Chapter 13
Xander and I sit in my truck parked in Whitley’s driveway, the engine off.
Fireflies flicker over her front yard as the sun sinks behind the mountains.
He tells me how in high school, coming out never even crossed his mind.
He didn’t have the words for what he was feeling.
In such a small town, there were no examples to look to or adults to trust. I share my own coming out story, and how even years later with all the progress the world has made, it still didn’t feel easy.
I came out to Whitley first. It wasn’t by choice, but I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
She caught me and Murray making out in my bathroom sophomore year.
Mom worked night shifts at the hospital and Dad took odd construction jobs in other parts of the state, leaving the house empty most evenings. No one was home when I brought Murray over. Or so I thought.
“Damn it, Stetson,” she yelled, hands on her hips. “I told you years ago that if you were gay to just tell me. And here you are kissing in secret like this is some dang truck stop.” She turned to Murray. “How long have you been together?”
I kicked Murray out of the house shortly after that. Then I collapsed in my room, crying in Whitley’s lap.
She ran her fingers through my hair. “Oh, Stetson.” She sighed. “Nothing will change. Times are different.”
I nodded, smearing my tears across her thigh. “I’m afraid my parents will change.”
“I’ll make sure they won’t,” she promised. “When do you want to tell them?”
“We might as well just get it over with.”
Mom was first. We planned on telling her the next day right before she left for work so I wouldn’t have to deal with the aftermath for at least a few hours.
She was finishing up her ponytail in the bathroom when Whitley grabbed her shoulders and steered her to the living room.
“What in the hell are you doing to me, Whitley Wyomen?” Mom demanded.
Whitley plopped her onto the couch. “Your son has a declaration.”
Mom checked her watch. “Better be a short one,” she said. “You got thirty seconds.” She crossed her arms, then her legs.
I sat in the armchair, yanking on the neckline of my white undershirt. “I . . .” My throat dried up.
I looked at Whitley.
Whitley raised her eyebrows.
Mom looked at Whitley.
Whitley looked at Mom.
Mom looked back at me.
I pulled so hard on my shirt that I ripped the crew neckline and turned it into a V-neck.
Mom stood. “It seems like the only thing Stetson is declaring is that he needs a new shirt. I have to get to work.” She grabbed her keys from the kitchen and threw her purse over her shoulder.
“Stetson,” Whitley whispered from the other side of the living room.
“I can’t,” I whispered back. “You do it.” It was like I couldn’t speak the language. I needed Whitley to be my translator.
“Mrs. Delancey,” Whitley said, her voice firm. “Stetson is gay.” The words hit me like a rockslide. Every boulder landed on my chest, cutting off oxygen and making it impossible to breathe. My toes gripped each thread of the beige carpet as I fought for air.
Mom froze beside the front door. Her hand slid off the doorknob. She turned slowly to look at me, her mouth slightly open.
“Oh, honey,” she said, her voice much higher than usual. She walked over and kissed my forehead.
“Look at this thing.” She grabbed my ripped shirt.
“I’ll pick up some new undershirts tomorrow.
Do you like the V-neck? Because I can get you the V-neck if that’s what you want.
” She checked her watch. “Oh Lord, I’m going to be late.
There’s still roast beef in the fridge. Stetson, heat that up for you two.
And grab a bag of green beans from the freezer. You put that in the microwave.”
She turned for the door.
“Do you think the neighbors will care?” I shouted, randomly. I was somehow able to get those words out but not the ones that actually mattered.
She snorted. “Like we give a damn!”
Then she was gone.
Whitley and I sat in stunned silence for a few seconds before we burst into laughter.
Dad was next. We planned it for the following Friday, when he got back from work and Mom was already at the hospital.
He barged inside, sweaty from the job site and grumbling about traffic.
It was D-Day—Dad Day or Death Day. Either worked for me because both outcomes were possible.
Whitley and I hid in my bedroom for an hour, trying to write a song on her clarinet. But his looming presence coerced us into the living room.
I sat in the same armchair, hoping for some good luck from when I—well, Whitley—told Mom I was gay.
Dad cracked open a beer before joining us. The sharp fizzing made my heart race like a runaway semitrailer.
“Mr. Delancey, can we talk to you?” Whitley asked.
Dad took a sip. “What’s up?” he asked. “How is school?”
Whitley and I folded our hands. My toes pulled the carpet up from the subfloor.
Dad wore a fluorescent orange hoodie, the brightest and most fitting wardrobe piece for my coming out. He juggled the beer can between his thick hands, the way he always did. I watched it go back and forth until I made myself dizzy.
His hands were coarser than stone. Years of twisting electrical wires and gripping tool handles had singed, cracked, and calloused his skin. He could put out candles with his fingers, grab pans from the oven without gloves, and adjust the wood in the fireplace without a stick.
Whitley cleared her throat. “Stetson is—”
“Wait!” I lunged for her as if I could intercept the words coming off her lips like a football.
“—gay,” she finished.
Dad took a sip of his beer and gulped, hard. He stared past us through the bay window, his expression resembling last spring’s tornado, picking up every thought and reaction possible. I was just an onlooker, waiting to see what he’d spit out.
“That true?” he asked. He looked to the floor, but I assumed his question was for me.
“Yeah,” I croaked. My armpits burned with sweat.
He stood, then walked across the living room, his arms swinging by his sides. I shivered. His hands could crush me in a second.
I closed my eyes.
A minute passed.
Nothing happened.
So I opened them.
Dad stood over me. Then he cupped my cheek. “Okay, son,” he said.
I exhaled, long and slow, then leaned into his palm. In that moment, his hand was the most comfortable place I’d ever rested. Softer than any couch, any bed, and Murray’s fluffy hair. But most of all, it was more affirming than any words he could have spoken.
“You got a boyfriend or something?” he asked.
“I do,” I said.
“Well, bring him around here for dinner sometime.” He gestured at the kitchen table.
And I did. I brought Murray around for dinner not just sometimes but most times. For three more years.
I let out a slow exhale once I finish my story. Xander places a hand on my knee as he watches me with a soft smile.
“That’s amazing, Stetson,” he says. “You’re so lucky.”
“You think?” I ask. I don’t look back on high school and see luck.
“Yeah. You have supportive parents and an amazing best friend. Why do you want to leave again?”
“I’ve never done anything outside of Penango on my own.” I poke the back of his hand resting on my leg. “I want to prove I can make it myself.”
He shrugs. “What’s there to prove on your own when the people who matter want to make life together?”
His words settle between us.
The truck cabin glows gold, bathed in the fading sunlight as if a campfire burns between us. The warmth and comfort from Xander’s touch is quiet reassurance that everything I’ve been through has been worth it.
In a town where hearts are meant to break, it feels like a rare kind of privilege to sit beside a boy who is willing to help stitch mine back together.