“What the hell was that?!” I demanded as soon as we were on the road. I was tempted to leave John behind, but Frankie and Izzy’s carseats were in my car, and John’s sister had her hands full.

“I’m not entirely sure,” he said in a cool, detached voice as he smoothed his clothing beneath his seatbelt. “Perhaps you could tell me?”

“They’re my parents. You’re supposedly my future husband, whom they’ve never met. What did you expect?”

“Photo albums full of you growing up, embarrassing stories, good-natured warnings,” he listed as though giving a lecture. “I’m the man their son is supposedly in love with. They invited my whole family. I expected a warm, happy, ‘welcome to the family.’”

“They tried to do that, but you made it impossible!” Holy crap, did he make it impossible! Whenever he did deign to respond to my mother’s questions, every word out of his mouth dripped with condescension.

“I was not the one who made it impossible. To be fair, your father seems like a kind, loving man, but your mother…”

“Don’t you dare insult my mother!” I knew she could be difficult when it came to discussing my future, but he just made it so much worse. I’d never hear the end of this. “All you had to do was answer her completely reasonable questions, and she would have backed off.”

“Do you honestly think she had any intention of backing off?” he asked. No, she wouldn’t have backed off, but if he’d given more conversational answers she wouldn’t have asked so many questions. “Regardless, I am very surprised you let her talk about you like that. I simply refused to participate in that nonsense.”

If I took a moment, I could probably see his point. But I didn’t want to. I was angry, and Angry Tommy wanted to yell at someone. “Would it have hurt so much to play nice?”

“Yes, it would have!” he bit out around clenched teeth. Finally! Some emotion! But then it was back to condescension. “Tommy, she talked about you like she was a Victorian-era Earl and you were her naïve, virginal daughter.”

“There is so much wrong with that statement,” I muttered. Unfortunately, he was right, but she was my mother and that’s just how she was. He’d heard enough stories. He should have anticipated all this.

“You have to admit that, however wrong that statement may be, it is accurate,” he said snootily. “She wanted to know that I could keep you in the style to which you’ve grown accustomed, inquired about my bloodlines, discussed furthering your own bloodline, and asked whether I would be able to support you while you stayed home with the children.”

“So?!” It was the comeback to end all comebacks. Ugh! How could he be so calm?!

“She was a working mother.”

“She just wants me to have options,” I grumbled, despite the fact that I’d hated that comment as well.

“You have your own career. I hate that my sister put her career on hold for her kids, but I could at least understand that it made sense biologically. After all, Joy personally manufactures their food.” Trust John to make breastfeeding sound like the delivery of some assembly-line product. How I managed not to laugh, I don’t know, but all of the anger drained out of me.

“John, I told you what she’s like. She just wants me happy and safe and surrounded by grandbabies,” I said sadly. I was so tired and I still had to drive back. Maybe I’d go back to my place and take a nap.

“This was so beyond anything I could ever have anticipated,” he said mildly. And he was right, my mom did kind of crank things up to eleven. But she was marrying me off to a relative stranger. And yes, I did know that just backed up the whole Victorian Earl simile. “Two minutes into meeting us, your mother thanked my sister for being our surrogate. Where did that even come from? What did you say to lead her to that conclusion?”

“My mom sometimes… says stuff and hopes that it would be too socially awkward to contradict her,” I said wincing. “To be fair, it usually works.”

“Are you saying that your mother thought my sister would be so unwilling to make things awkward that she’d let you inseminate her and then spend years of her life carrying our ten children?” he asked, as though this was unreasonable.

“Just three children,” I corrected him. Because she really did think the awkwardness outweighed the discomfort of bearing only three kids. “And we’d use IUI. It’s not like I’d personally go to town on her. She’s your sister. And a woman.”

“I don’t think my sister’s doing that. No, scratch that. I don’t think I’d let my sister do that.”

“Oh, now who’s telling their family members what to do?” I teased, but I was unreasonably disappointed. Joy and John were twins, and would do just about anything for each other. And I really liked the idea of mixing our DNA. So, for some reason, I pushed the issue. “But seriously, that’s not outside the realm of possibilities. If she volunteered…”

“No. That’s asking too much of her. She’s my sister, not a brood mare. If we decide to have kids and you want little Korean babies, we can travel to Asia and adopt some.”

“Holy shit, what?! Little Korean Babies?!” And what was with the ‘if’? Of course we’d have kids! Wouldn’t we?

“We can get white babies here,” he said, as though they were on sale at Target. “And your mom seems–”

“Seemed what? Racist?” Although she was a little racist. But then she’d never really interacted with minorities until she moved to America, and Westchester was a pretty white place to live, so she didn’t know much other than American-movie stereotypes.

“No. She seems proud of her heritage and not willing to let it get too diluted.”

“Diluted?”

“‘Lost’ is probably a better word. She doesn’t want your children to only have American values and traditions. It’s completely reasonable. If we adopted a baby from Guatemala I’d want them to know some of their heritage too.”

“So now you think my mom’s reasonable?” Why couldn’t they have discussed common ground and ganged up on me while we were there?

“It was a knee-jerk reaction to how she was asking the questions. You know how I can be around new people,” he said as if begging me to understand. But the thing was, I didn’t know. We never spent much time outside of our little bubble. “I have a gift saved for just this sort of occasion. I’ll send it with a suitably apologetic note tomorrow or the day after.”

“You could just call her up tonight…” It probably wasn’t the best idea. My mom was pretty upset by the time we all left and she’d need some time to cool down.

“No. Let me do this my way,” he insisted. Frankie woofed that the discussion needed to end, and so John turned to him and Izzy and thanked them for behaving so well. The kitten had climbed up one curtain that was so hideous that it must have also been hideously expensive, and my dad caught her in mid-air as she tried to pounce on my mother’s hair from her perch on John’s shoulder. But that was par for the course with our little hellion.

So I let the issue go. I knew my mother would bring up this disastrous dinner for years to come, even if we never did get married. John and my mother needed to get used to each other and they were adults. So I crossed my fingers and prayed that I wouldn’t have to choose between my family and my future-spouse.

John lifted his plate to eye-level, rotating it so that he could evaluate the mystery entrée from all sides, sniffed it, nodded, and set it down. Farm-to-table restaurants without menus were not his thing — John enjoyed adventures, but not when it came to his food. Greg and his wife, Dani, snickered as they had every time John performed this routine. The other Moore brothers and their spouses were too busy with their phones to notice, obsessing over the deeper meaning behind every text from their adopted kids.

“They’re teenagers,” Greg said. We’d each reminded them of this on multiple occasions tonight. But after an hour of this ridiculousness, even my best friend had had enough. “They’re not even home alone. Mom and dad are with them.”

“We just got them,” Logan had argued.

“They should never feel alone,” Julian chimed in. “Yet we’re ditching them for a quadruple date.”

All four new fathers sniffled and blinked furiously. It was adorable.

“You’re not ditching them. And I’m sure they appreciate having a little time to themselves,” Greg argued.

“It could be worse,” John whispered in my ear. “Some new parents enjoy co-sleeping with their babies.”

“Helicopter dads,” his wife Dani sang. Then she sighed, probably because the men’s tension was palpable and exhausting. “Seriously, Chance, you’re my best friend and I love you to pieces, but you need to chill out. Remember, they were so worried about coming between you and Logan that they waited a solid month before connecting with you. Put away your phone and enjoy date night.”

“Fiiiiine,” Chance moaned and gave his phone one last swipe before shoving it in his pocket. “So, Trip, are you coming Saturday?”

John’s eyes darted around the restaurant as if the answer was written on the walls. Then he shrugged and decided to take the question in the dirtiest way possible. “Not until I get Tommy alone later tonight.”

He waggled his eyebrows and we all groaned.

“Saturday night. Slumber party,” Xander prompted.

“Sure. Why this weekend?”

“Because Tommy and I are fishing with our dads,” Greg reminded him. Although… could it be a reminder? Because I had never gotten around to telling my boyfr– fiancé about our annual trip. But considering the number of people involved in the planning this year (Logan, Julian, and the teens were having a slumber party of their own so Trip, Xander, Dani, and Chance could catch up), somebody must have mentioned it over the past few weeks.

“Of course. I hadn’t realized it was this weekend,” John said and shot me a ‘Luuucy, you have some ‘splaining to do!’ glare. “So, guys, what should I bring?”

Dani and the three mathletes —John, Xander, and Chance— tumbled into a spirited, in-depth discussion of slumber party plans. They all traded loving gestures with their spouses except John, who practically forgot I was sitting next to him. After we said our goodbyes an hour or so later and climbed back into the car, I expected to answer a barrage of questions but… nope.

After a few minutes of silence, I started the conversation myself. “It’ll just be overnight. We go every year. Just me, Greg, and our dads. We go to… somewhere in upstate New York? There’s forest and lake and we get to pee on trees like manly, manly men. We call it the Moore Powers Best Friends Forever Weekend Bonanza.”

“Sounds nice. I’m sure you’ll have a great time,” he said, and I was pretty sure he genuinely meant it. “Just don’t do anything that’ll get you arrested. I’d hate to get to know your mother better while buying bail bonds.”

“That only happened once! It was entirely Greg’s fault and they released us in the morning.” I did my best to make it sound like a joke, but sadly it wasn’t. Luckily we got away with a stern warning, and we hadn’t had a peeing contest since.

When Greg Moore and I had first become friends, I mentioned him to my dad and how funny it was that our dads had the same name. My dad grinned and bizarrely shouted, “Andy pees more!”

At the tender age of five, our fathers had bonded over both being named Andrew and formed a united front against anyone who dared shorten their names ‘Andy’ or ‘Drew,’ going instead by ‘The Andrews’ or ‘Andrew M. and Andrew P.’ But one bully still insisted on calling them ‘Andy Pees’ and ‘Andy Pees Moore.’ The Andrews had been inseparable, but wound up attending separate high schools and losing touch. They reunited as though they’d only spent months —not decades— apart and thus the annual Moore Powers Best Friends Forever Weekend Bonanza was born.

Greg and my dad were both squeamish and refused to use hooks when they ‘fished.’ During our first trip, I actually caught a fish… and my dad’s hysterics capsized our little boat. After that, Andrew Moore and I stopped using hooks. Instead we all made creative lures and sat around in a boat talking about life. We camped and hiked a bit, too, complete with campfire cooking and spooky stories. My dad also liked to point out imaginary constellations and invent ridiculous myths to go with them. Then we had dinner at a local seafood place on the way back.

“Put on more sunscreen, Greg,” I told my friend and began rooting around in the bag, but I was pretty sure I’d noticed his red ears too late.

“I don’t see why you don’t do the war paint like we do,” my dad grumbled. “We look fierce. Nobody will fuck with us. Not even these fish.”

Both of our fathers had white noses and a stripe along their cheekbones and chin in addition to their matching goofy fishing hats. They liked picking up supplies and saying hello to other campers like that, all in an attempt to embarrass their sons. Admittedly, it worked the first trip, even though we were in our mid-twenties at the time. The second trip, Greg and I decided to give them a taste of their own medicine by wearing flippers and matching kid-sized Toy Story life vests everywhere. Sadly, it didn’t work. Our fathers just cooed over us and took roll upon roll of photos, and the outfits were far from practical.

“I use SPF 100 and apply it every few hours,” Greg replied testily. We occasionally reverted into cranky teenagers when alone with our dads.

“No, you used the SPF 75 body lotion on your face because you ran out of the face stuff,” I reminded him.

“We’re all getting roasted alive in this aluminum pot you call a boat!” Greg cried to the heavens as he took the tube I handed him.

“Oh dear. You might want to do the tops of your feet again,” I suggested.

“Who puts sunblock on their feet?” Greg got his answer as soon as he looked down at our feet and saw 30 pale toes and 10 bright pink ones. “Fuck!”

“Language!” my dad jokingly chided. It had been a huge shock to hear my father start swearing like a sailor the first time he hung out with his childhood friend — he’d never allowed swearing in our house. His explanation for his language was simple: ‘Because I’m a hypocrite. Duh.’

“How are things with Trip?” Greg’s dad asked. “You haven’t mentioned him at all today, unless it was part of a story about the pets.”

“It’s going,” I said lamely. Because, really, I didn’t know what else I could say. Everything we did revolved around Frankie and Izzy. Or meals. Or our schedules.

“Are we supposed to call him Trip or John?” my dad asked, and I shrugged. They were family, but not yet his family. Either way, he was still Dr. Watson, and my dad was having fun arming himself with a ton of Sherlock jokes. “Regardless, that letter he sent to your mother–”

“So he did wind up sending her a note?” I asked, surprised. John hadn’t said anything about it, and I was afraid to follow up on his offer.

“Yes. Along with a large box of her favorite candy. You know, the one we can’t even find in New York city.” Had she mentioned that candy to him? Or did I mention it that time we went to the Asian grocer?

Well, now I was very curious. “What did the note say?”

“I’m not sure. It was in Korean.”

“Hold on, what? Korean? Are you sure it was from him?” Even I only knew a few words and phrases.

“Maybe he got in touch with his Korean teacher from that Boyfriend Immersion Course. Which I should probably take.” Boyfriend Immersion Course? I nodded as if I knew what my dad was talking about, and silently vowed to learn to speak Korean someday. “Regardless, she said it was very respectful and she spent the rest of the week muttering angrily under her breath, so I think he may have won her over.”

Muttering angrily was actually a good sign. Usually. Except when it wasn’t.

“Trip’s a little stand-offish at first, and very private. Give them time and they’ll come to love each other,” Greg said. He’d known John for several years, and I really hoped he was right.

“So you didn’t really answer Andy. How are things going between you two? Have you impregnated his sister yet?” my dad asked, and Greg and Andy snickered. One day I’d find it funny in retrospect —Mom had been in rare form that day— but three weeks was a little too soon for me.

“Not yet,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Day-to-day, nothing much has changed since Logan’s wedding. Except we can, you know, cuddle. It’s a little weird sometimes, but I’m sure things will smooth out once he’s ready to talk about… stuff.”

It was embarrassing to admit John and I still hadn’t talked about his health since the morning after the wedding. Luckily, ‘stuff’ was specific enough to get my point across — all three men knew why we broke up last fall. I’d told my parents in an attempt to explain why John wasn’t just a flaky asshole. I knew that made John uncomfortable, but it had been effective. My mother had actually liked the spirit behind his actions, and my father was a forgive-and-forget sort of guy. As for Greg and Andy Moore, they were Dad’s and my best friends, so of course we’d confided in them.

“And you’re just… being patient?” my dad said as though it was a foreign concept.

“I can be patient.”

“Only when you’re working,” Greg pointed out.

“Lies and slander!” I shouted ultra-dramatically.

“Now you’ve scared all the fish away,” my dad grumbled, in an obvious attempt to defuse the tension.

“But seriously…” my dad said in his Serious Dad voice. “I’ve been putting off asking and you don’t have to tell us what it is, but I need to ask… Did Trip ever tell you what’s wrong with him?”

“Not precisely. I asked questions, so I know enough. It’s not lethal, he’s not taking any medications for it, and it’s definitely diabetes-related,” I told them. I didn’t want to betray John, but I didn’t actually know anything and this would be enough to keep everyone from worrying about me. “So, yeah… I know enough. What he has doesn’t matter, really.”

“That’s bullshit,” Greg’s dad said, surprising me.

“It really doesn’t matter,” I insisted, because it didn’t. “I love him and I’ll be there for him no matter what.”

“No, it doesn’t matter. But he’s being a dick. How can you trust him if he doesn’t respect you enough to be honest with you about what your future together might look like?” Greg’s dad’s eyes sparked with anger I’d never seen on the easy-going man’s face. “Does he really expect you to marry him if you’re going in blind?”

“Well, Trip could be literally going in blind, himself,” Greg said and I shot him an angry look, because he and I both knew that what he said was true. Although John should have been prescribed eye drops, if that were the case. “What? There are only so many things it could be and the list is just a google away.”

“I didn’t want to say anything, but…” My dad trailed off, and now I knew I was finally hearing what he thought of the engagement. “You two need to be able to talk to each other. You need to learn how to lean on each other.”

“We do,” I said, hurt. “He’s there whenever I have a rough day at work, before I even need to say anything. And taking care of that kitten, knowing Izzy only had a 60-90% chance of surviving… I don’t think either of us could have done that without emotional support.”

“You can’t rely on reading each other’s minds. If you’re upset or worried or hurt, you need to feel comfortable saying so,” Andrew Moore told me. “It’s what marriage is all about.”

Greg’s phone chimed with a sparkly sound. He looked up with a far-too-innocent expression and said, “Julian says hi.”

I narrowed my eyes at Greg, wondering whether Greg was the one who texted first — he worried too much and the Moore brothers loved to meddle. Then my phone chimed.

 

BABY MOORE: Hi!

TOMMY: Hiiiiiiii!!!!!

BABY MOORE: I have a favor to ask you and Trip. Can you come by sometime this week? Feel free to say no.

 

I read the suspicious texts aloud and Andrew Moore said, “Maybe he needs you to watch the kids. I know they like spending time with our family, but you’re way cooler than any of us.”

“Hey! Speak for yourself. I’m the epitome of cool,” Greg protested puffing out his chest, which was covered by the Iron Man t-shirt that he used as a makeshift camping nightlight every year. Yup. My best friend was the coolest. “But Mom and Dad do baby them, Logan has a very full house, and Julian’s dog hates being away from the kids, so it makes sense that they’d ask you.”

“It does,” I conceded. The last time he visited Greg’s house, Julian and Xander’s big boxer had somehow managed to hide under an extremely heavy dresser the last time he visited Greg’s house, trying to avoid Greg’s and Dani’s extremely laid-back Maine Coon cat, Alice. Getting him back out had not been easy.

“You’re getting redder, Greg,” my dad told him. “I think it’s time to head back. Tommy, it’s your turn to row.”

“But Daaaaaaaaad!” I whined and mimed having tiny T-Rex arms. The other men in the boat were all around six feet tall, so their reach was far larger than mine, which meant that their strokes were far more effective.

“We’re old and your poor, tomato-faced friend rowed us out here.” My dad’s ‘old man’ voice and puppy dog eyes were absolutely ridiculous. I rolled my eyes but took the helm without further argument. Because I’m a good, obedient son.