“Please, come in.”
Frank stepped back, allowing Cris to step past him into the house. As he did, Frank caught a waft of his pineapple shampoo. He felt a surprising ache at the familiar scent.
“I’m glad you came back.” He shut the door behind him and turned to face Cris. “I was a jackass. I wanted to apologize, but I didn’t know how to get in contact with you.”
Cris looked around the foyer, as if avoiding his gaze.
Frank didn’t blame him.
“I actually went back to the bar,” he admitted. He scratched the back of his head and smiled sheepishly. “Asked the bartender if he knew your last name, but he didn’t. Thought maybe I’d see you, though.”
That got Cris’s attention. The boy looked at him, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “Really?”
Frank nodded. What he didn’t say was that he hadn’t just been back once—he’d gone every Tuesday night for the last 8 weeks, hoping for a chance to apologize. He knew it was a fool’s errand; the boy likely never wanted to see him again. And why would he? Frank was just a guy he’d had a one-night stand with. One who’d yelled at him and practically chased him out of his home over something as stupid as a t-shirt. He couldn’t blame Cris for leaving. But after what the boy had unlocked in him, things he’d thought he’d put to rest forever…
“Do you want to sit down?” he asked. “I could get you a glass of water or something. A beer, or–”
“Water’s good,” said Cris.
Frank nodded, taking the opening. “Okay. Okay, great.”
He led the way through the hallway into the living room, almost giddy with hope. “Just have a seat, I’ll grab you a glass.”
He stopped on his way to the kitchen, remembering Cris’s rule about no open beverages. “Uh… or I have bottled water in the fridge. If you’d prefer that.”
For the first time, Cris’s face softened a little. There was a hint of a smile on his face as he said, “Tap water is fine, Frank.”
That small crack in the armor was enough to make Frank feel like the sun had come out. He’d been so afraid he’d fucked everything up, that he would never get a second chance. There was no way he would let himself blow it now.
Cris took the water from him but didn’t drink it. He clutched it tightly with both hands, his gaze fixed on the corner as Frank sat in the armchair across from him. The boy was clearly nervous about something. Probably afraid Frank would blow up at him again. He could still see him standing there in his kitchen, trembling in his underwear, his eyes blank and unfocused. It crushed him to think that Cris would ever be afraid of him.
“So,” he said, trying to sound casual. “What’s up?”
Cris finally took a sip of the water, then lowered it. He stared at it for a moment, like it might tell him what to say.
“I just… I wanted to talk,” he said finally. “About that night. About how things ended.”
Frank nodded immediately, relieved to have something solid to grab onto. “Okay, yeah. We can do that.”
Cris’s fingers tightened around the glass. “I wanted to apologize for my part in what happened. Going through your clothes, making myself at home in your kitchen–”
“No,” Frank said sharply. “You don’t have anything to apologize for.” He took a chance and reached for Cris’s hand. He slid the boy’s palm into his own, feeling his smooth skin. “You didn’t deserve to be spoken to that way. That was my own shit I was dealing with, and I’m sorry.”
Cris looked up at him, his round eyes still guarded.
“I understand if you don’t want to see me anymore,” he continued. “But I hope you know how sorry I am for the way I spoke to you. That wasn’t okay.”
Cris nodded slowly, taking in the words. “Do you still think about it?” he asked after a moment. “That night?”
“All the time,” Frank said without thinking.
Cris’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Even after… everything?”
“Especially after,” Frank said. The truth of it surprised him, but it felt right the moment it was out of his mouth.
That night had probably been like any other for Cris, but for Frank, it had changed everything. The old ideas he’d told himself about his life, who he was and what he wanted, what he allowed himself to want, had fallen away, unseated by the boy on the couch in front of him.
Cris nodded, like he was filing that away. He rubbed his thumb along the rim of the glass, once, twice, then set it on the coffee table in front of him.
“You’re not going to like this,” he said quietly.
Frank’s stomach tightened. Here it was—the axe drop. He was too late, his apology insufficient to take back what he’d done. “Okay,” he said anyway.
Cris drew in a breath, held it, then let it out through his nose. He didn’t look at Frank when he spoke again.
“I didn’t come here to ask you for anything,” he said. “I just thought you deserved to know.”
Frank’s palms felt clammy. He opened his mouth to respond, but whatever he was about to say stalled out as Cris finally looked at him.
“I’m pregnant.”