Confused, I looked at him over the opened refrigerator door. “I wasn’t expecting any dinner guests.”
“Well, then isn’t this just your lucky day.” Totally ignoring my personal space, like he usually did in the office, he reached over me into the freezer. “Perfect,” he announced, pulling a pack of burgers out. “Time to fire up the grill.”
Still confused, I followed him out to the back patio. “Uh, did I miss something?”
The fire blazed and he jumped back, being rather dramatic about it of course. “Yeah, the buns. We’re gonna need the buns.”
“No, like why are you here?” I asked, not hiding the hint of disdain in my voice.
“Why? Did I crash your big plans? Let me guess,” he tossed out there, tapping his lower lip for exaggerated effect. “Ball game, microwaved burrito, a little jerky jerky, and then bed.”
“How did you know about the burrito?”
Turning his attention back to the grill and laughing softly, he answered, “It was in the freezer.” Once the burgers were down, he turned back to me and said, “I figured you’d be a little down and out. There’s a Rangers game on and I know you used to . . . so beer, burgers, and baseball. No better way to spend a Sunday night.”
He was being a friend. And that was exactly what I needed tonight.
“Can you believe this guy?” Brandon tipped his beer at the screen. It was the bottom of the ninth in a tied game and the reliever had just walked his second batter in a row. “Has Tommy John surgery, takes months off rehabbing his arm, and now this shit. Can’t throw a strike for shit.”
Before I could even answer, he lobbed the next pitch right over the sweet spot letting up a game-ending three-run home run. “Motherfucker,” Brandon cursed. “Useless. He’s useless.”
After chugging the last of his beer, he dropped it onto the coffee table. “Did you call him yet?”
I guess it was foolish of me to think I’d get out of the night without having to address the gorilla in the room. “Nope,” I answered curtly, standing to walk into the kitchen.
“Asshole,” he decided. And I was sure he would have said more if there wasn’t a loud bang on the front door.
“What the hell?” Walking toward the door, I heard murmuring through the knocking, but couldn’t figure out what he was saying. It wasn’t until I opened the front curtain to peek outside that I knew exactly who it was.
“Mr. Murphy,” I greeted icily.
With disgust written clear across his face, he looked me up and down, inspecting me, for what I have no idea. “Faggot,” he spat. “And you, too?” he asked, tipping his head toward Brandon as he walked behind me. “What y’all have some kind of perverted, fucked-up trio going on? That other fag in the car, where’s he?”
He was talking about Micah.
The stench of beer was heavy on his breath. With the alcohol flowing through his body, his legs wobbled as he tried to step forward. Extending my arm, I stopped his advance. “You cannot come in,” I stated plainly.
“Don’t you dare touch me, fag,” he yelled, swiping my arm away.
“Listen here, Mr. Murphy.” Brandon cut in, stepping between us. “I think you need to leave.”
Over Brandon’s shoulder, Mr. Murphy yelled, “You called CPS on me, didn’t you? You asshole, you reported me.”
“Of course I did. You beat your kid,” I yelled back. “I wouldneverlet anyone get away with that.”
Mr. Murphy started swinging his hands, pushing past Brandon. “Get the fuck out of my way,” he slurred.
“Now, listen, Mr. Murphy—” Whatever Brandon was about to say was cut short by Murphy’s fist slamming into his jaw.
Within a second, he was racing at me, fists flying. “You little fag. You think you’re going to take my son away from me. You and your coach are done,” he yelled, swinging at me.
Putting my hands up in defense, I didn’t want to fight, but I also didn’t want to get knocked on my ass like Brandon. “Please, Mr. Murphy. You have to leave. This isn’t going to -”
As I pleaded with him, I lowered my hands, a huge-ass mistake. He sucker punched me just as he’d done to Brandon. It was difficult to fight the urge to punch him back. Instead, I grabbed him by the arm and pulled it behind his back, a tactic I’d learned somewhere in all my physical education classes.
“Get your fag hands off me,” he yelled, and I shoved him into the wall, denting the sheetrock.
Brandon staggered to his feet. He stumbled back into the living room and reached for his cell phone. “I’m calling the cops,” he said, directing his anger at Mr. Murphy who was still struggling in my arms. “You’re gonna pay for this. You can’t just storm in here—”
