Situationship

Chapter 1-1

Chapter One

Tanner

“Damn, these cars move slower than molasses.” Aunt Dottie drawled as we inched up 95 toward Richmond. She’d picked me up an hour and a half ago from Dulles airport, and unfortunately we’d gotten caught up in DC traffic.

When I first laid eyes on her again after years of being on the road, my heart soared. Her bright red hair was piled on top of her head like a proper southern lady, but that was pretty much where the comparisons between her and a southern belle came to a halt. She wore black, cat-eye sunglasses surrounded by rhinestones and her lips were painted a neon orange. As far as I could see, she was ageless. Her body was fit and firm underneath a skin-hugging tailored green suit while strutting through the airport in black stiletto heels. When she wrapped her arms around me they trembled for a brief second, then she stepped back and looked me up and down. “Still cute as a button.”

We’d sat in comfortable silence through the endless traffic listening to NPR. When another school shooting was announced she tapped the power button off with a long red nail.

“Hope you brought a bulletproof vest back with you from Europe.” She muttered, then sighed and shook her head. We were sitting in traffic underneath a bypass near the Franconia exit, the car inching up slowly at what seemed a foot per hour. She laid a hand on my knee and smiled. “So, since we are stuck in shitty traffic together, let’s get the hard part over with. What the hell brought you back to Richmond?”

“Well…” I muttered, then sank back in my seat and searched for the right words. A few beats passed, then Aunt Dottie spoke.

“No worries, honeybee. Take your time. Hell, if you don’t want to talk right now that’s fine.” She opened her purse and pulled out her lipstick, reapplying it using the rear-view mirror. She wiped a little of it off her teeth then realized traffic was moving. Aunt Dottie dropped the tube and her purse in my lap and inched forward.

“Have you spoken to your folks?” She asked, though she knew the answer to that. This was her way of drawing me into a conversation. I opened her purse and dropped the tube of lipstick inside before replying.

“No, you know we don’t talk much.”

“Well, aside from the annual Christmas card, I don’t hear from them either.” She raised her eyebrows, then smiled. “You should at least call them, though.”

I’d grown up in Windsor Farms, an affluent neighborhood in the West End. My parents were ultra-conservative, and the last time I’d seen them I’d suffered through the whole ‘Love the sinner, not the sin’ bullshit conversation for the millionth time. Aunt Dottie was Dad’s sister, and they considered her the free spirit of the family. The first ten years of my life she lived in Aspen, Colorado performing with their ballet company. When she returned home, she bought a beautiful old apartment building on Monument Avenue and started a ballet school in the basement while renting out the apartments.

She had been like my Aunt Mame, filled with stories and wisdom that living a full, artistic life had given her. She’d traveled around the globe during her dance career and had sensed that we were kindred spirits. While my parents insisted I go to boring cotillion and play on the soccer team, she’d done everything she could to fill my world with art and culture. Aunt Dottie paid for my piano lessons and had bought me my first synthesizer. The only reason my parents allowed all this was because they didn’t know how to relate to their only child, a quiet kid who only wanted to make music. She’d take me off their hands most weekends, allowing them the freedom to travel, while telling themselves I was getting cultural enrichment. When I came out as gay, they blamed her, and our visits came to a screeching halt. Three months later I graduated from high school and turned eighteen in the same week. Aunt Dottie collected me from my parents’ house and installed me in the tiny second bedroom of her apartment on the first floor of her building. I ended up staying until I got my first gig in South America.

“I can’t take this traffic anymore, honeybee.” She yanked the wheel of her ancient Mercedes to the right and got off at the next exit, then pulled into a fast food place on Route One. “I need to go to the little girls room. Would you mind getting me a soda?”

The line going up to the counter was long, and there was only one cashier working. Customers grumbled, wondering why they only had one employee taking orders. The cashier was a small man who looked to be in his early twenties. His eyebrows were exquisitely arched with a small gold hoop in one of them. A woman who appeared to be his manager stood next to him, pointing a long sculptured nail in his face while whispering in his ear.

“I hate Northern Virginia.” Aunt Dottie mumbled as she got in line next to me. “Always a line to…”

“f**k you.” The cashier shouted, then spun on his heel and snapped his fingers over his head. “It’s time for me to sashay away.” He winked at the crowd of people in line, snatched the paper hat off his head and threw it at his manager. Seconds later he was out the door. Half of the people around us clapped, while the other half grumbled and walked out, not wanting to wait in line any longer.

“Please tell me that’s how it went down with you and your boss.” Aunt Dottie said, a smirk playing on her lips. I laughed for the first time in days, then I wrapped my arms around her neck and pulled her in for a hug. “God, I missed you so damn much.”