AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“So what?” I demanded. “Is it a secret that JT is gay? Because if so, he probably shouldn’t be standing over by Willow with his hands in Flynn’s back pockets.” I tilted my head toward where my brother stood, gazing at his boyfriend with his heart in his eyes.
“Of course it’s not a secret! We love Jonathan… and Flynn,” she added, grudgingly but sincerely. “Your father and I are truly happy for them. But Reagan, there’s a difference between knowing a thing and… and screaming it out loud. They’re a part of our family, certainly, but they’re not what the Senator’s platform represents. Surely you understand the difference.”
I closed my eyes, which were suddenly scratchy and throbbing in rhythmic counterpoint to the pounding in my head.
The sad thing was, I did understand… sort of. Hadn’t I said something similar for years? That being pansexual was only one part of me and arguably the least interesting? That there was no need for me to “come out” to my parents or the public because I already was out to my friends and brother and sexual partners, and no one else needed to know?
It was true, damn it, and I stood by that—no one should feel like they had to come out, ever, if they didn’t want to. In fact, I’d always thought the whole notion of “coming out of the closet” implied that everyone on the LGBTQ spectrum was born into the world’s shittiest, darkest escape room and had to fight to free ourselves, using someone else’s rules, on someone else’s timeframe, if we ever wanted to be taken seriously. I rejected the whole fucking concept.
But…
In that moment, I also recalled two snippets of conversation I’d had that week. The first from that night in Colorado when McGee had recounted Thatcher’s words of wisdom to him. Maybe I needed to fight, and I was just picking the wrong fights. The second, words Thatcher himself had spoken. Living up to other people’s expectations is a losing game. You need to live up to your own.
The two thoughts fused together in my brain, and suddenly, the world came into a different sort of focus, much like pulling on tinted ski goggles after being snow-blind for hours.
What the hell was I doing?
Had I really just agreed to work for my father—unpaid—so I could prove myself to him? Was I agreeing to give up the life I’d been building in New York, my job at PennCo, the possibility of ever being with Thatcher in any capacity? And what about my own social media and the brand I’d been building? Would I give that up, too, if my father asked it of me?
What kind of endgame was that? Why had this ever been my goal?
If I’d hoped to affect political change from the inside, I’d been deluding myself. Deep down, I knew I didn’t have a hope in hell of changing my father’s views on political issues because the man tried as hard as he could not to have views on political issues. He chose his platform based on exit polls and donors. He wasn’t an evil man—he really wasn’t—and he’d even been a pretty decent dad for most of my life, but as a candidate… he sucked.
And if I’d been doing this to gain my parents’ approval, that was even more fantastical. Working for my father, my life would become a daily drip of condescending head pats and warnings that I’d better not screw up as he projected his own fears of losing the election onto me. This morning’s confrontation and set-down would only be the tip of the iceberg. Even if I hadn’t spent the last week working for a man who’d told me “I trust you” point-blank after two days of being on my worst behavior and didn’t have that example to compare it to, I knew having my dad as a boss would break me. I’d lose myself entirely and become a Reagan-shaped robot, permanently set to Overly Polite Mode.
Worst of all, Trent and Patricia wouldn’t even know the change was happening because my parents didn’t have a clue who I really was… and that was on me—at least in part—because I’d never told them.
I wanted their respect so badly, but how could they possibly respect me when I didn’t respect myself enough to stand up and say, “This is who I am, this is how I’m choosing to spend my life, this is the line in the sand I will not allow you to cross, and no, I will not be taking comments or questions at this time”? Proving myself was a losing game, exactly as Thatcher had tried to tell me, because my parents wanted me to prove that I was just like them… and I wasn’t.
I didn’t want to be.
So instead of fighting for my parents’ respect no matter the cost, it was time to pick a different fight. The one where I fought to be a person I could respect instead. A man who chose his own path, achieved his own goals, and had a future that included loving and being loved by whoever I wanted, whether that was Thatcher—please, baby Jesus, let it be Thatcher—or not.
I’d spent a long time hiding behind a mask, and was that really any better than a closet?
“Mother. Dad.” I smiled, bright and honest. “I should probably tell you that I’m pansexual.” I caught my mother’s confused frown and felt laughter bubbling inside me. It felt a lot like relief. “FYI, pansexuality has nothing to do with actual pans,” I said gently, knowing my father would have no idea what I meant. “It means that I am attracted to people regardless of their sex or gender. My most recent… relationship—” I stumbled a bit over the word before deciding it fit. “—involved a man.”
“I see.” My mother blinked rapidly. “Well. That’s…” She looked around, as if hoping that the assembly of happy, pink-cheeked Honeybridgers would help her find the right word… and maybe they did. “…good,” she said at last.
My father said nothing but pursed his lips and studied me thoughtfully.
“It is good,” I agreed. “But I think you’ll understand that when I hear you say JT and Flynn don’t represent Dad’s campaign platform, I can’t help but think that platform doesn’t represent me. And I can’t continue working with you. Not on your social media strategy and not in front of the cameras either.”
“You’re quitting,” my father said. He nodded once, as though this confirmed something for him.
I couldn’t deny twenty-eight years of habit made me quail a bit at the disapproval in his voice, but I straightened my shoulders. “You might see it that way. I prefer to think of it as not quitting… on myself, what I stand for, and my own happiness.”
“But Reagan…” My mother sounded truly shocked and unhappy, which hit me even harder than my dad’s reaction. “Don’t you want to help your father win?”
I studied them both for a minute—my mother’s perfect hairstyle and perfectly unlined face, my father’s perfectly straight lapel pin—and said, “To be honest, I’m not sure he can win. Not on the platform he has now. Dad, your donors like to talk a lot about what’s wrong with young people today, like we’ve all been corrupted by hashtags, but all social media’s done is teach us that anyone can look great with a filter on. They want a representative who cares more about what and who he stands for than how he looks while he’s doing it, and if you don’t get on board with that…” I shrugged. “Anyway. I love you both. I’ll plan to see you back at the house later, if that’s alright?”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” my mother agreed, still looking shell-shocked. She wrapped her hand around the Senator’s elbow. “Your father and I will see you then.”
I kissed her cheek gently, nodded at my father, and walked away. As I did, my hands trembled.
Holy shit.
I knew I’d done the right thing—the only true and honest thing I could do. And it felt good. Heady. Empowering as fuck.
