Late summer crept past, or so it seemed. Seeing Dieter once a week, if I had time, was simply not enough. I needed more. I wanted more. More touching and talking, more intimacy. Grinding against each other under that red maple wasn’t cutting it anymore. Texting was okay, but lacking in many ways. Video calls helped. I could see his sparkling green eyes and that incredible jaw of his all covered with scruff, but I couldn’t touch those whiskers or kiss the corners of those jade eyes. Yet I knew he was where he needed to be. Still, my body ached for his touch. I was a greedy goose. Fall was in the air now; it tickled the senses on cool mornings, then disappeared as the seasons battled for control. Today was one of those ungodly humid and hot early September days in the city. Clothing stuck to skin, hair flopped and makeup ran.

Trent was not a happy camper. And things looked to be getting much worse.

My mother hurried out of her little row house, dressed to the nines, a smile brightening her face. That smile fell when she saw the van parked behind her car. Inside that white van sat a camera crew, sound men and makeup. All waiting anxiously for us to get into the old beater Chevy Impala mom owned and drive to Mercer County. To see Clay.

“Why are those cameras here?” Mom pushed out through gritted teeth.

I dabbed at my sweaty brow with a hankie that matched my mauve pants. I was feeling rather Prince today. You know, sexy and sassy and proud of it? I’d colored my hair deep purple the night before, and dressed in shades of purple and hot pink right down to the raspberry beret seated on my plum-colored hair and my sparkly raspberry truffle boots. This kind of display – all the frippery and feminine colors – would probably make my stepfather’s head explode. He and I had to have this meeting. It would only be the once, but I wanted him to see me as I was. He would deal with colorful Trent or he could go back to his cell.

“They’re here because I have a contract.”

She planted her feet and glowered at the van and then at me.

“Supposedly this visit to prison will make for ‘gripping, powerful and dramatic reality television’, according to the producer.”

“I hate that you’re broadcasting such private things to millions of people.”

“I hate that Clay stole all my money and forced me into broadcasting private things to millions of people just to keep your house and my rink out of the bank’s hands.”

Her anger seemed to fade away. Wished this heat would. I was so edgy and irritable when I was uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry for that,” she said for the one billionth time.

“Mom, stop apologizing for him. His actions are his own. We learned that in family counseling last week, remember?”

“Yes, yes, I remember. I just feel like…”

“I know.” I gave her a tremulous smile and waved a limp handkerchief at her car. “Can we get going? I’m melting.”

“Okay, yes.” She shot the crew a worried look, but hustled around her car and got behind the wheel.

The windows had been up to discourage anyone stealing her Tony Orlando & Dawn cassette tapes. As if any thief would burgle cassette tapes of Tony Orlando & Dawn – nothing personal, Tony. It was like sitting down inside one of Beelzebub’s blast furnaces. She rolled down her window, and a soothing hot blast of Philadelphia air rolled into the car.

“Much better,” I said. Mom picked up the snide and turned the air-conditioning on. “Thank you. I’ll pay for the gas the cold air sucks up.”

We pulled out into traffic and rode along in silence for a bit. “He’s excited that you’re coming,” Mom finally said.

“Ugh.”

I began picking at the nail polish on my thumb. Mom sighed. I stopped picking and replied with words, just like our therapist had instructed us. Well, me. She had instructed me to use words instead of sounds, grunts, or rude hand gestures when my stepfather was mentioned. “I’ve really got nothing to say to him.”

“He has things to say to you. He loves you.”

“Pfft.” I squeezed my eyes shut, then corrected myself. “I mean I highly doubt that. He’s never loved me. He tolerated me for you. He might love you, but I was always the little queer kid who embarrassed him at the track.”

“You know, for a man who’s dating someone who’s battled with addiction, you’re pretty damn judgmental about another person with the same problem.”

I stared out the window on my right, watching the cityscape fade away. That one hurt. It hurt because it was true. I’d only told my mother about Dieter last week. She’d asked because I’d used his name a time or two, but I’d refused to share that with her. Doctor Penny, our new counselor, had encouraged me to be frank and honest. So I’d told mom about my new boyfriend. She’d been happy yet worried, which I got. She’d gone through the whole Jonah thing. But this was different. Dieter was doing well and would stay that way.

Please god, let him stay straight. My heart couldn’t take that again.

“I’m not in a good place with Clay yet, Mom,” I confessed about ten minutes after the original flurry of angry.

“I know, babes. I know.” She patted my thigh, then hit the blinkers.

My gaze roamed over the massive minimum-security facility. I had never been inside a place that was surrounded by electric fencing topped with barbed wire.

“Don’t be freaked out when they search you.”

“No, I won’t be. They do that up at Dieter’s rehab center,” I murmured as we climbed out and met the TV crew.

I wondered what kind of special permission the station had had to procure to allow this to happen. My stomach was a knotted-up mess. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. How I wished Dieter were there to hang on to.

Our cars and our bodies were searched before we even took a step. After that bit of fun, I offered my hand to my mother. She took it, and we walked to the entrance. The camera crew followed. At the gate, I spun to face them.

“You’re not coming in,” I announced. They all sighed. Guessed they were used to Trent throwing himself. Good. This would come as no surprise, then.

“Trent,” the producer cajoled, “we’ve been over this a hundred times. You signed a contract stating that you’d give us one hundred hours of film. If you keep balking at every little thing that twists your titties, we’re going to have to call the powers that be and tell them you’re not living up to your contractual obligations.”

“Call them. I don’t care. My mother is upset by your presence. This is a personal family matter, and you are not welcome.”

“Trent, for Christ’s sake, reality television is all about personal family matters. That’s what makes the genre so fucking appealing.” He was giving it his best, but I wasn’t budging. I’d seen the distaste on Mom’s face, felt her unease now. “People at home want to know that you celebrities live lives that are more fucked up than theirs.”

“Well, tough shit for the viewing public.”

I turned away from the film crew, tightened my grip on my mother’s hand, and led her into the prison. I’d probably end up being sued before this was all said and done. So be it.

“Thank you, baby,” Mom whispered.

I squeezed her fingers, and we entered the depths of the corrections facility.

All the permission forms were in order. We’d all adhered to the dress code, aside from the bangles on my wrists. Those had to be left with a guard. We were patted down yet again once inside, then asked to go through a metal detector. I could hear the inmates. I was sick with nerves. We were escorted to a private room. Prisoners walked past. Catcalls and lewd proposals drifted over us. Thankfully, the guards assigned to this dog-and-pony show kept the men in orange moving along.

Once inside the private visitation area that had been set aside for the show, Mom sat down at the table.

The door opened and Clay entered, followed by a guard the size of Mount Rushmore. My empty stomach cramped. Clay looked the same only older. So much older. And haggard. His dark hair was neatly trimmed, but his swarthy complexion was sallow. His gaze went around the room as he was led to his seat. I was glad to see no handcuffs were in place.

“I’m Corrections Officer Kent, and I’ll be right in that corner,” Mount Rushmore informed us, then went to said corner to stand and be silently intimidating. Was that how things always went, or was he there because of the TV show that was supposed to happen?

Mom sat down across from Clay. I stood in the opposite corner from CO Kent, chewing my thumbnail, feeling angry and queasy all at once. Mom and Clay joined hands and let them lie on the table.

“Good to see you, Donna. You look so pretty,” Clay said. The timbre of his voice after so long made me twitchy. Then his gaze left my mother and settled on me. “Good to see you as well, Trent. You’re so…colorful today.”

“You mean gay. I’m so gay today. That is what you meant, right, Inmate Gallo?” My hand fell to my side.

Clay’s dark eyes flared. Then he nodded. “I deserve that dislike from you. I did you wrong, son.”

The tight rubber band keeping me together snapped. “No. Oh, no! You do not call me son!” I yelled and pointed a finger at his long face. “I am not your son. You made that clear years ago. Remember all those times you called me a little fag for liking figure skating and sewing?”

He dropped his head in shame, but not before I could see that his eyes were filled with remorse. “That was wrong of me.”

“No shit. So was stealing all my money! I was this fucking close to a breakdown.” He glanced at me. I showed him a millimeter of space between my thumb and forefinger. “I’ve had to pimp myself out to fucking reality shows and hockey teams to keep your wife from living on the streets.” My hands were flying around, the gesticulations wild and heated. “I fucking hate you. I hate what you did to us, and I hate how you think you can just walk back into our lives and everyone will accept you because you’re an addict.”

“He’s not thinking that, Trent. Not at all,” Mom interjected, her eyes pleading. “Doesn’t he deserve a second chance like your Dieter?”

“Do not ever bring up my boyfriend in defense of this asshole,” I barked at my mother. “He’s off working harder than he has ever worked before trying to get straight and make amends to me and his team! This piece of shit is—”

“Trying to do the same thing, Trent,” Clay chanced to say.

His words felt like a sledgehammer to the midsection. I bent over, eyes closed, working on pulling in oxygen. Someone touched my back. I whirled away from the touch and went back to my corner, silent tears making a mess of my eyeliner and mascara.

“I’m trying to make things right even though I know I can never really do that. Apologizing to you for the years gambling had me in its grip is tough, but part of my recovery. I’ve already admitted that I was powerless over gambling. I’ve committed myself to turning my life around, and making amends to the people I harmed is part of the program.”

“I can’t hear your apology right now. I need to hate you more,” I gasped, and battled with hyperventilating.

“That’s okay, I understand,” Clay softly replied. My mother started weeping quietly. “I’m going to keep trying to make things right with you and your mother.”

I nodded in understanding, then bolted from the room, hand over my mouth. I found a trash can before I could locate a bathroom, so I dry-heaved over that. Thank goodness, the bag had recently been replaced. When the heaves stopped, I swiped a hand over my lips, smearing the gloss terribly, I was sure. I stood up. My mother was walking toward me, looking so pretty in a yellow summer dress with her jet-black hair pulled back from her face.

“I’m such a hypocrite,” I coughed just as her arms went around my waist.

“No, babes, you’re not. It’s harder to forgive than it is to hate.” She pressed a kiss to my damp cheek. “You’ll get there. You’re a good man, kind and giving, and so loving.”

“Can we go? I have to go…and think about this mess. My happy level is monstrously low.”

“Let’s go home. Your grandmother is making a special meal for us.”

We left the prison and Clay behind. The crew hustled out to catch up with us. I watched the facility growing smaller and smaller in the side mirror while my ability to breath slowly returned. Mom said nothing the whole way home, just smiled on occasion. I chewed on the inside of my mouth, sight blurred, mind spinning madly, until we pulled up outside the old brick house on 16^th Avenue and I saw Dieter waiting by the curb.

I threw the door open before we were even parked properly. The van carrying the crew parked behind us in the middle of the street. I ran at Dieter, tears flowing again, and launched myself at him. He caught me with ease, his strong hands cupping my ass. I wrapped my arms and legs around him and captured his mouth with mine. The taste of him healed me. And then reality hit me. Well, the knowledge of a reality show hit me.

“Oh hell,” I whispered.

“Surprised to see me?” he joked when we came up for air.

“Forgive me. I just outed you to the world. I’ll tell them to stop filming.”

“No, it’s good. Let the world know about us. Hiding things is what got me into this mess. I’m not hiding anything ever again.”

I peppered his face with kisses, the cameras circling us slowly. I dove back in for another hot kiss, this one lasting so long I felt woozy.

“I thought you were staying in rehab for another week,” I panted a moment later.

“Couldn’t stay away from you any longer.” His smile was sinful and soft. I kissed him again and again and yet again.

“Trent, let’s go inside. Grandma is setting up kamayan.”

Dieter released me, and my feet settled to the sidewalk. I ran a finger along Dieter’s jaw, then turned to look at my mother.

“This is Dieter.”

“Yes, I assumed.” She leaned in to kiss his scruffy cheek, then led us inside her house, pointedly leaving the TV show on the curb.

“Um, what’s kamayan?” Dieter asked as we headed directly to the kitchen.

I caressed his back and hip. I just couldn’t get enough tactile contact.

“It’s big, happy meal,” Lola said, waving her hands toward the food resting on the table. A long line of rice rested on banana leaves, with piles of roasted vegetables and glazed meats like pork and chicken. My stomach roared. “You still play for Harrisburg?” She crossed her arms over her Dave Schultz jersey.

“Yes, ma’am,” Dieter replied. I wiggled into his side.

“Still sucky team, but welcome to house for making my grandson smile so big. Wash hands. Go now then sit down.”

I nudged him toward the sink. “Better wash up before she calls you something worse.”

“Like being told my team sucks isn’t bad enough?”

“Philly fans are rough.” I laughed and felt the weight of life leaving me. Dieter chuckled and stole a fast kiss.

Then we ate. Seated at the table, we stuffed ourselves using only our fingers, as is custom for kamayan feasts. I was so full I thought I might faint, but that was also part of the custom.

Dieter and I helped to clean up, then we went off to find couple time to talk. I knew that if we went back to my place, talking would be the last thing happening. Also, I wanted to show him off to my city. The van was gone, which was a good thing.

“I cannot wait for the end of the week,” I told him as we walked to my scooter. “Just six more days and they’ll have enough footage for an eight-episode pilot season.”

“What are you going to do if they pick it up?”

“Die inside.” I unlocked the helmet and handed it to him. “Pray they find me too flashy. I’m tired of the limelight. I just want to coach my kids and spend time with my boyfriend.”

“And who would that be?” He stood there so tall and handsome, yellow helmet in hand, giving me shade. I rather liked his teasing, but would never admit it.

“Some big doofus in a Railers T-shirt. Get on.”

“That will never hold me.” He shoved the helmet at me. I pushed it back. “Seriously, do you know how stupid that will look with me on the back?”

“Since when do we care what looks stupid to other people?”

And that, as they say, ended that.

We pulled up to Sister Cities Park around noon. Hundreds of people, adults and children, were enjoying the fountains as a way to cool down. I locked my helmet into place and took Dieter by the hand. The Cathedral of SS Peter and Paul looked down on us as we walked past a tiny concrete pond filled with small sailboats with red sails. After grabbing a drink at the café, we proceeded to find a spot in the shade beside a fountain that shot bursts of water into the air from alternating spots. Several kids in shorts splashed and played in the streams as traffic around Logan Square moved steadily.

“This is my favorite park in the city,” I told him as we sipped iced tea.

“It’s nice.” He turned on the concrete bench to face me, holding his tea in his hands. “You look like someone punched you in the face.”

Damn. I should have touched up my makeup before coming out. I wet a finger and tried scrubbing the area under my left eye. Dieter shook his head and tugged my finger gently downward. His hair was long, tickling the collar of his dusky blue T-shirt.

“It was a tough session with Clay,” I explained, my fingers creeping up his arm to toy with those long strands.

“You want to talk about it?”

“Yes, but not now. Now, I want to talk about us.”

Two teens on bikes rode by, racing through the fountain. I wasn’t sure if bikes were allowed in the park, but I was too happy to call them out for it.

“Okay, what about us?”

I glanced up at the sun, the sky, and the fluffy white clouds moving over Philly. “Did you know that seeing you makes me feel like I was up there in the clouds?”

I peeked from the clouds to him. He’d tipped his head back to look. I leaned in and dropped a kiss to his Adam’s apple, then sat back as straight as a ruler.

“That was nice. I like kissing in public.” He seemed so relaxed. I wished we could stay there beside the playful fountain forever.

“That’s good, because we made out in front of TV cameras. Will you get any flack for that?” I lifted my straw to my lips and sucked. The tea was sweet and lemony, perfect for a hot September day.

“I doubt it. I mean, we have Tennant and Jared. Anyone who comes after them will pale in comparison. They’re paving the way for the rest of us. Plus it keeps Layton in work.”

“Mmm, yes, they are. So brave. Okay, then, so we’re now an official couple. And I live and work here,” I waved a hand at the city, “and you live and work in the state capital. Can we make this work?”

“Do you love me?”

“More than YSL Couture eye pencils.”

His brow furrowed. “That’s like a lot of love then, right?”

“Simply tons.” I slid closer and let my head drop to his broad shoulder. He slipped an arm around me. I was in heaven, even if my liner was smudged, and not in that fashionable way I sometimes wore it.

“Guess if we love each other that much we’ll work it out. We’ll get game schedules and arrange things around our home games. And we play Philly a lot, so I’ll be in town at least six or seven times over the season.”

“Lola will be torn about who to cheer for. I think she likes you.”

“Oh, she won’t be torn, trust me.” He chortled and cinched me tighter to his side. “It’s only two hours away. You might have to buy a car. Scooting to Harrisburg in January might be more than even you can handle.”

“For you, I’ll buy a car. It will have to be flashy, though.”

“I’d be disappointed if it were anything else.”

Now that was true love right there.