Which he wasn’t.
The garage door yawned open, and Alec stood inside, staring down at his Harley. Dylan pulled up and parked his motorcycle in the driveway.
“I’ve been trying for twenty minutes to get her started,” Alec said as Dylan entered the spotless garage, not a tool in sight.
Man, how did the dude function without tools?
“I really appreciate you coming,” Alec said.
“No worries.”
Alec tucked his hair behind his ears. The automatic gesture looked like a well-established habit. The thick, brown waves hung to his chin, just long enough to fit neatly behind his ears. He looked like a young, hippy college professor, his blue gaze open and honest, filled with an obvious intelligence.
Gone were Alec’s jeans and brand-spanking-new riding jacket from yesterday. Instead, Alec wore khaki pants and a polo shirt more fitting the academic lurking beneath.
Alec planted his hand on his hips, eyeing the Harley. “I can’t decide if it’s the bike or if it’s me.”
“I have a 1942 WLA that’s a bitch to start too.”
Alec’s gaze ticked up to Dylan’s. “Should I be taking her reluctance personally?”
“Absolutely.”
Alec chuckled and sent Dylan a smile. Despite the fatigue and this morning’s inconvenient timing, Dylan felt the urge to return the grin and was left wondering why. A buzzer sounded in the background, interrupting the moment.
Alec tipped his head toward the house. “Do you mind? I just need to turn the oven off.”
“Go ahead.”
Alec opened the door into what looked like the kitchen as a delicious smell drifted into the garage. Feeling on edge, Dylan shifted on his feet as he scanned his surroundings, trying to remember why he’d agreed to make the trek to Alec’s house.
A sense of obligation, mostly. Curiosity too, about the man Noah had been mentioning for several years now. Dylan had expected serious and boring and uptight, not the self-deprecating sense of humor from yesterday. Pushing the motorcycle into the garage had to have been humiliating. Hard not to admire how Alec handled himself with dignity in the face of one embarrassing moment after another. And every interaction left Dylan a little more curious…
He rubbed his jaw. But he still had work coming out his ears and a bike rally to organize in honor of Rick.
Frowning, Dylan glanced at the far wall that contained a framed, poster-sized picture of a crowd of people holding signs. He stepped closer, intrigued.
The protest looked well attended. Dylan had no trouble figuring out the subject, a rally to support gay marriage. Posters dotted the scene with slogans such as Down with DOMA and Don’t Hate, Overturn Prop 8. And then he spied Alec in the picture holding a sign that read Jesus had two Dads and he turned out okay.
Dylan bit back the grin and turned to look at Alec as he reentered the garage.
“Nice slogan.” Dylan pointed at Alec’s sign.
Alec followed Dylan’s gaze and another easy smile appeared. “I didn’t come up with the phrase, but I felt it was worth repeating.”
“Definitely a winner.”
“It appeals to my love of irony.”
Dylan let out an amused grunt. “I know what you mean.”
He was about to turn away from the poster when he spied a middle-aged woman in the picture, standing to Alec’s left. Same brown hair as Alec’s. Same blue eyes. Dylan leaned in to read the woman’s sign. On top, the huge placard read Waiting for my son and his partner to attain equal rights. Beneath was a blown-up picture of a wedding invitation.
Alec Walter Johnson and Tyler Michael Hall request the pleasure of your company…
Surprise widened Dylan’s eyes.
“My mother,” Alec said.
Dylan cleared his throat, trying to think of a response. “Supportive.”
He certainly had to admire her creativity. And the irony.
“You have no idea,” Alec said drily. “She’s still celebrating the death of DOMA.” Alec blew out a breath. “Unfortunately, she’s also holding out hope she gets to use that invitation one day.”
The pause lengthened and turned uncomfortable, and Dylan felt pressured to fill the silence. What was he supposed to say? Hats off to you for your part in lifting the ban on gay marriage? Sorry your boyfriend left and now you can’t enjoy the fruits of your labor?
Or maybe: congratulations, you won the war…but lost the battle.
Dylan stuck a hand in his back pocket. “The Harley.”
“Right,” Alec said. “She’s being stubborn.”