Coda Books 04 - Strawberries for Dessert (MM)

left. It wasn’t as if my dad didn’t know that I was gay, but he rarely had to face it so head-on, and it always made him uncomfortable.
    “I didn’t wake you up, did I?” he asked. “You’re usually up early.”
    “No, I was awake.”
    “Good.” We stood there for a moment staring awkwardly at one another, and he finally said, “Jon, are you going to let me in?”
    Shit! Why was my brain suddenly short-circuiting? “Of course,” I said, and moved aside for him.
    He looked at me suspiciously as he came in and headed for the dining room table. “Do you have any coffee?” he asked.
    “I was just about to make some.”
    “Is something wrong, Jon?” he asked. “Did I interrupt something?”
    I was debating coming clean and telling him there was a naked man in my bed, but Cole put my out of my misery by choosing that very moment to come walking out of my bedroom. He had his pants on, although they weren’t buttoned, and he was just pulling his shirt on over his head. My dad’s jaw dropped, and I felt my cheeks turning bright red.
    “Oh shit,” I said.
    “Oh my God,” my dad said.
    “Oh hello there!” Cole said, advancing on my dad with a perfectly benign, open smile. “I’m Cole.” He stopped in front of my dad with his hand out. My dad just stood there with his mouth open, staring dumbly at him.
    “Cole, this is my father, George.”
    “Hello, George,” Cole said. “It’s nice to meet you.” He still had his hand out, and my father was staring at it like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. I could see the look in Cole’s eyes slowly changing from his usual mocking humor to something much more guarded. He slowly pulled his hand back. He put it on his hip, and cocked his other hip out. He flipped his hair back out of his eyes. I could almost see him putting on each little piece of his affectation like some kind of suit.
    “Well, lovey,” he said to me, although he was still looking at my dad.
    “I wish you had told me you were still in the closet.”
    “I’m not,” I said. I grabbed the closest thing I could find, which happened to be that morning’s folded up newspaper, and threw it across the table at my father. “Dad!”
    It smacked into the back of his head, and he jumped about a foot.
    But it did the trick. “I’m sorry,” he blurted out. “I’m George Kechter.”
    He held out his hand, rather belatedly. Cole stood there eyeing him suspiciously for a moment, but then shook his hand.
    “Nice to meet you, George,” he repeated. He eyed the bag of donuts on the table with obvious distaste before turning to me. “I was going to make breakfast, but I think it might be best if I was on my way.”
    “Cole, I’m sorry—” I started to say, but he smiled at me.
    “No worries, lovey. Give me a minute.”
    My father and I sat down on opposite sides of the table, not looking at each other. He was staring resolutely at the tabletop. I watched Cole as he went into the bedroom, came back out, found his shoes and his keys. All I could think about was how much I wished my father had waited another ten or fifteen minutes before ringing my doorbell. I was fairly certain, given the amount of urgency Cole and I had both been feeling, that would have been enough time.
    He stopped at the door and held his hand up to his ear, thumb and little finger extended, in the universal sign for “call me.” Or knowing him, it meant, “I’ll call.” I nodded, and then he was gone.
    Once the front door closed, my father finally looked up at me, his cheeks red with embarrassment.
    “What was he doing here?”
    I couldn’t help but grin at him. “Do you really want the details, Dad?”
    His blush deepened and he looked away. “No!”
    “I’m sorry if we made you uncomfortable.”
    “I didn’t expect you to have company.”
    “I didn’t expect you to show up on my porch unannounced at seven o’clock on a Saturday morning.”
    He was quiet for a minute, fidgeting with the donut bag. I knew he wanted to say something, and I waited. Finally he sighed. “He’s not really your type, is he, Jon?”
    “What do you mean?” I asked, challenging him. Of course I knew exactly what he meant, but I had no intention of making this easy for him.
    “Well,” he said defensively, “he’s a little….”
    He let his sentence trail away. “ Yes ?” I prompted. “A little what ?”
    “A little… fruity.” I felt myself bristle at that, but said nothing.
    “Is he your