“Hmm. Not really. He came here because he couldn’t find paying work as a doctor in Morocco. Their economy was crap. She was a student at Johns Hopkins. They met three weeks before her visa expired.” He gave Nick a wry look. “She tells everyone she married him for the green card.”

Nick smiled. “I have a feeling I’d like your mother.”

And as soon as he said the words, he realized he was wondering about meeting Adam’s parents, and the thought struck a bolt of nerves into his chest.

Now he understood how Michael had felt Thursday night.

“She’s very opinionated,” said Adam. “Likes to rant in Portuguese because it makes my father nuts.”

Nick’s eyebrows went up. Just when he thought Adam couldn’t get hotter. “Do you speak Portuguese?”

“More than I’ll admit. Less than I should. My father grew up speaking Berber—it’s like Arabic—but I barely know any of that. He wanted to lose his accent because he thought he’d get better work that way, so he hardly speaks it at all now. Most people can’t even tell he wasn’t born here.”

A new note, something close to bitterness, had crept into Adam’s voice. Nick frowned and wondered if he’d made a misstep by opening this line of conversation.

Adam shrugged a little. “He totally bought into the American dream of capitalism and baseball and apple pie—only to end up with a Brazilian wife and a gay dancer for a son.”

Adam’s father hid who he was. Then he’d asked Adam to hide who he was.

Nick wondered what his own father would have thought. While he felt certain his mother would have understood him—would have supported him, even—he had no idea how his father would have reacted. Michael had gotten into it with their father more than once, but never over something like this.

Nick stroked a hand across Adam’s face. “Do they ever come to watch you dance?”

“Nah. Not really anymore. Honestly, I think my dad secretly hopes I’ll outgrow it one day.”

“I think your dad should take a second look at how lucky he is.”

Adam laughed, but not like it was funny. “You know, if I wanted to do pretty much anything else with my life, I wouldn’t need a scholarship. If I called him up and said I wanted to be an accountant, he’d be drafting a check to the college of my choice.”

Nick thought of all those college letters sitting in his desk at home and felt a flash of guilt. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Adam almost gave him a smile. “It’ll mean more if I do it myself.” He pressed his face into the curve of Nick’s neck again. “Your turn.”

“My turn?”

“Tell me something uncomfortable about your family.”