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Hi Dad, it's your sort of bi but really mostly all the way gay son.
He doesn't know. I'm pretty sure he has no clue, and that’s the way I like it. He's court ordered to pay for my college. I think he probably can't get off the hook, but I don't want to risk it.
I grab a fishing pole out of the garage, stick it in the passenger's seat beside me with the tip of it poked out the back window. My dad lives on the lake, with a dock right in his backyard and all. So when there’s nothing else to do, we all can fish. Kaye, my stepmom, can ask me awkward questions they should know the answer to, like where I'm thinking about going to college and that sort of stuff. I'll be faux polite to my half sibs Ritchie and Pipsa, and they'll be just friendly enough so I'll imagine we might get along well if I lived with Dad.
Except I would never live with Dad. Kaye doesn't want me to; she's made it clear in eighty ways—and one of them is that I don't have a bedroom. When I do sleep there, it’s in a loft that hangs over the kitchen, so nights when Dad or Kaye get up to get water or a snack, the fridge light wakes me up.
I tell myself to cut the feels as I drive over. Doesn't matter if I’m not really a member of Dad’s family. I lucked out with Carl and my mom. More than lucked out. I'm more fortunate than lots of people. Carl's Methodist, but a liberal one. He told me before that his best friend from back in high school has a husband, and the two of them have adopted kids. I don't want to come out right now—definitely not with God Hates Fags in the house—but when the time's right, I know I'll still have a seat at our table.
My little pep talk doesn't sink in. I feel shitty as I pull into Dad’s driveway and park behind the closed garage. Shitty like an outsider pretending not to be one. I feel almost worse because I don't think they “want” me to feel excluded. But I still am.
Despite all that, the afternoon is better than I thought it would be. Dad’s had a drink or two, so he’s feeling relaxed. Kaye is more generous with me than she sometimes is. Ritchie and Pipsa want to hang with me, so I take them down to the dock and watch as Ritchie puts worms on our hooks.
Dad is launching into the story of how I threw up in a bucket of crickets the first time I baited my own hook when a red and black ski boat whizzes by and then fishtails, spraying water over the beach before reversing momentum and bobbing stern-first into the green water. Fucking Brennan. Dude’s been my friend since preschool. Never met a stranger.
“WHATCHA DOING, LADIES!”
I’m sticking my hand up in a wave when I spot another ball cap—this one purple, black, and white. The sight of it makes my stomach flip.
I squint under my own Auburn ball cap, and I see Ezra’s face, relaxed and stretched in a grin, sunburn on his cheekbones. Another second—my heart hammers—and I notice Marcel with them.
“Guess there’s no practice today,” I murmur.
“That Brennan?” Dad asks.
“Yeah.”
“Gotten bigger,” he says. “Marcel too.”
“Yeah, Marcel moved to running back this year, or maybe wide receiver. I forget.”
“Running back,” Dad tells me. He keeps track of local football. “Who’s the other one?” he asks.
I’m fumbling for an answer when Brennan shouts, “Whatcha after?” and Ritchie yells “Crappie!”
The boat’s idling closer to us now, like Brennan’s planning to dock. “Aww I got a bunch of shiners,” he says, cupping his mouth for projection. “It’s this new kind. Crappy love ’em.”
“Come on over,” Dad says, waving at the ten or fifteen yards between Bren’s boat and the dock.
“Yesss!” Ritchie starts to jump up and down.
I take a deep breath, gritting my teeth as the boat drifts sideways, bringing Ezra into better view.
Of all the damn things—Ezra at my dad’s house. I try to look normal as Brennan steps onto the dock, looping a rope around one of the posts. Marcel does the same thing at the other end of the boat. Brennan gives Ezra a hand up, and I get a chance to see Ezra beside two other football players. Marcel is the biggest of the three. He’s been huge since kindergarten, and I bet he’s at least six-foot-five now. Brennan and Ezra are about the same height, which means that Ezra must be six-one or six-two. I notice Ezra’s shoulders are actually wider than Brennan’s. His frame seems leaner, but it’s a big frame. Brennan’s is more compact, so he looks beefier—as if he’s well-fed and Ezra isn’t. Which is not true. The dude practically licks his plate at dinner every night.
