I’ve always been good at cheering other people on. Boosting team morale and reminding everyone how great they are. But doing that for myself has taken a little time to perfect. I hear my own voice in my head as I step out onto the court, assuring myself that I can do this. That I have what it takes.
The self-belief I’ve built up over the past few monthsbolsters me and gets me through my first service game, Stanford’s first service game, and the first set. Until I realize I’m a serve up in the second and about to win the match and bring another point home to the team.
My teammates flood the court when I serve an ace on match point, Archer calling me a savage as he ruffles my hair.
I look up into the stands again and spot my parents on their feet. My mom smiling behind her designer glasses.
They’re waitingfor me outside the tennis center. After saying goodbye to Nate and the rest of the team, who are all going back to the hotel to eat dinner there, Elias and I make our way outside to see my parents.
Mom hugs me and tells me how great I was. I swell with pride. Dad shakes my hand and says, “Congratulations,” like we’re total strangers.
“I invited Elias to have dinner with us,” I say, my throat getting suddenly dry.
“Of course!” Mom beams. “It’s so good to see you again, Elias.”
“You, too.”
Dad made reservations at a quiet, dimly lit restaurant. The menu is all in French. I’m about to ask Elias if he wants me to translate when the waiter comes around and he orders his meal in perfectly accented French. Has he been holding out on me? The little polyglot.
He catches my eye and grins. “I only know how to order food. Don’t ask me anything else.”
I laugh. Usually, in a moment like this, I’d reach out andtake his hand or kiss him, but this isn’t the frat house or the cafeteria at college. And I don’t think that’s the right way to tell my parents about this.
We exchange small talk while we wait for our food to arrive. I’m glad my mom ordered champagne to celebrate the win and sip some for Dutch courage.
Elias gives my knee a supportive squeeze under the table when he notices my hand shaking.
When the food arrives, I find it hard to eat but force myself to at least try a few bites. I know it’s probably delicious, but I can barely taste it.
I’ve spent my whole life learning how to behave in polite society. And I know enough to understand that potentially bad news should be saved until everyone has eaten most of their main meal.
“Mom, Dad,” I start, clearing my throat. I feel Elias pull his chair a fraction closer.
I speak loud enough so my dad can’t accuse me of mumbling, but not so loud that people on the next table will be able to clearly hear what I’m saying.
“I have to tell you something.”
Elias puts his hand back on my knee and keeps it there under the tablecloth.
My parents look at me with barely interested glances. Mom keeps cutting into her chicken.
“I’m gay.”
Mom stops cutting and looks at me. Dad gives an impatient huff. Then the silence spreads its tendrils over the table like some sea serpent and I can’t stand it anymore.
“Aren’t you going to say something?”
“This really isn’t necessary,” Dad says.
I frown. “What do you mean, it’s not ‘necessary?’”
“There’s no need to make a scene,” he says.
“I’m not making a scene.”
Elias takes his hand off my knee and covers my shaking one on the table. Mom stares at our clasped hands while Dad purposefully looks away.
“Perhaps we should get the check,” he says calmly, glancing around for the waiter.
