PLAYING PRETEND

The Sunday roast chicken was dry, but I knew better than to say anything about it. My mother had spent three hours in the kitchen, rattling pans and humming along to an obscure 80s pop playlist, and if I criticized the food, I would never hear the end of it. I sawed through a piece of breast meat with my knife, the porcelain plate clinking loudly in the quiet dining room, and took a bite. It required a significant amount of chewing.

"Pass the gravy, please," my dad said from the head of the table.

I picked up the ceramic boat and handed it to him. He poured a generous amount over his potatoes, completely ignoring the tension that was radiating off my mother like heat from a pavement in July. She was sitting across from me, her wine glass filled to the brim with Chardonnay, and she was watching me. She wasn’t eating. She was just watching me chew.

"So," she started.

I flinched internally. I knew that tone. It was the tone she used right before she tried to manage my life. I quickly shoved a forkful of green beans into my mouth so I wouldn’t have to answer immediately.

"Finn, honey, how are things on campus?" she asked, leaning forward. Her elbows rested on the table, which was technically against the rules she had set when I was five, but rules didn't apply when she was on a mission. "You’ve been so quiet lately. Every time you come home for dinner, you just eat and run."

I swallowed the beans. "I have a lot of studying, Mom. Junior year isn’t exactly a walk in the park. The professors are piling on the reading lists like they think we don't need to sleep."

"Studying," she repeated, the word sounding flat in her mouth. She took a long sip of her wine. "You know, college is about more than just books, Finn. It’s about experiences. It’s about meeting people. Expanding your horizons."

"I meet people," I said defensively. "I talk to people in my classes. I have friends."

"I know you have friends. I love Sarah and David. They are lovely," she said, waving her hand dismissively. "But that is not who I am talking about, and you know it."

My dad cleared his throat, keeping his eyes strictly on his mashed potatoes. He knew what was coming, and he had clearly decided that his strategy for the evening was complete neutrality.

"I went to the grocery store yesterday," Mom continued, her eyes sparkling with a manic sort of energy. "And I ran into Mrs. Gable. You remember her? She lives three streets over. The one with the terrible garden gnomes."

"Vaguely," I muttered, stabbing a potato.

"Well, she was telling me about her son, Mark. He came out last year, remember? Well, apparently, Mark just started seeing a pre-med student. Very handsome, she says. They went to that new Italian place downtown for their anniversary." She paused for dramatic effect. "They have been dating for six months."

I kept chewing, focusing entirely on the texture of the chicken. "That’s nice for Mark, Mom."

"It is nice! It’s wonderful!" She threw her hands up, nearly knocking over the salt shaker. "It is wonderful that Mark is out living his life, finding love, and making his mother happy. Do you know what Mrs. Gable asked me? She asked me if you were seeing anyone yet. She asked me, 'How is that handsome Finn doing? Has he found a nice boy?'"

I put my fork down. The appetite I had managed to scrounge up was rapidly disappearing. "And what did you say?"

"I said," she emphasized, leaning in closer, "that my son is focusing on his academics because he is brilliant. But honestly, Finn, it is getting a little difficult to defend you when you give me absolutely nothing to work with. You are twenty years old. You are in the prime of your life. You are at a college with thousands of students. Are you telling me there isn’t a single gay man on that entire campus who interests you?"

"It’s not that simple," I said, reaching for my water glass. "I’m busy. And honestly, most of the guys at school are… complicated. They want to party, or they’re not looking for anything serious, or they’re just not my type."

"Not your type," Mom scoffed. "Finn, honey, your type is 'fictional.' You spend all your time reading those romance novels where the men are billionaires or werewolves. Real boys don't have fangs and private jets. Real boys have messy dorm rooms and awkward first dates, but you have to actually go on the dates to find that out."

My dad let out a small snort of laughter, then quickly turned it into a cough when Mom glared at him.