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“Well, you shouldn’t tell him about the anxiety,” my mom said quickly.
“Why not?” Chester said. “If he had known, then you might not have even had this argument.”
“It still would have happened,” I whispered. “The lying and hiding at least.”
“You don’t discuss your mental health, Chester. You know that. There are things that you never discuss in public.”
“This wasn’t public. This was her boyfriend.”
“All these issues people keep dragging into the spotlight—race, money, mental problems, sexual orientation, religion. I don’t need to know about this, and neither does anyone else. Keep it to yourself. Let me live my life.”
Chester bristled. “What does that have to do with Jennifer and her boyfriend? Her anxiety is part of who she is. If he wanted to be with her, then he needed to love that part of her, too.”
“I just think everything needs to go back to the way it was.”
He arched an eyebrow. Mom couldn’t see that he was mad, but I could from here. “Back to the way it was for whom?” he snarled. “White, cis, hetero people? I’m sorry, but I can’t see how going back to the past, when things were worse for people who weren’t straight white dudes, is better than helping everyone.”
“Since when did you become so political?” my mom asked, her hackles raised.
“If civil rights and basic common decency are political, then fine, Mom, I’m political.”
“Y’all,” I whispered, “don’t fight.”
I could see the train running off the tracks, but there was nothing I could do to stop it. This was who our mother was. Who she had always been and raised us to be. She didn’t know that by saying things, she’d be slapping her favorite child in the face.
“For someone who is a straight white man, I don’t see how it matters to you.”
He rose to his feet. His hands were shaking, like mine did when I was going to explode. “I don’t know how to tell you that you should care about other people,” he said, lethally calm.
“I care about other people,” she gasped.
“And for the record, I’m not straight. I’m pan. And I have a boyfriend named Peter. My life isn’t political. It’s just living. And so is Jennifer’s.”
My mom’s jaw dropped. “You’re…pan? What does that mean?”
“I like everyone, Mom. I don’t care about their gender identity or their sex. I fall in love with the person.”
She nodded in shock. “And you have a…boyfriend.”
“Peter,” he said, his voice softening on the word. “Peter Medina.”
“I…well, this is a lot to take in, Chester. When did you decide?”
“I’ve always known. Jennifer knows. So, I’d appreciate it if you put your feelings about the matter on hold and listen to us. Listen to Jen when she says that she’s hurting because of her anxiety. I wasn’t ready to tell you about my sexual orientation, and she has every right to hide her mental illness, but she doesn’t have to just because you think it’s more socially acceptable.”
Dad walked out then with a plate of pancakes. “Brunch is ready. Is it too late to invite Peter over?” He’d clearly heard everything.
Mom gaped at him.
Chester just smiled at Dad. “You want him to come for brunch?”
“My son has a boyfriend that I haven’t met. It’s time to remedy that. Connie, will you help me set the table?”
She nodded, glad to have something to do.
Chester clapped me on the back. “Sorry to steal your thunder.”
“By all means,” I said, still blinking away my own surprise. “I didn’t think you wanted them to know.”
“Well, Mom crossed the line, and I never should have let you take the brunt of her for all these years.”
“Thanks, Chess.”
He pulled me into another hug. “What are you going to do about Julian? Anxiety is a part of you. If you had a broken foot, would you take pain meds and hide it from him, for fear that he’d judge you for it? The stigma is bullshit, Jen. You know it is. So, are you going to tell him the truth about who you are?”
When he put it like that, it was amazing that I’d hidden it at all. Anxiety was part of me. Why was I ashamed of that? Because my mom didn’t like to discuss it? Because some douche ex had called me crazy? Would Julian judge me for it? That was my fear.
And there was only one way to find out.
40
Julian
Hollin and Alejandra sat in front of me for a meeting I’d called, wearing equal looks of amusement I’d waited a couple days to do it—to inform them about the distribution problem. I’d wanted to deal with all of my personal issues first.
Breakfast with Weston had gone really great. I’d been shocked that as soon as we’d gotten him out of the winery and into a normal setting, he’d shucked off that fear and unease. He’d been a completely different, totally awesome person. He played keyboard in a few different bands, subbing in when it was necessary, and worked at a small indie record label in Seattle in his downtime. He also did IT work when he needed the money. It was what his degree was in, but his passion was in music. He reminded me so much of Campbell when he talked about it. Despite our differences with our dad, I could see that he was someone I wanted to get to know.
