When they finally hung up, Jake sat in the dark for a while, just staring at his phone.
Sunday morning, Wes woke to the sound of his father moving around in the kitchen. The smell of coffee drifted upstairs—Henry was getting better at navigating the house, even with the cane. His physical therapist said he was making excellent progress.
Wes rolled over, grabbing his phone from the nightstand. A text from Jake, sent at six in the morning:Good luck with Henry’s appointment. Let me know how it goes.
He typed back: Will do.You still coming Tuesday?
Wouldn’t miss it.
Wes smiled, then immediately felt guilty. He was lying to his father. Not directly, but by omission. Every time Henry mentioned Jake in passing–“That banker seems sharp,” or “Nice to have someone who actually gives a damn”–Wes just nodded and changed the subject.
He’d never been good at hiding things. His mother could always read him, calling him out on his bullshit with a raised eyebrow and a knowing smirk. Henry was a little less perceptive, but he wasn’t blind.
Sooner or later, Wes was going to have to tell him.
The thought made his stomach twist.
Downstairs, Henry was buttering toast one-handed, his left side still weaker than his right. “You sleep okay?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Like a rock.” Henry settled into his chair, the one with the extra cushioning that made it easier for him to stand. “My appointment’s at ten. You still good to drive me?”
“Sure thing.”
They ate in comfortable silence—or what passed for comfortable. Wes kept sneaking glances at his father, trying to imagine how the conversation would go.
Dad, I’m gay.
Dad, I’m seeing someone.
Dad, you know that banker who’s been helping with the farm? Yeah, about that…
None of it sounded right.
Henry’s appointment went smoothly. The doctor was pleased with his progress, adjusted one of his medications, and scheduled a follow-up for January. They had a late breakfast at IHOP in Milledgeville. While they waited for their food, Wes kept scrolling through his phone, reading and re-reading Jake’s texts like a love-struck teenager.
On the drive home, Henry said, “You seem different.”
Wes’s hands tightened on the wheel. “Different how?”
“Lighter. Happier, maybe.” Henry studied him. “You’ve been smiling at your phone a lot.”
“I’ve been texting with Pedro. He’s been helping me brainstorm ideas for making money.”
It wasn’t a lie. Pedro had done this. But the smiles had nothing to do with Pedro or the farm.
Henry nodded, accepting the answer. “Good. That’s good.”
That night, Jake called again. They talked until nearly midnight—Wes lying in bed, phone tucked against his ear, Jake’s voice low and soothing.
“I’m coming over Tuesday,” he said. “No meetings, no paperwork. Just us.”
“Henry’s here.”
“I know. We’ll figure it out.”
“Jake—”
