Dinner at Elliott's grandparents' house was about as painful as Ruthie had assumed it would be. Beginning with his grandfather asking if Ruthie knew what her blood breakdown was, it was one conversational landmine after another.

They were in the midst of eating meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and carrots, when he dropped this bomb. "So, Ruth, do you know your genetic ratio?"

"I'm sorry, what?" Ruthie asked, her fork half way to her mouth.

"Do you know how much of your blood is white, and how much is, uh, not white?" He looked at her with interest, gray eyes somehow looking watery and piercing at the same time.

"Uh, well, I don't usually think of it that way, since blood is just blood," Ruthie answered, trying to keep her voice steady. "I mean, if I cut myself, and you cut yourself, and we both bled on this pretty table cloth, you couldn't tell much based on the blood, you know?" She took a drink and cut her eyes over to Elliott, who smiled encouragingly. "Blood is just blood, and if you needed a transfusion or something, you could receive blood from a person of color with no adverse effects. I think you're talking about DNA, maybe?"

"Marty's never had a blood transfusion," his wife said quickly.

"But to answer your question," Ruthie continued, "my parents and I did do the genetic testing where you spit in the tube and mail it away, just for fun, and my ethnicity, which is what I think you're asking about, is a mixture of Scandinavian, Western European, indigenous South American, and sub-Saharan African."

"Was there more of one than the other?" Marty Nicholson asked.

Ruthie blinked at him. "They were in that order, the order I said," she told him.

"So the black part, the negro part, from Africa, the was the smallest amount of blood?" he persisted. He nodded as though that made sense.

Ruthie decided to let the whole "blood" vs. "DNA" thing go, as well as the word "negro" and just nodded.

Elliott looked at her, beautiful eyes full of apology.

"And when you say your parents, you mean the men you live with, the gay couple who adopted you?" Mrs. Nicholson asked.

Ruthie swallowed, and finally just nodded. "They're my parents, ma'am, the only parents I've ever had."

"But they're not really your parents, are they?" Shirley Nicholson insisted. "I mean, 'parents' means a mom and a dad, a man and a woman, joined in wedlock by our lord, like it says in the Bible."

"To me, parents are the people who care for you and raise you, love you and see you through to adulthood, and my dad and my pop are my parents," Ruthie replied. "I love them and they love me, and that's all that matters, I think." She thought a moment, then spoke again.

"First Corinthians, chapter 13, verse 13, says,
So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love."

Ruthie looked around the table, at the three looks of surprise, and smothered a smile. Elliott, in particular, was looking with eyes that held equal parts astonishment and admiration.

"Yes, well, the Bible also says that marriage is between a man and a woman, so there's that," Mrs. Nicholson said.

Ruthie recognized when trouble was coming her way, and she knew better than to engage people of another generation and way of thinking in an argument in their own home. It served no purpose, it was rude, and it could have bad consequences for Elliott.

She quickly wiped her mouth and rose to clear her plate. She began speaking even before she re-entered the dining room.

"You know, I'm so sorry, but I have to go," she told Mr. and Mrs. Nicholson. "I have so much homework tonight, and my parents would only let me come if I promised I wouldn't be gone longer than two hours, and that I'd be home by seven."

She looked back and forth between her host and hostess. "I hope you enjoy the cookies," she told Mrs. Nicholson. "And not too many for you, right? With your diabetes and all that?" She smiled at him.

"Thank you so much for a lovely meal," she said to them as she pushed her chair in. "I hope we can get together again very soon."

Elliott, too, jumped up and cleared his plate. "I'm going to walk her home, if that's okay," he told his grandparents, putting his shoes on without waiting for an answer. "And I might stay over there a while, since we have to work on our dialogue, and I have some French I need help with."

"Don't be out too late," his grandmother called.

Then they were outside, and free. They clasped hands and actually ran half way down the block, reveling in being out of the oppressive atmosphere. The rain had stopped momentarily, though the wind was rising, and they could tell that more was definitely coming their way.

"Thank god," Elliott repeated. "And two hours, that's marvelous, not even a full service."

"What?" Ruthie asked as they slowed down to a walk.

"I promised my grandmother that I'd go to church with them for s long as you were at our house," Elliott explained, looking at her face for a response.

"What?" Ruthie was shocked. "Are you kidding me?"

Elliott shook his head. "It's been bothering her a lot that I don't go, like she prays about it every night or whatever. And that was the deal we made."

"But why? Why did you want me to go there at all, if it came at such a price?" Ruthie asked. "What did we gain from that horrible experience?"

Elliott shrugged. "I go to your house all the time, and of course it's absolutely lovely, but I also learn so much about you by being there, by talking to the people who care for you." He shrugged again, and Ruthie could tell he was a little embarrassed, a little ashamed. Her heart went out t him.

"I wanted you to know me better, the good and the bad, that's all. I wanted you to know what I live with on a daily basis, how I spend my time when I'm not with you."

He squeezed her hand. "They're not all bad," he tried to explain. "I mean, they took me in, gave me a place to live and all that, even though they'd never even met me, you know? It's not their fault that they only know this one way of living. And now they want me to stay with them," he added, his voice becoming grim.

"Hm? What do you mean?" Ruthie asked. They were at her house now, going in through the back gate.

"They don't want me to go back to England," he said. "They want me to stay one more year and finish high school, or what they call 'real high school,' then go to the State college here. They don't want me to go back to England."

"But you want to go back," Ruthie said, trying not to sound excited by the idea of Elliott staying for at least the next year.

"More than anything," Elliott said, opening the French door for Ruthie so she could enter first. "I have to get back to England," he said, and Ruthie could hear the anguish in his voice. "I had a place at LDAA, my friends are there, my whole life is there."

He turned to Ruthie. "You're the only good thing I have here," he told her, pressing a kiss on her forehead.

Ruthie led him to the dining room, where she spread out her books, and got them a snack from the kitchen. She called out to her parents that she was home. She refrained from asking what she was supposed to do if he left her next year and went back to London.

They sat down and began with French, so Elliott wouldn't be a total liar.

"Elliott?" Her voice was quiet.

"Ruthie?"

"Did you have a girlfriend in England?" She took a deep, steadying breath. She wasn't sure he'd answer, but he'd opened up more and more lately, and they'd kind of been talking bout it.

He didn't answer with a definitive "no," like she'd been hoping.

Elliott sighed, and raked his fingers through his hair, which was extra curly because of the rain.

"I don't think so," was what he finally said.

"What the fuck does that mean?" Ruthie put her pencil down so she could give Elliott her full attention.

"I used to date someone, and it was what you might call a volatile situation," Elliott began. "It was on again, off again, you know?"

"So was it on or off when you came?" she asked, afraid to know that answer.

Elliott looked at her. "Oh. Oh! No no, it was definitely off," he assured her. "I'd never start up with someone new, let alone fall in love with her, let alone tell her about falling in love with her, if I were involved with someone else."

He leaned forward and kissed her worried mouth, stroking her hair. "I'd never do such a thing to you, honest," he said, his voice quiet.

Ruthie's smile was like sunshine.

"But yeah, I dated a lot of girls, and the last one was a piece of work, and probably the only good thing to come of being forced to leave England so quickly was that I didn't have a chance to let her try to get back with me," Elliott said.

"What was her name?" Ruthie asked. She wanted to know what she looked like, and what they'd fight about, but was afraid to ask.

"Daphne Ravenwood," he told her, watching her face for her reaction.

"Daphne Ravenwood?" Ruthie repeated. She looked at Elliott to see if he was kidding. "The Daphne Ravenwood? Youngest winner of the Olivier Award? Actually, didn't she win two?"

"Yeah, she's won two," Elliott confirmed with a grin." I wondered if you'd know who she was.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Ruthie said, her French book lying open and forgotten between them. "How did you even meet her?"

"I was swing for a show she did last year," he told Ruthie, a little pride in his voice.

"Aren't you a little young to be swing?" Ruthie asked, unable to help the technical question.

"It was a production of Nicholas Nickelby," he explained, "so I was just right, I think."

"And she was Kate?" Ruthie hazarded a guess.

"You know your plays," Elliott said with admiration. "It was a weird adaptation, not the nine hour long version."

Ruthie just nodded. "So you dated Daphne Ravenwood?" she repeated, shaking her head in wonder. "How old is she?"

"Twenty-one," Elliott said. "She was twenty when we were seeing each other."

Daphne Ravenwood was English theatre royalty, as far as Ruthie was concerned. Her grandparents were serious Shakespearean actors on both sides, and she was a teenaged wonder when she played Christine in Phantom of the Opera.

Talk about a triple threat.

And Elliott had dated her.

Wow.

"Oh shit, look!" Elliott's voice cut into her thoughts, and she looked where he had turned his head.

Clarence Darrow, his fluffy coat a bit dampened by the rain, sat on the other side of the French door, waiting to be let in. He obviously had someplace dry he went while it was raining hard, since he was barely wet, and it was once again pouring. He saw his mistress and her friend looking at him, and he let out a polite meow, and put a white paw on the glass, in case his desire was unclear.

Let me in, please.

Clarence waiting to be let in was nothing new; what had caused Elliott to let out the expletive and exclamation was the creature next to him.

It was a dog, a drowned and starving looking thing, sitting next to Clarence Darrow like it was where he belonged.

Ruthie jumped up and ran to the door, with Elliott right behind her. She called her dads as she went, and opened the door for Clarence.

He walked in the way he always did, like he was a king entering his castle. He had a few leaves stuck to his tail, which Ruthie pulled off as first her Pop, then her Dad, arrived.

"What? You okay?" Pop asked.

"Look, look!" Ruthie said, pointing.

After he entered, Clarence turned and meowed at the soaking wet dog. It shook, obligingly, scattering the worst of the water on its coat before entering, then followed Clarence into the house.

"Oh my god, have you ever seen anything so cute?" Ruthie gushed.

Her dads looked at each other.

She dropped to her knees to stroke the dog, and pulled off her zip up hoodie to dry it. Her look turned to one of concern when she realized she could feel its ribs.

"Uh, Rosebud, it's a dog."

"No, Dad, she's a bitch, she's a girl, see?" Ruthie said, lifting the dog to show her tummy and parts to the assembled men, including Elliott. She looked like a half-grown mutt, more shepherd than anything else, but possibly with a bit of collie and retriever thrown in.

"Elliott, isn't she darling?" Ruthie asked.

"She's beautiful," he agreed, though he could tell that wasn't what her dads wanted him to say.

"Ruthie, you're allergic to dogs," Todd reminded her.

"I've been holding this one with no problems," she answered, still stroking the dog. "But she's heavy, I'll have to put her down."

So she did, and Clarence Darrow immediately began walking toward the kitchen, poufy, ringed tail high in the air like a flag. He turned around once and meowed, to make sure the bitch was following, and went straight to his food and water bowls.

In spite of the rainstorm, she was thirsty, and drank Clarence's bowl dry before turning her attention to the dry cat food. She ate all of it in two or three bites while Clarence sat by, tail curled neatly around his paws, and watched, an inscrutable, but unmistakably benign expression on his face. His large, Maine Coon Cat markings were a bit blurry from the bit of rain on his coat.

Please, help yourself, he seemed to be saying. My people will provide me with more whenever I ask.

"Are you going to keep her?" Elliott asked with a grin. His grin faded as he looked at Ruthie's dads. Apparently this wasn't a question they wanted asked.

"Ruthie's allergic," her dad repeated as Ruthie stroked the dog.

As Todd was telling Elliott about Ruthie's allergies, Phil was putting out more food. He mixed chicken, left over from their dinner, with rice, and he set it down for the skinny, girl dog.

They stood and watched her eat, her stomach visibly filling out as she ate the chicken and rice. When she was finished, she followed Clarence Darrow to the living room, where the fireplace crackled and popped in a pleasing way as it warmed the house. The four humans wordlessly followed, curious as to how these two creatures were communicating.

Clarence climbed into his bed and settled down, turning to look at the dog when he was finished. The shepherd looked at the cat, and climbed onto the bed, squashing he edges down since it was obviously way too small to accommodate both a fourteen pound Maine Coon Cat and even an only half-grown puppy.

A minute later the two furry creatures were sleeping peacefully, and the four humans were looking at each other, two with joy, two with bemusement of the unavoidable.

And that was how the dog they eventually named Amal Clooney came to live at the Barakat-Grimaldi house.