Chapter Nineteen #2
“No,” I protest, “oh my fuck, just stop—okay? I’m seeing someone, alright? It’s very new. Like, so new and I kind of left things up in the air, and now I don’t even have my phone to smooth it over with him. But it’s not just a hookup, alright?”
Dad groans from the bed. “Didn’t need any of those details…”
Gannett glares at Dad over my shoulder. “Shut up, old man. Get with the times. Free love and all that.” Then he turns his attention back to me. “When do we meet the boyfriend? Is he the one you said was checking you out? Which one of you is the chick?”
“No, it’s not that guy, and you won’t meet him at all, if you all are going to act all—I don’t know—fucking ignorant and shit. Why don’t you let me date the guy for a little bit?”
Gannett thwacks my chest, acting affronted. “When have I ever acted all ignorant and shit?”
“Some of the stuff you say, it’s not always, uh, politically correct. For example, asking which one of us is the chick…”
“Fuckin’ call my ass out on it, then! I’m not doing it to be a dink! I promise! You know me, bro…”
“I haven’t always been the best role model either,” Dad admits, much to my surprise. “Maybe when you get ya shit figured out with ya man, bring him by the place sometime. Maybe if I can put a face to’em, I won’t be so outta my element.”
“You seriously want me to ask him to come here?”
“As serious as a heart attack,” he snickers.
I roll my eyes. “Not like you’ve taken this one too seriously…”
“Oh calm down, Evan. Yes, bring him by sometime. I’m sure ya mother will wanna meet him too.”
“Ayep, lemme know when, so I can make sure to be there,” Gannett remarks. “I will be on my best behavior.”
Uh-huh, I seriously doubt that.
“You—you all are… okay?... with this?”
“Were you expecting to be tarred and feathered?” Gannett snorts.
“Sort of, yeah…”
“Kid,” Dad says, sounding serious this time. “I’ve looked death in the face twice now and laughed at it. I’ve got bigger fish in the pan ta fry than cutting my son outta my will over who he hangs his hat with at night. I just wanna scope him out, make sure he’s good to ya, that’s all.”
I grin at that, because Dad sounds so genuine for once. “He’s so good,” I reply. “He’s patient. He’s understanding. He gets me.”
“You heart-eyed motherfucker,” Gannett teases. “Do you need to use my cell so you can text him and let him know you’re on your way back?”
I shake my head. “I don’t even know his number.”
Gannett snorts. “Rookie. Jesus Christ, I’m gonna have to teach you everything, aren’t I? That’s like, rule number one. How the hell else do you send dick pics?”
I respond with a punch to his bicep, which—with us—quickly turns into an episode of rough-housing, even though we’re two grown men. I shove him down into the chair I previously occupied, trying to get him into a headlock.
“Boys!” Dad goes all authoritative, ringing his call bell. “Jee-zus H, get me outta this place already…”
“Go on,” Gannett flaps his hand towards the door, still cackling. “I can bring the old man home. Sorry about the shit I said earlier, too. I’ll do better.”
Still reeling from Dad and Gannett’s unexpectedly good reaction to me coming out, I make my way back to my apartment.
Since it's still raining like a bastard out here, I guess I won’t take the Harley back to Alder Notch.
I can’t carry a cake on my lap when I’m riding the bike, anyway.
No, it’s not a fucking out-of-the-closet cake, either.
My son’s birthday is in just a couple of days.
When I head upstairs, just to check and make sure everything’s still kosher, throw together his favorite boxed cake mix, and to rifle through my mail for any important bills, I spare a glance at Colton’s open door—like an invitation to his inner sanctum, where I am never willingly invited.
I probably shouldn’t snoop, but it’s become apparent to me that my son and I both have our fair share of secrets, and this may provide me with a better look at what’s going on inside that head of his. On his desk is a ratty, spiral-bound sketchbook. I scoot over, sit in the chair, and open it up.
Now, had I ever laid eyes on this notebook before today, I would have seen that Colton is an amazing artist. The sketches inside are so realistic, they almost look like photographs. He must use the colored pencils he has strewn around the desk to color them in.
There are pictures in here of his football teammates having just scored touchdowns, doing their victory poses. There are sketches in here of what must be song lyrics put to images. There are lots of pictures in here of his best friend, who I now know is actually his boyfriend.
One in particular stands out; it must be something Colton drew from memory. Petro is in the bleachers at the stadium, smiling widely at whom I can only assume is my son on the field. Goddamn, Colt is good; the detail in this is otherworldly.
I flip the page and instantly my heart is in a vice.
I close my eyes quickly as a flood of emotions overwhelms me.
The picture is a hand-drawn duplicate of one I recognize.
It’s the one that I’ve had on my nightstand since even before, when we lived in the old house—a photo Miranda took of Colt and I at the country fair in Ternbay, when Colton was just four.
He was riding on my shoulders, his face almost covered completely by the ball of cotton candy that was bigger than his head. All you can see is his twinkling eyes above the pink and blue fluff. His hands and bare feet were dirty from a day of playing outside, and his hair was all askew.
“Dis is da best day evah, Daddy!” he’d squealed when we raced down the giant, wavy slide, him on my lap.
We had so many best days ever, until he started acting like I was the worst dad ever. Now I get why he said I would never understand him, but the thing is… I really fucking do. I’m kicking my own ass for not talking to him sooner.
I flip the page over and see a note he’d written to me but never gave me.
Maybe he intended to but just hadn’t found the right opportunity, because I never gave him one.
Reading it now, I’m glad he found someone to talk to—to get his secret out—because this letter here sounds like he was on the verge of breaking.
Brooks may have gotten through to him just in the knick of time, because the tone of this letter sounds very much like a goodbye.
I’m not sure if it’s a goodbye to me and this town or a forever goodbye, but neither sit well in my gut.
As I sit here with tears welling in my eyes, I know now that I need to have some in-depth discussions with my son.
I have to, so I don’t lose him. I have to understand him, like he wants me to.
I just need to be present, even when things aren’t all roses and sunshine.
I need to stop trying to win him over by trying to be a cool ‘friend’ and letting him get lip piercings, and actually step up to tackle the bigger things.
Thank fuck for Brooks and his unwavering patience.
For taking in not just one but two broken guys, and wanting to help them.
I don’t know what I would have done if I had lost Colt, over my own inability to just talk to him.
To regard him as his own person, and not a possession or an accessory.
I will need to learn how to balance giving him some independence, but also to know when to step up and be an authoritarian.
I flip the book shut and head into the kitchen. I can bake the cake and bring it with me, frost it when I get there, and it’s had a chance to cool off a bit. I don’t want to waste any more time than I have to being here.
I need to get back to camp. I need to repair some bridges and make a promise to be a better, more communicative, father to my son. I just hope he doesn’t take my own news and decide that we’re unfixable. Maybe we can bond over our shared experiences.
And finally, I need to apologize to Brooks for how I left things.
I didn’t need to snap at him. I was so taken aback by Colton’s revelation, my ineptness at seeing that he and Petro are more than just friends, that I snapped and took it out on Brooks.
He didn’t deserve my reaction. He was, in fact, just doing his job, and it wasn’t fair of me to expect him to back down on that all because we’d entered into something new.
He stood his ground, maintained his boundaries, and I must have made him feel like shit for doing so.
That wasn’t my intention, and I need to make it right.
When the cake is done, I snatch it and my keys up, and run down the stairs.
Hopping in my truck, I crank the ignition, backing it out of the driveway so fast I nearly clip a car in the parking lot of the general store.
I wave apologetically, and make my way back to Alder Notch, just as quickly as I can.
But first, I want to make one more stop somewhere, because there’s only one thing I can think of that goes well with an apology… and, thanks to Olivia, I know right where I can get them.