I’m not a big fan of surprises. 

Sure, sometimes they can be fine.  Like the time that Mom and Dad grounded me -- as if Gramma didn’t nick from the liquor cabinet just as often as I did -- and Daph got September to distract Mom and Dad at the door with some ludicrous story about a disfigured rabbit while Daph snuck me out through the back and treated me to a midnight showing of Rocky Horror.  And a Pepsi.  And a couple of those airline-size bottles of rum. 

I do a wicked Time Warp.

And sometimes they can be amazing.  Like when you think that seeing the Stones play at a huge open-air benefit concert in Toronto would be the ultimate adventure, and then your boyfriend treats you to a fantastic trip to Barcelona instead.

But they can also suck.  Big time.  Like finding a hustler in your bed instead of the incredibly cool 3-D animation software that you’ve been oh-so-subtly hinting about for weeks. 

So yeah… surprises aren’t my thing.  Especially surprises that occur during the surprise trip to Barcelona.  Seems like the surprise trip itself should be enough in the surprise department, you know?  Yeah, there should definitely be a moratorium on surprises for awhile.  Until I’m at least twenty-one. 

So I stand there gawking at Susan, mostly because this visit really messes up my plans, and Brian should be back any minute, and the last thing in the world I want to do, now or in six weeks or fucking EVER, is to have a chat with my dad’s girlfriend.  And while I’m trying to think of the most polite way to say all this, she takes my silence for agreement and sidles past me and into the sitting room.  Shit. 

“I’m really kind of busy,” I say pointedly from behind her, where I’m still standing at the door.  The open door. 

She turns to look at me, one eyebrow raised, and in that moment she reminds me a lot of Brian.  Okay, not a lot, but she’s got that sardonic stare down pat.  That “oh really, because it looks like you were just sitting on your ass” kind of look, which makes me feel a little guilty.

Then she smiles, a little hesitantly, and the resemblance is gone.  “Of course,” she says. “I can come back later when you’re not so… busy.” 

Her gaze flits in a circle around the room, searching for whatever it was that I could be busy with.  I’m tempted to tell her she interrupted a good whack session.  But I’m still trying to be nice.

“It’s just that it took me all morning to track down what hotel you were staying at,” she’s saying as she walks s-l-o-w-l-y toward the door, “and I was just hoping for a couple of minutes of your time.” 

She’s got the doe-eyed thing happening now, and I kind of see what Dad might find attractive in that.  It also makes me a little uncomfortable, because I’m well aware of my own ability to use the doe-eyed thing to my advantage when circumstances require it.  I’ll bet Susan doesn’t get a slap on the back of the head fifty percent of the time when she tries it though. 

“I guess I have a few minutes,” I find myself relenting.  What the fuck?  I don’t have a few minutes.  I don’t have any minutes.  I want her gone!

“Thanks,” she says, and her smile looks genuine enough.  So I shut the door, wave her to the armchair, take a place across from her on the loveseat, fold my hands on my knees, and try to look interested in whatever she has to say while attempting to filter out the little voice in my brain that’s screaming that I’m a pussy. 

“I wanted to talk to you about your father.” 

“I figured it wasn’t about my grade point average.” 

She smiles again, her fingers twisting around the strap of her purse, and I guess she’s about as tense as I am.  “Well, your mother did send over a copy of your transcript. You’re doing wonderfully.” 

I shrug.  My talent as an artist really isn’t any of her business, and I don’t really give a shit about my grades.  A “C” on a project doesn’t mean there’s a flaw in my abilities, or that it’s an embarrassment, or that I don’t know shit.  It means that I’m learning.  I’m at PIFA to learn, and sometimes in the learning you can thoroughly fuck things up.

She takes a deep breath, maybe seeing that I’m not going to be sidelined into chatting about school or anything else.  “Your father is hoping that we can get together for dinner before we leave.” 

Oh, right.  Like that will happen.  Purple fire-breathing pigs would fly out of my dad’s ass before he’d sit down to a meal with Brian.  But I shrug again.  “Sure. Just let me know what day is good for you.  Brian and I don’t have any plans set in stone.” 

Her eyes drop to the ground.  “Well, what I meant was…” 

And she’s off.  Blathering about how dad wants to see me, just me, and how concerned he is about my well-being, and how I’m so young and I have the world at my feet, and how if I could just sit down with my dear Dad for an hour or two, and just listen to him, and think practically for a moment, think about how hard it’s going to be for me, think about the struggle my future is going to be, I’d see things differently.  As if she knows how I see things now.  As if they know shit about my life.  As if my father ever took a moment of his time to listen to me. 

She’s almost ticking the points off on her fingers, but all I hear is “too young”.  ‘Cause that’s what it all comes down to with my dad, isn’t it?  I’m too young to conceivably know what I want.  Too young to have a clear picture of where my path is going to lead.  Too young to choose my own way.  Too young to know how to act, who to love, how to love, who to be.  Too fucking young. 

Well, fuck that.

I press forward suddenly, startling her.  “How old are you?” 

Her brow creases.  Apparently I wasn’t supposed to interrupt.  I guess I was supposed to be swept away by her logic.  “That has nothing to do with--” 

Yeah, right.  “How old?” 

“I’m 26.  I’ll be 27 next--” 

“So you’re seven years older than me.  That would make you… eighteen years younger than my dad.  What fucking right do you have to lecture me?” 

“Justin,” she blanches a little at my choice of words.  And that only makes me want to channel Deb for a bit.  “This isn’t about age.  It isn’t.  It’s about choices.  Choices that were taken away from you--” 

I lean back, snorting.  “You’re right about that.  Not having a home or a family, yeah, that wasn’t my choice.  Watching my father beat the shit out of my boyfriend, not my choice.  Waking up in a hospital bed not knowing--” 

My voice breaks, despite my best intentions, despite how long its been, despite how far I’ve come since then.  Fuck.  Fuckfuckfuck.  I close my eyes briefly, take a breath, think calming thoughts.  That never worked when I was in ‘therapy’ at the hospital.  But it did once I got home.  With Brian.  Hands twined together, his body warm against mine, eyes closed, sharing soft breaths.  Filtering out the external sounds until only the beat of his heart remained.  Finding that place of solace and peace where nothing -- no one -- could hurt me again.  Finding that place with Brian.

When I look up at Susan again, my eyes are clear.  “Waking up in a strange bed not knowing how I got there.  Still not really knowing.  Yeah, it’s all about choices.” 

She leans forward, meeting my eyes.  And to be honest, she does look… like she understands.  A little. 

“Craig regrets so many of the things he did, Justin. But your father isn’t the only one that took decisions out of your hands,” she says softly, the words fucking over every benevolent thought I had for her. 

“And I bet you’ve sat down and enumerated each and every time you think Brian has made decisions for me, haven’t you?  Isn’t that what science geeks do?  Have you worked out a probability chart?  ‘If Brian hadn’t taken Justin home that first night, there’s a 62.569 percent probability that he’d be in Dartmouth right now’.  ‘If Brian hadn’t taken Justin in, he’d be dating some cute blonde cheerleader with big tits.’  ’If Brian hadn’t done this or that, Justin would be sensible.’   Don’t you realize how fucked that is?” 

“Justin.”  She huffs out a breath, and I wonder if she’s working on her own calming techniques.  Well, fuck her.  She came to me.  If she thought I was some mindless little twink, she’s learning differently.  “Now I know why your father says it’s so hard to talk to you.” 

Me?  I’m the one who… oh, fuck it. 

She glances down at her shoes, well-worn beige loafers.   Sensible shoes.  “You’re just like him,” she adds.

I stand, suddenly furious.  Being told that I resemble a homophobic, uncompromising control freak tends to piss me off.  “I think it might be best if you leave now.” 

“Justin.” 

She holds out a hand.  What does she expect me to do?  What does she expect me to say? 

The thing is, I love my dad.  I do.  And maybe Brian’s right.  Maybe I will always harbour the dream of a happy reunion, trips to the ballpark, family dinners.  I want that.  But I won’t compromise who I am to get it.  I’ll never compromise who I am again. 

And above all, I am not a reflection of Brian Kinney.  I am who I want to be.

I lift my chin.  “Tell my father that whenever he’s ready to accept me as the man I am, I’ll welcome him with open arms.” 

Susan frowns, and seems about to say more, but I turn my back on her and stride across the room.  Time for talking is done.  A very wise and very hot man has proven to me over and over again that actions usually speak louder than words.  I’ve heard enough words from my dad to last a lifetime.

And thinking that -- knowing that -- isn’t as hard to face as I thought it wwould be. 

I turn back to Susan while pulling the door open behind me.  Her mouth, lips pressed together in a thin line, suddenly drops open in a tiny ‘O’. 

And I feel the heat of his gaze even before I twist slowly toward the door. 

Brian, outstretched hand suspended in mid-motion at the key-slot.  His eyes dart between me and Susan for a brief moment before coming back to rest on mine. Then he leans casually on the doorjamb.  “Problem?” 

“No,” Justin answers.  But his mouth is set in a firm line, his arms crossed at his chest, and he’s wearing that ‘don’t fuck with me’ face.  Normally I’d shrug it off and let him tell me what’s on his mind in his own time.  It usually takes about fifteen minutes of me pretending that I don’t give a shit for him to cave.  And I’m about to do the same thing here.  But then Sharon or whatever the fuck her name is pushes past me, and Justin’s eyes flicker and harden.  And I want to know NOW, not in fifteen fucking minutes.

“Brian.  Leave it.” He reaches out to touch my arm, so I shove the bag from the gift shop into his hand and head off down the hallway after Sharon.  Or Sandra.  Whatever.   Justin can be pissed with me when I get back. 

I catch up to -- Susan? -- at the bank of elevators. 

“What are you doing here?” 

She glances toward me dismissively, then back to the glowing lights on the console above the elevators. 20... 19... 18...   I’m forcibly reminded of another ‘missile launch’ countdown.  Fuck, was that really over two years ago? 

“This has nothing to do with you, Mr. Kinney.” 

Icy tone.  Nicely done.  Might cow a lesser man.  Or one that didn’t see the look on Justin’s face as he watched Susan mince down the hallway. 

I step in front of her as she stabs at the call button again.  “What the fuck are you doing here?” 

She heaves a put-upon sigh.  “I’m here for Craig.” 

No shit. 

The elevator opens behind me, and when she moves to step inside I block her path.  I’m bigger and taller and I’m not averse to using that to my advantage.  When she makes another attempt, I take a step forward and jab my index finger into her chest.  “Details,” I say quietly. 

She looks down at my finger in horror.  Fuck, you’d think I’d thrust a red hot poker into her tit.  She backs away, slowly, and I let my hand drop to my side. 

“Craig wants to see Justin.” 

“Let me guess.  Craig wants to see Justin… on the cover of Heteros-R-Us magazine.  Am I close?” 

Susan’s eyes flash.  “Not everything is about sexuality, Mr. Kinney.” 

Right.  Now the father of the year has had a change of heart.  Bullshit.  “The fuck it isn’t.” 

“Craig has… He’s told me what he was like when Justin first came out.  He’s made great strides since then.  I wouldn’t be with him if he hadn’t.  He accepts Justin’s choice.” 

“I guess our invitation to the family barbeque must be in the mail, then?”  I lean back against the call button, a study in casual indifference. 

“Mr. Kinney--”

“Tell me, Susan -- it is Susan, isn’t it? -- did this change of heart come about because ol’ Craig now has his own adolescent crumpet on the side?” 

Her back straightens as her head whips up.  She looks at me with genuine disgust.   I‘m pleased.  Real feelings are easier to deal with than this pseudo ice queen bullshit.  “I am hardly a schoolgirl, Mr. Kinney.” 

“You’re a chemistry student.  Same difference,” I shrug.

“But it is different,” she insists.  “You were a thirty year old man who took a seventeen year old boy to his bed.” 

“I was twenty-nine,” I mutter.  Jesus Christ, can no one get that right?

“You corrupted a child.”  She’s fucking relentless.  “Craig’s child.  His only son.  His little boy.” 

I push away from the wall, stalking toward the bitch.  “Justin hasn’t been a little boy since his own father smacked him around, kicked him out onto the pavement, and refused to acknowledge his worth simply because he likes to take it up the ass.” 

“There’s no need for such language,” Susan clucks her tongue but stands her ground.  Fuck, she’s back to being the ice queen.  “And Justin is still Craig’s little boy, despite what you may think.” 

I smile. 

Susan’s haughty stance falters. 

“Maybe Craig has changed his spots,” I say.  “Maybe he doesn’t care that his little boy is a fag.   He just cares that someone has taken his child away.” 

Susan blinks rapidly.  I fucking knew it.

“But that’s what happens when a child falls in love,” I continue, walking slowly toward her.  She backs up, knees hitting the sofa, and sits with a thump.  “He leaves the nest.  He becomes his own person.  And Justin has become an amazing person.  A gifted artist, a man with integrity and honesty and heart and compassion.  A man I’m proud to call my lover.  My partner.  And if Craig can’t see that… then it’s his loss.”