Marcus

Oliver slammed the door and marched into the living room. “We need to talk.”

Phyllis, seated on the sofa reading Maclean’s, looked up and smiled. “I’m so glad you’re home. It’s been horrible having no one to talk to.” She tossed the magazine onto the coffee table. “Tell me all about your day.”

“Mom, I’m not seven years old,” Oliver said brutishly. “I don’t want to talk about my goddamn day.” He lowered himself onto the sofa, clasped his hands together on his lap and locked his gaze on his mother. “Don’t you realize what you’re doing?”

Phyllis bristled. “All I did was ask my son about his day and he bit my head off. I didn’t raise him to speak to me like that.”

“You don’t think you deserve it?” he asked, unable to check his surprise.

“I most certainly do not.” Phyllis stood and went to leave the room.

“Sit down, Mom,” Oliver said, almost shouting.

Phyllis spun around. “I won’t stand here and let you talk to me like I’m … a two-bit hussy.”

Oliver bounced off the sofa and charged across the room, grabbing his mother by the arm as she started again for the door. “I’m not talking to you like a ‘two-bit hussy.’ I’m talking to you like a…” He censored himself before he could say the word that would have taken them to a point of no return. He shepherded her back to the sofa and forced her to sit. He drew in a deep breath, held on to it a few seconds, then pushed it out violently through his nose. “You’re my mother, and I love you. I don’t know if you’re being like this because of what’s going between you and Dad, or —”

“Being like what?” Phyllis interrupted.

“Insufferable!” Oliver said with emphasis. “You’re being mean, and the things you say … I don’t know if it’s intentional or not, but you keep hurting me.”

“Hurting you?” Phyllis’s voice pitched high with disbelief. “How am I hurting you?”

“Really?” Oliver ran his hand down the side of his face. “Are you going to sit there and play dumb?” There was a silence. “I love Trevor. He’s my light. When I’m sick, he makes me homemade soup. He makes me laugh by hogging the blankets when we climb into bed because I steal them in the night. Or so he tells me. When I lost my job two years ago because of cutbacks, he said, ‘Don’t worry … I’ve got this.’ That let me take the time I needed to find the next right thing. He’s been … he’s good to me. I thought you of all people would appreciate that.”

“I don’t know…” Phyllis, dodging Oliver’s gaze, reached for the Maclean’s magazine. “I don’t know how you ever got mixed up with those people.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” Oliver barked and snatched the magazine away. “All you see is the colour of his skin. I see who he is.” He dropped his head and bit down on his lip. “This isn’t just my home. It’s Trevor’s, too. That’s why … you can’t stay here.”

“Where am I supposed to go?” Phyllis asked, indignant.

Oliver rose. “I don’t know and, frankly, I don’t care. But you being here … you’re tearing my home and my world apart. It has to stop.”

“Oliver, I’m —”

Oliver raised a hand. “Please just pack your things and go.” He strode out of the room and down the hall to Trevor’s office. He stood in the doorway and waited to hear the clickety-clack of his mother’s high heels against the hardwood floor. He’d finally stood up to her — stood up for his life and his worth.

As his gaze fell on Trevor’s desk where the laptop used to be, he felt the tears pooling in his eyes. He could still hear the savageness in Trevor’s alto voice. “I’ll make it simple … it’s either her or me.” Oliver had said nothing, watching as the rage in Trevor’s camel-brown eyes turned to disappointment. And he remained silent when Trevor sprinted up the stairs. He thought it was a bluff until Trevor appeared at the front door with his suitcase and satchel. He knew Trevor waited for him to say something, but he just stood there with his mouth agape. Then Trevor slipped out of the house, and the life he’d imagined was in pieces.

A loud bang made Oliver jump, and he looked up at the ceiling. “What’s she up to now?” He pulled out his phone and dialled Trevor’s cell number. After the fourth ring, it cut away to voicemail. He hung up without leaving a message.

Then came the thud of the front door closing. He raced into the living room and stood in front of the window. He watched as his mother got into her silver Volvo and felt, for the first time in almost a week, relief. He pulled up Trevor’s number again on his phone and dialled. Still no answer. But this time, when prompted to leave a message, he said the only two words that mattered, “She’s gone.”

Was it enough to convince Trevor to come home?

God, he hoped so.

And when his phone rang five minutes later — Trevor’s name lighting up the screen — he was about to find out.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Trevor warned, yanking out the cork from the bottle of Lagavulin. He poured another generous amount into the crystal tumbler, jammed the cork back in and returned the bottle to the counter with a hard clank. “You’re not my favourite person at the moment.” He felt the weight of hands on his shoulders, then started to squirm as the wet tongue traced the curve of his ear.

“You love me,” that gravelly voice said. “Don’t fight it.”

That voice … it was what had hooked him, had his manhood stirring with the simple, “Hello,” that Oliver greeted him with on their first date. Now wasn’t the time to be nostalgic.

Trevor twisted out of Oliver’s grasp and shot off the stool. He looked in Oliver’s direction but not right at him. This was his time to be strong, to stand his ground. He wouldn’t cower to Oliver’s dreamy, sapphire blue eyes. Not this time. “She can’t stay here.”

“I can’t throw her out tonight,” Oliver said, taking a step forward.

Trevor took a matching step backwards. “I can.”

“Trevor…” Oliver rushed Trevor, who didn’t have time to react, and held him close. “She’s my mother … what do you expect me to do?”

Trevor tried to break free, twisting and turning, but Oliver held on.

“Stop fighting and just listen,” Oliver said, almost shouting.

Trevor struggled for another twenty seconds, then stood there absolutely still. When he felt Oliver’s grip relax, he pushed away violently. “I’m your partner. That should count for something.”

Oliver, after making an unsuccessful play for Trevor’s hand, folded his arms. “You’re not making this easy.”

“I’m not making this easy?” Trevor massaged his temple. “You do understand why your mother and I can’t be under the same roof, don’t you?”

“Trevor —”

“No, no,” Trevor said, waving his hand in disagreement. “She doesn’t get a free pass for what happened last week. Maybe you need a reminding…”

Trevor felt his chest tightening as he recounted the events of last Sunday. It was their turn to host the monthly family dinner that had long been a tradition in Oliver’s family. More of a cook than Oliver, Trevor spent the day before preparing for the meal and the mob set invade their home. And just before their first guest arrived Oliver, sporting that goofy smile that always made Trevor swoon, told him everything was perfect.

While Oliver showed off his new R1 motorcycle to his brothers, Trevor was alone in the kitchen cleaning up. He didn’t want any help. He wanted to be on his own, have a little peace. When he was almost done, he went to return the oversized turkey platter to the sideboard in the dining room. He heard the hushed voices and stopped outside the sliding doors, which he’d left slightly ajar. He immediately recognized that nasal voice. Phyllis! He discreetly looked into the room to see his ‘mother-in-law’ who, standing by the patio doors and with her back to him, had Oliver’s younger sister Andrea cornered.

“I’ve always thought Oliver could do better,” Phyllis said. “He seems happy—”

“Oliver is happy,” Andrea said firmly. “God, don’t you see the way he and Trevor look at each other? It’s like they’re the only ones in the room. Theo and I stopped looking at each other that way after two years.”

“I don’t understand…” Phyllis cut herself off, her exasperation gaining dominion. “I raised him better than that. If only the South had won that war things would definitely be different. Especially here in Halifax.”

Trevor pushed one of the sliding doors open so hard that when it bounced in the frame the entire house fell silent.

Phyllis spun around, her face twisting in shock. “Oh, Trevor, I was just telling Andrea —”

“‘If only the South had won that war,’” he said slowly, a way to tamp down the anger flowing through his veins.

Phyllis let out a forced laugh. “Oh, it’s just a manner of speaking.”

“‘A manner of speaking,’” Trevor repeated caustically.

Phyllis, unsure what to do with her hands, clasped them behind her back. “Well, back then … it was just the natural order of things. It made things simpler.”

“Mom, I think we should go,” Andrea said, panicked. She tried to nudge her mother out of the room.

Oliver appeared and, when he saw the disbelief raging in Trevor’s face, slumped against the door. “Mom, what did you do now?”

The phone rang, and Trevor rolled his eyes as Oliver sprinted to answer it. God, some days he’s such a momma’s boy. He crossed to the island counter, picked up his scotch and drained it. Oliver was back and before he could say anything, Trevor threw him a warning look. “Who was that?”

“Dad,” Oliver said, tapping his foot. “He said he … had the locks changed.”

“That’s it!” Trevor started for the door. “This isn’t a one-night thing. And I’m not going to be miserable in my own home. She can go to a hotel.”

Oliver grabbed Trevor by the arm. “Trevor —”

“I’ll make it simple…” Trevor jerked his arm away. “It’s either her or me.”