Coda Books 04 - Strawberries for Dessert (MM)

It wasn’t as if my dad didn’t know that I was gay, but he never seemed to be very comfortable with it. “I have a date.”
    “A date?” he asked, as if the term was completely foreign to him.
    “Yes, a date . You know: dinner, drinks, small talk”—sex, if I was lucky, but I didn’t say that to him—“with another person.”
    “Oh,” was all he said, and I wondered if he was fighting the urge to ask if it was with a woman. He still did that sometimes, as if I might suddenly surprise him by announcing that I had changed my mind about the whole male/female thing. I decided not to give him the chance.
    “Listen, Dad, it’s good that you called. I’ll be out of town again next week. I have tickets to a show. I wondered if you wanted them.” I had season tickets to the theater, but I rarely got to use them anymore.
    “I don’t know, Jon,” he said reluctantly. He didn’t share my love of the theater. He preferred baseball. And that pretty much summed up our entire relationship. “What show is it?”
    “ West Side Story .”
    “No, thanks, Jon—”

    “You might like it.”
    “I already know how it ends. The Capulets and the Romulans—”
    “The Capulets are Romeo and Juliet —”
    “Same story, different music.”
    “—and I assure you there are absolutely no Romulans in either story.”
    “More’s the pity, too. That probably would have livened things up a bit.”
    I made an effort to not sigh. I hadn’t really expected him to be interested in the show, but I hated to see the tickets go to waste. Maybe I could give them to my neighbor, Julia.
    My phone started to buzz in my hand, signaling another incoming call. “Dad, I have to go.”
    “Okay, Jon. Good luck on your date.”
    I knew it took a certain amount of effort for him to say that, so I said, “Thanks, Dad,” before hanging up and answering the new call.
    It was my boss again.
    “Jonathan, did you get that Clifton Inn issue resolved?”
    “Not exactly. Their records were a mess. They were using two different systems to—”
    “I think you’re going to need to fly out there on Monday.”
    “I leave for Vegas on Monday,” I said, although I felt that he should have known that already. “Franklin Suites. Remember?”
    He sighed. “You may have to cut that short. The Clifton should be your top priority right now.”
    Deep breath. Count to five. “I suppose I could leave Vegas on Wednesday and fly directly to LA. Assuming that Franklin has their books in order—”
    “Let me look into it and call you back.”
    I hung up the phone and checked my watch. It was exactly six o’clock. Cole wasn’t late yet, but he could very well have arrived while I was on the phone. I looked around but didn’t see anybody that seemed to be looking for anybody else. I wondered how I would identify him when he arrived.
    I shouldn’t have worried.
    There are more stereotypes about gay men than I could even name—bears, twinks, leather-clad bikers, fairies. The list went on and on. Most of the men I knew didn’t fit neatly into any of those categories. But when Cole walked into the restaurant, the word that jumped into my head was “flaming.” He was about five nine, shorter than me by two or three inches. His body was thin, his features slightly feminine. His hair was almost the same color as mine, light brown, well cut, but with a long fall of bangs that tended to hang in his eyes. His clothes were obviously expensive but slightly eccentric—black, tight-fitting pants that might have been suede, a close-fitting lavender sweater that was probably silk, and a light scarf around his neck.
    I’ve never been into effeminate men, but I certainly couldn’t leave now. And he didn’t necessarily need to be my type if it was only one night.
    He walked up to the podium where the hostess was taking names, and she seemed to recognize him. She immediately smiled at him, and it looked genuine. He tilted his head, causing his bangs to fall over his eyes. He smiled at her flirtatiously, and I thought maybe he was even batting his eyes at her. I couldn’t hear what he said, but she laughed and then pointed my way.
    There was a slight sway to his walk when he came over. “I think you’re waiting for me.”
    “I think so too.” I held my hand out and he shook it. I expected his grip to be weak and limp, but that wasn’t the case. His hands were slim and incredibly soft, but his handshake was firm. “I’m Jonathan Kechter.”
    He tilted