Page 67 of Offside Angle

I look at her.

“You don’t have to know exactly what this means yet, mijo. You don’t have to choose a label tonight, and you definitely don’t need your whole life figured out before dessert.” Her fingers tighten gently around mine. “But if there’s something with Santi that you need to understand, then go understand it. Just be honest with him. And with yourself.”

I look down at our joined hands.

That’s it?

Apparently I’ve spent days vomiting, panicking, blowing up my relationship, and questioning thirty years of established personal history only for my parents to absorb I might be bisexual and it’s Santi in approximately four minutes.

Dad reaches for his wine. “So. Are you going?”

I look up. “Right now?”

He shrugs. “Why not?”

Jesus Christ.

There is one fairly significant problem with Dad’s brilliant plan.

“I don’t even know where Santi lives.”

Mom tilts her head. “So?”

“So I can’t exactly go knock on his door if I don’t know which door is his.”

Dad scoffs like I’ve presented him with the easiest problem anyone has ever asked him to solve. He gets up so quickly his chair scrapes across the floor, disappears into the kitchen, and comes back a minute later with a pen and a scrap of paper.

He scribbles something down and slides it across the table. “Here. Go.”

I look at the address. Then at him. Then back at the address. “How the fuck do you know where Santi lives?”

“Mijo.” Dad looks almost offended. “I’ve known Santi since he was a kid.”

“Yes, I’m aware. I was there.”

“And we’ve had lunch a few times since the playoffs started.” He shrugs, as if apparently reconnecting with my childhood best friend without mentioning it to me is the most obvious thing in the world. “He gave me his address when I dropped him off one day.”

I stare at him. “You’ve been having lunch with Santi?”

“Of course.”

“Without telling me?”

Dad frowns. “Why would I need to tell you?”

Fair question.

Annoying question, but fair.

“He’s the same Santi,” Dad continues, settling back into his chair. “Talks too much, drinks coffee strong enough to kill a horse, argues with me about fútbol like he knows anything.” A grin pulls at his mouth. “Good kid. Always was.”

Mom makes a quiet sound of agreement beside him, which immediately reminds me that she has been entirely too calm about this conversation from the beginning.

I look between them.

Then at the address again.

This is insane.