Coda Books 04 - Strawberries for Dessert (MM)

fruitcake,” he said, “but he sure can cook!”

    I DIDN’T hear from Cole the next day, and I was annoyed enough at him that I would have been perfectly happy to leave it that way for a few days, but that was the night we were supposed to go to the theater.
    I broke down and called him at four to confirm that we were still on.
    Normally, we probably would have gone to dinner first, but we both seemed to feel it was best to skip it tonight. He agreed to meet me at my house, and we would ride together from there.
    I really was looking forward to the show. My love of the theater had come from my mother. She went as often as possible. My dad hated it, and so, starting when I was about ten, my mother took me instead. I loved the music and the stories, but more than anything, I liked going simply because it reminded me of her. I treated the theater with a reverence most people reserved for church. Despite being annoyed at Cole, I was happy to be able to use my tickets for once. It had been far too long.
    Unfortunately, I could tell from the minute he walked into my house that Cole and I were going to clash that evening. He was dressed as he always was—thin dark pants with a light sweater and a scarf. He had a jacket, but it wasn’t a suit jacket. It was white and trendier than anything I had ever owned, and I would have bet a month’s pay he had bought it in Paris. I knew nothing about fashion, but it definitely looked like something right off of a fashion-show runway. It was cut long in a way that almost seemed military and yet still oddly ostentatious. “Is that what you’re wearing?” I asked, before I could help myself.
    “No, love,” he said. “I have an Armani hidden underneath this. I was planning a Superman-style change of wardrobe in the car.”
    Maybe I deserved that, but I wasn’t going to apologize. “I thought you would wear a suit,” I said.
    “Not even if this were my own funeral.”
    “Fine.”
    We hardly spoke in my car, and as soon as we entered the theater, he headed for the bar, with me tagging along behind. I was reminded immediately of the night in Vegas when we had gone to the restaurant.
    At home, when it was only the two of us, his flamboyance seemed to fade. In public, it always came back to some degree. I thought I had grown used to it over the last few months, but tonight it seemed worse than ever. His walk was too swishy, his gestures too broad, his voice too lilting. I didn’t normally feel that I had to hide my sexuality, but I didn’t feel compelled to broadcast it, either. Being with Cole, I may as well have been carrying a neon sign that said, “I’m gay!” He made me self-conscious of my own mannerisms, and I found myself making an effort to look as straight as possible, something I hadn’t thought about in years.
    We got in line at the bar. For once, he wasn’t talking a mile a minute. At first I was simply happy to not have to listen to him. I reminded myself that this was supposed to be fun. Then I looked at the bar, and my anger returned, stronger than ever. The bartender was young, cute, and as blatantly queer as Cole. He was busy helping the customers in front of him, but his glance kept returning to Cole, and they would smile at each other every time.
    “Did you pick this line on purpose?” I snapped.
    “What if I did?” he snapped back. He eyed me up and down before turning his back on me. “Your condescension is getting a little old, darling.”
    I bit back my response, and then it was our turn. The bartender— his name tag said Trey—leaned forward so he was a few inches closer to Cole. “What would you like, sir?” he asked in a tone that was rife with suggestion, and Cole grinned wickedly at him.
    “How long has that Pinot Noir been open, sweetie?”
    “That one? Since last night. But I’ll open a fresh one for you if you like.”
    Cole gave him a look that was so flirtatious I wondered that the people standing next to us couldn’t feel the vibes coming off of him. “I would appreciate that very much. I’ll have a glass of that and a glass of Chianti too.”
    “Would you like me to open a fresh one of that as well?”
    “No, sweetie,” Cole said, cutting me a sideways glance. “Don’t bother.”
    “Would you like to place an order for intermission? You can pay now, and the drinks will be waiting for you at the end of the bar.”
    “That sounds perfect.”
    Trey poured my drink first, and Cole handed it back to me. Trey eyed me