“And I was a complete jerk to him. I told him we were done, told him I never wanted to see him again. And he still nearly died trying to save me.” I lean forward with my head in my hands. “So if you’re keeping score up there, he deserves to live.” I take a shuddering breath. “Please.”
“Tate?”
I whip my head around to see my family standing in the chapel doorway.
“What are you guys doing here?” I ask.
“Cam called,” Mark says, walking down the aisle toward me. “Said your goalie coach got shot, that it was all over the news. We’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”
I pull out my phone to find twelve missed calls and about twenty text messages. I put it on silent last night and forgot to check it.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were calling. I’ve, ah, been preoccupied.”
“We were worried,” Mom says, sinking down next to me. “When we couldn’t reach you, we figured you must be here at the hospital.”
“How did you find me?” I ask.
“The nurse at the ICU desk said you’d gone to the chapel,” Dad says. “She figured you might need some family support.”
Family support. The family that still thinks I’m straight, still asks about when I’m going to settle down with some nice girl, still has no idea that the man fighting for his life upstairs is the person I’m in love with.
“He’s going to be okay,” Mom says, patting my arm. “The news said he was stable.”
“The news doesn’t know anything. He’s on a ventilator, hooked up to machines, and the doctors keep using words that sound like they’re preparing me for bad news.”
“Tate,” Mark says, and I hear the question in his voice. “I get that you’re upset but…” He pauses and I brace myself for what I’m afraid is coming next. “Is there something else going on here?”
“What do you mean?” Feigning ignorance has never been my strong suit.
“I mean you haven’t slept, you’re sitting in a hospital chapel, and you’re falling apart over a coworker getting hurt.” He sits down on the other side of me. “That’s a little odd, don’t you think?”
“He’s not just a coworker.” I scrub a hand down the front of my face.
“What is he then?”
This is the moment I’ve been avoiding for years, the conversation I never thought I’d have, the truth I never thought I’d be brave enough to tell. Now, of all times.
But sitting here with my family while Zane is upstairs fighting for his life makes me realize that pretending anymore is impossible.
“He’s the person I’m in love with.”
Mom’s hand finds mine, and she squeezes gently. “Okay.”
“Okay?” My head jerks in her direction.
She smiles. “You’re in love with him. That explains why you’re so scared.”
I look at her, waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the questions about how this happened, when I figured out I was gay, why I felt the need to lie to them for years. For the disappointment or confusion or whatever else parents might feel when their kid turns out differently than they expected.
Instead, she just holds my hand tight and waits for me to keep talking. Just like Mark and Dad.
“I’ve never been in love with a woman,” I say finally, my shoulders slumping forward. “All those girlfriends, all thetimes you asked when I was going to settle down…I lied about everything. To you, to them, to myself.”
“How long have you known?” Dad asks, and his voice is softer than I expected, no hint of disappointment in his tone.
“Known for sure? About two years. But I suspected it for a lot longer than that.” I look at him. “Are you upset?”
“That you’ve been lying to us? A little. But am I upset that you’re gay? Not in the slightest.”
