He laughed again. “Yeah right.” Sarcasm hung heavily on each of his words. Muttering around the lip of his glass, he added, “That’s why no one at work knows you’re gay, right? Or your dad, well, until the other night?”
“Real ballsy for someone who ran away from whatever life they had somewhere else,” I seethed, glad for the distraction of the waiter. We both placed our orders, keeping our requests curt and to the point. “I’m sorry,” I said when the waiter walked away. “That was low of me.”
“It was.” When he pulled his hand away from mine, dropping it to his leg under the table, I knew I’d crossed a line. We sat for a few more minutes in silence. It wasn’t until the waiter brought us our appetizer that we spoke again. “I’m sorry, too,” he mumbled around a mouthful of caramelized onion and goat cheese bruschetta. “My anxiety is all over the fucking place since this afternoon.”
Dropping the other half of my toast to the plate, I immediately reached for his hand again. Everything felt right again when he didn’t pull away. “And I will make it up to you as soon as we get home.” For good measure, and to drive home exactly what I meant, I pulled his hand to my mouth across the table. His eyes widened as I pressed a soft, wet kiss to his warm hand.
Before I could say more to calm his fears, a strong hand clamped down on my shoulder, shocking the shit out of me. “What the hell?” I asked. I was more than surprised to see Mr. Murphy, Jackson’s father, the asshole who sent his kid to a day-long football camp without so much as a water bottle, digging his fingers into my skin. Not wanting to draw a scene, which was clearly his intent, I rose from my chair. “Mr. Murphy,” I greeted, pretending as best as I could to be polite. “Good to see you. Jackson. How’s it going, kiddo?” I ruffled his already messy hair. It broke my fucking heart to see the kid flinch when I touched him.
“Mr. MacMillian,” he greeted icily. Returning my handshake, he squeezed my hand harder than he should have. “A new teacher?” Tipping his head to Micah, he shot him an angry look. Micah didn’t even bother to stand and give him the respect of offering a hand to shake. Can’t say I blamed him. “Wouldn’t be a coach with that thing?” He shot an even angrier look at Micah’s prosthetic, making my blood boil hotter than it ever had.
Jackson looked at me with worry and sadness written all over his young face. Under his eye, I saw the fading yellow and purple rings of what was certainly a black eye. Suddenly it made sense why Jackson hadn’t been at camp toward the end of the week. I had my fears, but without any kind of proof, there wasn’t much I could do. But now, there wasn’t a doubt in my mind, I was reporting this son of a bitch as soon as I got home. There was no way in hell I was letting Jackson go on living like that. As a teacher, I was legally obligated to report abuse.
For me, it was more important as a decent human being that I did the right thing.
“This is my old friend, Micah Hudson. We went to high school together,” I explained as Micah stayed seated, looking more than a little displeased. My words sickened even me. Here I was, just moments ago, telling Micah there was nothing to fear. That we could be who we were without fearing what anyone else would think, yet there I was, denying everything about what we were.
In staying silent, I denied the love we shared and perpetuated the hatred spewing from his drunken mouth.
“My boyfriend is an army veteran, not a teacher.”
The asshole prick didn’t even have enough decency to thank Micah for his service before stomping out of the restaurant.
