When he was out of sight, I snatched up his empty can, ditched it in the recycling bin, and replenished the table with a fresh brew. Then I ducked into the kitchen and began opening cans into a pot on the stove. My hands were steady, but my mind raced through this news.
Ranch work was fine, hell, I’d prefer it to standing at the counter selling cones and fries and getting yelled at for random shit. I liked animals, even though Dad never let me have a pet. I liked the outdoors. I went running every morning, because I wasn’t built for fighting but speed never hurt, in a world where Dad wasn’t the only one to call me girly. So I had more muscle than showed. No doubt, I’d be wishing I’d spent some of that time lifting weights, but I’d do my best.
But Joe McNeil? I knew him, at a distance. Small town, most folks had at least seen each other now and then. Fuck if Joe didn’t ringallmy bells. Tall, blond, lean, and easy-moving, with big strong hands. I’d been behind him in line at the hardware store once, and when the clerk got his request wrong, he corrected her with a laugh, not mad or anything. His voice was more country than my dad’s and deeper, kinder.
Now I’d be working alongside Joe, and Dad said he was queer, like me. I’d thought I was dreaming of the straight guy, the time I jerked off in the shower thinking about Joe’s hands. I’d figured a guy like him wanting to touch a guy like me was just a fantasy.
Probably still was, since Joe had to be pushing thirty and wouldn’t be interested in a high schooler.
Hadto be just fantasy, or Dad would kill me.
The truth of that thought sent ice water through me. I knew I was gay, had for years, but Dad had no clue, and keeping my head on my neck depended on him never finding out.
Dad was my sole parent, ever since Mom took off and left me when I was ten. He didn’t smack me around as much as he had Mom, but a temper simmered underneath the cool cop face he wore in public, along with a hate for everyone Black, brown, Asian, or queer.
Dad probably thought he loved me. Maybe, in his own way, he did. He talked me up to other folks, full of praise even while he busted my ass over the smallest mistakes at home.
Didn’t matter. Any love, no matter how small, would never survive the words, “I’m gay.”
Which meant I could never say those words, could barely think them. I’d keep my distance from Joe McNeil on the ranch, because I didn’t know who might snitch to Dad, either sharing his views or out of fear. Dad sure didn’t mind flashing his badge to get what he wanted.
I had eight more months till I graduated, earlier than most. A year till I turned eighteen. I couldn’t run a moment sooner than eighteen. Dad would have every cop in the state looking for me. But the moment that birthday came, I’d be gone.
The soup sputtered as it warmed, and I grabbed a spoon to stir the bottom so nothing burned.
A year and a month, maybe some money from the job, time to watch Joe McNeil and figure out how he walked through the world unscathed as a gay man. Then I’d head for the west coast. Maybe San Francisco—
Ouch!A sharp blow to the back of my head was followed by the clatter of a beer can hitting the tiles by my feet. Empty, luckily. I bent and picked the can up, blinked hard to steady myself, and turned.
Dad stood in the doorway in his sweats, frowning at me. “Where the hell’s the grilled cheese? If I wanted a fucking can of soup for dinner, I could make it myself.”
“Sorry. Coming right up. Do you want another beer?” Sometimes he was better if he got drunker. Sometimes he was worse.
“Sure. Why not? I’ll put the game on, but I want that food out here in five minutes. Got it?”
“Yessir.”
He turned and stomped off toward the couch.
I got the beer, bread, butter, and cheese out of the fridge, and set a skillet on the stove. Oh, and pickles. He said pickles, mushrooms, onions. I dug those out too, then took a breath.
One more year.The words echoed in my head, as I carried Dad’s beer out to him. One more year, if I managed not to fuck up playing straight, and I’d be gone.
Chapter 1 - One year later.
Austin
The old truck rattled under my feet as she struggled to make the grade up into the Sierra Nevada mountains. I patted the steering wheel and clicked my tongue, like I would to that ornery chestnut mare of Mr. Ford’s. My truck’s rust was about the same red-brown color. “Come on, baby. Another mile to the top, then it’s all downhill.”
She backfired but kept on chugging. Faithful as ever.
For a moment, my mind flew back to Colorado, to Joe McNeil handing me the keys to freedom, a kindness I’d never be able to repay. And at the same moment, shutting the door on something I’d never dared ask for. I was eighteen, I was running, and Joe hadn’t offered to come with me, or asked me to stay.
Which was totally legit. I’d crushed on him for a year without daring to make a move. He hopefully had no idea how I felt. I’d begged him for cash for a bus ticket, after Dad stole every penny I’d made. Joe gave me his old truck.
Crazy. Who just gave someone a truck, even a rusted heap like this one? But Joe had fixed intent gray eyes on me and told me to take it. To get clear of Dover’s Ridge and go live my life. I couldn’t say no. That incredible gift from a simple cowboy, the generosity Joe’d offered— insisted on— had saved my life. Now, here I was, most of the way to San Francisco. All on my own.
Some guy in a slick new sedan behind me pulled out across the double yellow, tooting his horn in scorn as he accelerated past.
