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There’s an itch between my shoulder blades—or maybe it’s under my skin. The urge to turn around and leave hits m
e.
I plant my feet more firmly on the floor. “Dad.”
He waves a hand at me. “Look what the cat dragged in. Joel. Come sit down.”
I hesitate. “You’re busy.” And drunk. He has quite the collection of beer bottles on the coffee table, and his eyes are red and glassy. He always gets drunk when Mom’s not home. Not even Evie knows that, but he used to insist we do this together—watch sports and drink.
Bonding experience, he called it.
“Never busy for my only son,” he says and waves me over again.
I cross the room and take a seat in the armchair across from him. “Where’s Mom?”
“At the gym, with her friends. Got tired of waiting for you to show up.”
“Dad—”
“About time you remembered your family, or did you think to wait until our funeral to come by?” He thumps his fist on the armrest, glowering. “Since that lowlife bastard moved in with you, we never get to see you anymore. Bad enough that your sister chose to move in with a street bum…”
“Evie’s boyfriend is a good guy.”
“Bullshit. He’s a good for nothing who used to live on the street.” He sighs, then slides a beer toward me. “Here.”
“No, thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” He tsks.
I know what he’s telling me. What he has always told me. A good son, a real man, would watch baseball and get wasted with him. Even though I finished my degree and got a job at a respectable company, a job he wanted me to get, it’s not enough.
Never enough.
“Look at them, playing like faggots!” He waves his beer bottle at the TV, his attention riveted back to the game. “Pussies, all of them. I bet they rub each other’s dicks afterward. Goddamn pansies.”
“What did they do now?”
“Do? Nothing, that’s what. They’re doing nothing. That’s how faggots are. A fucking disease. Degenerates, good for nothing.”
“Who says they’re faggots?” The word sticks in my mouth, but I force it out. I suck in a breath.
“Have to be, to play like that. Look at them, throwing themselves all over one another. Disgusting faggot bitches.”
My heart is hammering. “That’s just how the game is, Dad.”
He slams his beer down on the table. “You on the faggot side now, son?”
“Of course not.” The itch is getting worse. I want to scratch my skin off. Scrape my mind clean. Suddenly that beer sounds good.
“If my only son turns queer, I’ll throw myself off that fucking balcony.” He points at it with a thick finger, then turns to glare at me.
My stomach churns.
“That’s not gonna happen, is it?” he asks.
“No, Dad. Of course not.”
“That’s right.” He suddenly grins at me. “That’s my boy. At least you turned out right, got your head on straight.”
