Page 7 of Rescuing the Writer
“It was, but my mom did an amazing job raising me by herself. But it was unavoidable that I stepped up in some areas where others were able to stay a child longer, like chores around the house. I could fix pretty much anything by the time I was fifteen. Our neighbor was a contractor, and he taught me everything I needed to know.”
“Did you grow up in this house?”
I shook my head. “Two streets down, but Mom sold it when I moved out. I wanted my own place, so when they built some new apartments on Miller Street, I put myself on the list for a studio and got it. She downsized and bought this. I moved in when she was diagnosed…and now it’s mine.”
“Sounds like you were close with your mom.”
“She was my best friend. I know people say it shouldn’t be like that, that a parent-child relationship isn’t a friendship, but ours was.” I swallowed, the weight of memory pressing against my chest.
“Must have been rough, taking care of her.”
“Hardest thing I’ve ever done.” I stirred the sauce with more force than necessary. “But she raised me to be strong and to take care of those you love. I couldn’t have done any less for her.”
Melbourne nodded, his expression somber, respectful. “That’s admirable, Waylon. Really.”
My throat tightened at his words, at the unexpected warmth they sparked inside me. The admiration in his eyes wasn’t something I’d sought, but it anchored me all the same. “Thank you.”
As the pasta bubbled away and the sauce thickened, rich and fragrant, I set the table. Two plates, two forks, two glasses of water—everything in pairs. Some napkins, a candle to create some atmosphere. It was more intimate than I’d intended, but there it was. A simple dinner, yet it felt charged with an energy I hadn’t anticipated.
“How did you become a writer?” I asked, steering the conversation to safer waters.
“I’ve always been one. I used to get in trouble in school for reading and writing stories when I was supposed to be doing other things. When I was fifteen, I completed my first book about a boy who discovered his grandfather didn’t die of natural causes but was murdered by a neighbor. Looking at it now, I can see it was deeply flawed, but the talent was there. My parents weren’t very supportive.” He winced. “Not of my chosen career, nor my ‘life choices.’”
I had no trouble interpreting that last bit of cultural code. “They had an issue with your sexuality?”
“A big one. They didn’t kick me out, but only because it wouldn’t have been good for their image. Instead, they mostly ignored me until I went off to college, and after that, we barely spoke.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll never understand how parents can reject their kids for something like that. My mom was…” I needed to take another deep breath before I could continue. “I didn’t tell her I was gay until she was sick, but she’d known. She’d been waiting for me to be ready to tell her. I couldn’t bear the idea of her dying without knowing the truth, but when I came out, she was more grateful than anything else. Grateful I’d had the courage to be honest with her…and myself.”
“I’m so happy for you that she reacted well to the news.” Melbourne leaned back in his chair, studying me with those deep, thoughtful brown eyes. “Authenticity is a rare thing. Not many have the guts to live their truth, especially in a small town like this.”
I laughed dryly. “Yeah, well, I always thought Forestville wasn’t a beacon of progressive thinking, but then my boss got a boyfriend, and no one batted an eye. That made it a hell of a lot easier to follow in his footsteps. And Mom was amazing about it. She said she loved me no matter what.”
“She sounds like a remarkable woman,” Melbourne said softly.
“She was.”
Was it strange to wish she could’ve met Melbourne? I would’ve loved to hear her opinion of him. As a nurse, my mom had always had a great sense of people.
I tested the pasta, which was perfectly al dente. Time to eat. I plated our dinners with care, using a paper towel to wipe the edges of our plates so everything would look perfect. A few leaves of fresh basil were the finishing touch. There, all done.
“Wow, you really went all out.” Melbourne eyed the arrangement with a mixture of surprise and delight.
“I like to cook,” I murmured, shrugging slightly. Had I overdone it? “Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Yes, please.”
I poured us both a glass, though his was considerably fuller than mine. Even off-duty, I liked to keep my alcohol consumption limited.
Melbourne dug in with a big grin.
“This tastes amazing,” he said between mouthfuls, his compliment sending a jolt of pride through me. “You could give any Italian grandma a run for her money.”
My cheeks heated. “Thank you.”
“Good food, good company,” he mused, meeting my eyes. “It’s the simple things, isn’t it?”
“Definitely.” Our gazes locked, and for a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the two of us and the subtle clink of cutlery against china. Did he feel it too?