“James Hendrix Cavanaugh, what the hell is this?” my dad said, holding a joint between his forefinger and thumb.
“Well, Dad, based on the way you’re holding it, you know exactly what it is.”
He tossed the joint into the sink and ran the disposal. “Son, I have a standard to uphold in this community. That kid from San Marcos you’ve been hanging out with is a bad influence. You never even thought of doing something like this until you met him.”
“God, Dad. Why are you acting like some 1950s ‘pot is the Devil’ activist? Jimmy is a good guy.”
Dad’s jaw bunched. “Look. I didn’t want to say anything, but you have to be careful hanging out with kids like him.”
“‘Kids like him’? What the fuck does that mean?”
“Watch your language,” he said as Mom walked into the kitchen.
“What are you two fighting about now?” she asked, her eyes dull, like she’d grown tired of our constant back-and-forth.
“He’s been hanging out with that Jimmy kid again, and I found a joint in his backpack,” Dad spat, pointing to the sink.
Mom let out a heavy sigh. Dad and I had been getting under each other’s skin for a while. The truth was, ever since Holden had been beat to shit, I’d had a hard time keeping it together. Me, Holden, and Beckett had all been carrying the same secret, andthat assault put the reality of being queer in small-town Texas into sharp focus.
To his credit, Dad had investigated the incident thoroughly and presented the county attorney with enough evidence to put that DeWitt fuck away for a good long time. Once the lawyers got a hold of it, however, DeWitt basically got a slap on the wrist.
“And why don’t we like Jimmy again?” she asked him, rubbing her head.
“He smokes pot and does who the hell knows what else?—”
“Dad. It’s just pot and beer.”
“Oh. It’sjustpot and beer, huh? At your age? No, sir,” Dad said, putting his hands on his hips as he stood taller, trying to exaggerate his height. “Besides, that’s not all. I have friends in the San Marcos PD, and they say he’s… you know.”
“No, I don’t know,” I fired back, not retreating as I should have.
“He goes intoAustin,” Dad responded, distaste visible in the snarl of his lips.
The fact that he couldn’t come out and say what he meant fired up a rage in me that I couldn’t hope to control. Austin had always been the blueberry in the tomato soup, the lone progressive spot in a state bound and determined to kill its queers. The city had one of the nation’s highest per capita populations of LGBTQ+ folks, a statistic the rest of Texas justlovedto point out.
By referring to Austin, Dad was calling Jimmy the F-slur without actually saying it. That kind of shit, along with the fact that assholes like DeWitt never got punished, was the reason those who were in the closetstayedin the closet until they left Seguin.
“Yeah, well, I’ve been toAustinwith him. Several times,” I spat back, vicious. I wanted to see him lose it.
What I got instead was a look so heartbroken and disappointed that it would haunt me for years.
Once those words left my mouth, there was a whole lot of “No son of mine” and “You cannot treat my son this way” between my mom and dad. I was barely acknowledged, and I doubt they noticed when I left the room.
Mom found me a little while later. “Pack a bag,” she said. “We’re not staying here.”
I had what so many queer kids didn’t—at least one parent who stood up for them—but it felt awful. Everything about being gay, pan, whatever, felt awful. I was a slut, I was indecisive, I wasless thanfor loving to bottom, I was so many shitty things.
And I’d destroyed my mom’s life.
I blinked back to the present as Sawyer called us over to the small dining table to eat. I wasn’t expecting him to have made tacos, but they were delicious, just like breakfast. Another thing I’d never admit was how cared for I felt whenever he fed me.
Fucking Agnes.
Dad sat close enough to Mom that their thighs were touching while we ate, and I swore I saw her squeeze his hand for a half a second while Sawyer told them of his and Dr. Ahmed’s plans for me.
I yawned, suddenly exhausted by the conversation.
“Get some rest, son,” my mother said, kissing my forehead.
