Page 26 of Within These County Lines

She snorted. “Like we give a damn!”

Then she was gone.

Whitley and I sat in stunned silence for a few seconds before we burst into laughter.

Dad was next. We planned it for the following Friday, when he got back from work and Mom was already at the hospital.

He barged inside, sweaty from the job site and grumbling about traffic.

It was D-Day—Dad Day or Death Day. Either worked for me because both outcomes were possible.

Whitley and I hid in my bedroom for an hour, trying to write a song on her clarinet. But his looming presence coerced us into the living room.

I sat in the same armchair, hoping for some good luck from when I—well, Whitley—told Mom I was gay.

Dad cracked open a beer before joining us. The sharp fizzing made my heart race like a runaway semitrailer.

“Mr. Delancey, can we talk to you?” Whitley asked.

Dad took a sip. “What’s up?” he asked. “How is school?”

Whitley and I folded our hands. My toes pulled the carpet up from the subfloor.

Dad wore a fluorescent orange hoodie, the brightest and most fitting wardrobe piece for my coming out. He juggled the beer can between his thick hands, the way he always did. I watched it go back and forth until I made myself dizzy.

His hands were coarser than stone. Years of twisting electrical wires and gripping tool handles had singed, cracked, and calloused his skin. He could put out candles with his fingers, grab pans from the oven without gloves, and adjust the wood in the fireplace without a stick.

Whitley cleared her throat. “Stetson is—”

“Wait!” I lunged for her as if I could intercept the words coming off her lips like a football.

“—gay,” she finished.

Dad took a sip of his beer and gulped, hard. He stared past us through the bay window, his expression resembling last spring’s tornado, picking up every thought and reaction possible. I was just an onlooker, waiting to see what he’d spit out.

“That true?” he asked. He looked to the floor, but I assumed his question was for me.

“Yeah,” I croaked. My armpits burned with sweat.

He stood, then walked across the living room, his arms swinging by his sides. I shivered. His hands could crush me in a second.

I closed my eyes.

A minute passed.

Nothing happened.

So I opened them.

Dad stood over me. Then he cupped my cheek. “Okay, son,” he said.

I exhaled, long and slow, then leaned into his palm. In that moment, his hand was the most comfortable place I’d ever rested. Softer than any couch, any bed, and Murray’s fluffy hair. But most of all, it was more affirming than any words he could have spoken.

“You got a boyfriend or something?” he asked.

“I do,” I said.

“Well, bring him around here for dinner sometime.” He gestured at the kitchen table.