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“Joel…”
This is another strange thing. I can’t remember the last time my mom seemed worried, or even remotely interested in me and my doings. Why is she—?
Oh. She’s not looking at me. She’s looking at Dad while ringing her hands together. He’s the one she’s worried about. He’s frowning, his brows throwing dark shadows over his eyes, and his mouth is downturned.
Now he looks more like the dad I know. And the realization doesn’t put me at ease. Not sure anything can put me at ease at this point.
“Can we sit down?” I ask again and have to remind myself not to cower under my dad’s glare. I’m not a kid. I’m an adult. I’m only here to say my piece and go.
“No,” Dad says slowly, his frown deepening. His fists clench at his sides. “No, we can’t sit down. Say what you came to say.”
“Dad…”
“What did you do?” Dad hisses. “What the fuck did you do, Joel?”
Jesus. “I found out… I’m bisexual. There’s a—”
“What did you say?” Dad roars, his face turning red.
“I have a girlfriend and a boyfriend.” I lift my chin, although my heart is hammering fit to break a rib. “We live together. We’re throwing a so
rt of get-to-know-the-family party on Saturday and you’re invited—”
The punch seems to come out of nowhere. An impact to my head, shaking the world, then the pain hits as I stumble to the side.
“No,” Dad spits in my face.
“Stop it,” Mom is whispering, tugging on his arm. “Stop.”
“You turned into a faggot bitch? You take it up the ass, you? My son?” He draws back his fist for another punch—because it’s finally sinking in that he punched me—and lets out a bitter snort. “I thought it bad enough when Evie decided to go and choose a streetbum over us, but you? You are a goddamn faggot?”
I lift my arm on instinct, blocking another punch. I never thought it would come to this, I realize, my thoughts twisted and disjointed, not making much sense. I’m their son. I failed them.
Wait a second.
I blink as Mom wails something and Dad growls back. I feel as if I’m watching them from far away. How did this happen? When did their indifference turn into molten rage?
And why should I stay any longer? What else is there to say? I’ve said what I came here to say. Told them my news. Invited them to meet the most important people in my life—or tried to, anyway, before getting punched in the face.
Oh, right, there’s one more thing I haven’t told them.
I square my shoulders, lift my aching head, looking at my mom and dad, the people who raised me to a certain ideal of theirs. Rested their hopes on my shoulders and cheered me on.
Well, I had hopes of my own coming here, and certain expectations of them as well, but here we are.
“I’ve changed jobs,” I say, my voice coming out rusty and creaky. “To a smaller company. My dream is to open a publishing house. Just so you know.”
“You goddamn son of a bitch…” Dad’s gaze blazes hot at me, but I can barely feel it.
“You are invited to the party. You are invited to my life. If you change your mind and decide to respect me and my decisions, then…” This is hard, but they are my parents. “Then my door is open for you.” I turn away. “Until then, I guess it’s goodbye.”
It hurts, leaving like this. I won’t lie. It hurts even more than the pain spreading through my skull and neck. I can taste blood in my mouth from where I must have bitten my tongue and my face hurts like a bitch.
But I keep going, staggering a little. Damn, Dad has a mean right hook. The things you find out…
And Jesus, my cheeks feel cool and wet. What the fuck.
Light steps sound behind me and a hand touches my elbow. “Joel…”
