Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Yet, I couldn’t help thinking we could do more.
“Ronnie needs a social media expert,” I commented, wadding my napkin into a ball.
“Definitely,” Vin agreed. “I’ll mention it to him tonight.”
“What’s tonight?”
“We’re meeting up with a few high school buddies for beer and pool at the Black Horse. Jim Ashton, Dirk Cafferty, and a couple of other guys. They were all in our grade, but you know them. You should come,” he enthused.
“Maybe I’ll swing by on my way home from the diner.”
He nodded and popped the last of his sandwich into his mouth, his thick brows furrowed as he chewed thoughtfully. “What do you think Ronnie will say when I tell him I’m bi?”
“You’re going to tell him?” I choked in surprise.
“Not tonight, but soon.”
“Oh. Well, he’ll be happy for you.”
“Happy? That’s weird. It’s nothing to be happy or sad about. It just is what it is.” He lowered his ball cap over his forehead and sighed. “The bi part isn’t a big deal. It’s the strong desire to fuck his brother that’s really gonna throw him off.”
I choked for real this time. “Jesus, Vinnie.”
He shrugged. “It’s true, though. What did your family say when you came out?”
“They said all the right things—told me nothing changed, and gave me their unconditional support and love. It was almost anticlimactic. I’d been geared up for the fight of my life for years. Ready to do battle at a moment’s notice, pissed at myself for being born this way, and pissed at society for making it into a big fucking deal. And the people whose opinions I cared most about were so…good to me.” I leaned back on my hands and cast a poignant look at him. “Especially my dad.”
Vinnie nodded. “That makes sense.”
“Your dad won’t care either.”
His smile was instantaneous and disarming. “Dude, my dad’s head has been buried in his books for sixty years. He is the original absent-minded professor. Real life distracts the hell out of him. Is it any wonder he’s in London the one summer I’m here? When I told him I was thinking about coming home, I’m sure all he heard was Charlie-Brown-style gibberish-speak. It’s who he is. I could tell him I purchased a seat on a space shuttle, won a ga-billion-dollar lottery, or that I accidentally burned his house down, and he’d say, ‘That’s nice, son.’ You know I’m not exaggerating.”
That was all very…accurate. Heartbreakingly so. But I still felt the need to argue on his dad’s behalf.
“He’s not that bad,” I said in the least convincing tone ever.
“He’s worse than that.” Vinnie chuckled softly. “I love the guy. Even when I was a kid and I didn’t understand why my mom was gone and how I got left behind, I couldn’t hate him. He was in pain and in his own way, he tried. But…I used to wish I could trade places with you when we were kids. My house was so…fucking sad.”
I scooted a little closer and mirrored his pose, linking my pinky around his as I looked up at the fading sun. “Your new house is happy.”
Vinnie kissed my shoulder. “Yeah. I’m happy.”
Those two little words had never sounded so sweet.
We had a packed house at the diner tonight. The outdoor area had been fully reserved for a week, and we’d filled our last vacancy of the night earlier in the day. I loved looking over the sea of chatty patrons, enjoying a nice meal under the stars or in candlelight inside. It was high-end but cozy…the way only a small town could pull off.
I had JC to thank for that. He added what he called a certain French-Canadian je ne sais quoi—a little something extra in the form of basic fare with a haute cuisine twist. And I added…the basics—a diner with a great reputation. During the short time we’d been a couple, we’d talked endlessly about how to create a brand using his culinary expertise and the marketing skills I’d picked up in LA. We’d done a damn fine job if you asked me. The diner was kicking serious ass…and it was fun.
I’d spent most of my evening helping out on the floor, pouring wine, directing the waitstaff, and generally schmoozing customers who expected a warm greeting with their filet mignon as if we hadn’t bumped into each other at the dry cleaners or the rink earlier in the day. Like Sherry and Harv Kinney.
“Barclay hasn’t gone a full day without mentioning Vinnie Kiminski,” Sherry gushed with a starry-eyed look that indicated she didn’t mind in the least.
It took me a second to remember that Barclay was Kinney, our resident puck hog who’d actually come a long way over the past few weeks.
“Can’t blame him,” Harv piped in, pushing his empty plate aside and patting his round belly with satisfaction. “We never had an NHL superstar even sniff the rink when we were kids.”