Esau squares his chest. “Go ‘head; call him that again.”
“Esau, he’s a pervert.”
“He is not a pervert.” Esau wipes furiously at the tears when they start. “There’s nothing sick about loving me.”
“This is every kind of sick.”
“No! We’re not sick. We love each other.” This is not something I have any specific memory of declaring to Esau, but I understand that chiming in with this now could divert his rhetorical flow. His larger point is one that needs making. When he flings his arm around my shoulders, I pat his belly assuringly, then casually slide the condom off.
“Put some clothes on, babe,” I mutter.
He ignores me, the better to continue to rail at his father. “We’re boyfriends, and you know what? I know Drew doesn’t love that term, and guess what you came home just in time to see?”
