is my son, Justin.” 

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Justin.“ she says softly, so softly I have to strain to hear her.

I can just imagine the stories she’s heard about me.  She’s all blurred edges, bland  colours, pale tones, like a favourite comforter that’s been washed too many times.  But she smiles politely, offering her hand, and I take it and press lightly and see the ring and grit my teeth.  My father smiles broadly down at her, his hand coming up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear.  And then my thoughts are only black, black, black. 

Never mind that I just spent an hour last week at lunch holding Mom’s hand, ignoring turkey loaf and coleslaw while she talked about the fickle real estate market and the anxiety of never knowing exactly how much money she’d have to live on in any given month.  Never mind that her roof needs new shingles and the brake pads on the car just had to be replaced and Molly might have to drop out of dance class because the lessons cost an arm and a leg.  Never mind that I watched her put on her “act happy for Justin” face and wave it away for the remainder of our meal.  Never mind that I went home to Brian and spent another hour rattling dishes and throwing things until he finally asked me what the fuck was wrong.  And never mind that Brian and I sat down that night and wrote out cheques to the contractor and the mechanic and Miss Willoughby‘s fucking Dance Emporium. 

Never mind all that, fucker.  You get your face-lift, you get your bimbo a nice fancy rock, and shit, why not go to Spain while you’re at it. 

A warm arm wraps snugly around my waist and the black fades to grey, then ice-blue.  I breathe deeply, settling a little against his body. The familiar scent and touch of Brian centres me, now as always.

“I wish I could say the same,” I tell Susan pointedly before continuing the introductions.  “This is my boyfriend, Brian.” She holds out a hand to him, which he ignores since he only has eyes for my father at the moment.  He also ignores the boyfriend designation, which says a lot about where his mind is at right now. 

“Dad, you remember Brian,” I finish evenly.

“Of course he remembers, Justin,” Brian jumps in before Dad can do more than splutter a few incomprehensible vowel sounds.  “Fancy seeing you here, Craig.  Or should it be ‘Dad‘?” Brian turns to me in mock consternation, dropping his arm from my waist.  “Tell me Justin, since you‘re the one learned in etiquette for the genteel set.  What is the proper form of address for the man who tried to murder me in the street… twice?”

“Brian!” I grit out the name between clenched teeth. 

He arches a brow, tries out his best “who-me-I’m-innocent” look, sees it isn’t working when I scowl at him, so he shrugs and turns his attention to the diners, eyes roaming in search of the hottest waiter.

I plaster on a strained smile, doing my best to maintain some semblance of civility in this awkward situation.  Because I am nothing if not polite. Years of lectures on the importance of upholding social niceties just don’t go away overnight.  There’s a part of me that’s always screaming “don’t make a scene”.  Fuck, even when I came up with the plan to expose Stockwell’s hypocrisy at the GLC press conference, I managed to do it politely. 

Susan is smiling timidly, though her eyebrows are practically crawling into her hairline.  The thought of the discussion she and Dad will be having later about Dad’s potential homicidal tendencies is almost enough to turn my nervous smile into a real one.

Almost, but not quite. 

Diners chat and laugh and gossip all around us, but the silence in our little bubble seems deafening.  If I remember correctly, five minutes is considered the “appropriate” amount of time you must spend with a dull guest before you can hightail it to greener pastures.  I cast about desperately for a harmless topic of conversation and start doing the countdown to my escape. 

“Uhhh…so what are you doing in Barcelona?” 

Dad smiles down at Susan, apparently deciding to ignore the surly, Gucci-clad white elephant in the room.  Good choice, since I intend to do much the same.

“Susan was invited to a symposium here.  It’s a molecular study, isn’t it sweetie?” 

Sweetie.  Jesus Christ.

Susan beams up at him.  “Actually, we’re discussing the mathematical and chemical relationships of stoichiometric problems and methods of integrating the learning into the classroom.  It’s really quite fascinating.” 

So she’s a science geek.   Well, that explains the clothes.  Brian hangs his head and starts to snore.  I subtly elbow him in the ribs -- if it’s possible to actually be subtle when elbowing someone --  and try not to gag on the mushy looks passing between my father and his… fuck… girlfriend.

Another two minutes and we are soooo out of here.

“I was only able to come unexpectedly,” Dad continues.

Brian snorts out a laugh. “At your age, that’s not surprising.  Might I suggest Viagra?” 

Fuck.  Shut up, Brian.  Shut up!

“Justin and I had one memorable afternoon about a year ago…”

Shut the fuck up!

“… Of course, I don’t need to take that shit.  But you know Justin.  He’s always one to experiment.” 

Dad looks like he’s going to have a stroke.  Susan looks like she got on the train to Happy Family Land and somehow got detoured into Dysfunctional Family Hell without her consent.  I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. 

After a moment Dad straightens, fixing me with a stare.  I remember those stares very well from my adolescence. He could convey so much emotion in that one look -- anger, disappointment, annoyance.  Disappointment was the big one.  When I was a kid, I’d do almost anything to replace that look with one of approval, love, pride.  But that was then, and this is now. 

“I thought you left Brian,” he bites out.  “Your mother told me you were… seeing… some musician.”

Beside me, Brian’s chin come up and his body stiffens. 

“That was a mistake.”  Smooth, calm, and perfectly clear.  “I told you once that Brian is the only man I want.  That’s still true.  It’ll always be true.” 

Because he might be an asshole, but he’s my asshole. 

“Justin--” Dad begins.

“We have to go.”

“So soon?”  This from Brian.  “And just when we getting better acquainted, too.” 

“Shut up!” I hiss in his direction.  I no longer have to be concerned about making a scene.  Brian’s doing a good enough job of that for the both of us.  I tug on Brian’s arm, back-pedalling the both of us toward the door, wishing Dad and Susan a pleasant trip, ignoring the dumbfounded looks on their faces, just wanting to get the fuck outside. 

“We’ll keep in touch,” Brian calls back to the table, laughing, fingers wiggling in a limp wave, just before we finally plunge into the sunlight. 

Jesus fucking Christ.  One asshole for sale.  Any takers?