I can’t think about what I’m doing. I can’t think about any of it. I’m just going to go in, have whatever conversation Silas wants me to have, and then flee the scene as soon as possible. And get the fuck back to my bed.
I’m about to yank open the door, when I realize I should take it down a notch. The last thing anyone needs is for my bubble ofrage to ratchet all their own issues up a notch without warning. Instead, I knock. My entire body feels stiff and useless, and I can sense Silas hovering behind me like a shadow.
His silence is an indicator that he’s regretting his suggestion, but it’s too late now. We’re in this shitfest together.
Anger feels like a physical growl trapped inside my throat, and the pressure of it is so sudden, it snaps me back to reality a little. I roll my shoulders back, forcing my muscles to unclench, before reaching behind me without looking to take Silas by the hand.
I’m not angry at him. I’m just angry. And if I keep letting that spill over like this, I’ll turn into someone no better than Kyle, anyway.
Silas squeezes my hand and quietly blows out a breath, his other hand wrapping around my hip from behind. He continues to stand there like a wall between me and the rest of the world, and I have the strongest urge to collapse back into him, begging him to pick me up like a child and carry me all the way back home.
None of this is my finest moment.
When the door finally swings open, it’s Kyle, and he does a double take. I stiffen on instinct, squaring my shoulders and looking him in the eye.
He looks worse than I do, which makes me feel a tiny bit of satisfaction. Two black eyes, a swollen nose with a laceration across the bridge, jaw on the right twice as big as the other side, and both hands obviously stiff with swelling. Despite the physical evidence of the beating he took, he still holds himself tall, though.
I’ve never understood how he does that. How he can do the shittiest, most chickenshit things possible and still walk around with his head high. Like he’s never doubted himself or his actions a day in his life.
He’s eyeing Silas warily when he finally breaks the silence.
“You’re mother’s not here right now,” is all he says, voice flat, left hand tightening around the bottle of blue Gatorade he’s holding. I’m honestly shocked it’s not a beer. It’s well past noon.
“I didn’t come to see her.”
I spit the words out with more venom than intended. I don’t know exactly why I’ve had a short fuse for her as well the past week, but I definitely have.
Kyle’s eyebrows raise while the rest of him stays completely still.
“Well,” he says, not following the word with anything else.
We all stand together, suspended in this awkward moment, before he turns around and ambles back into the trailer. His gait is easy, with long, slow steps. The way a predator walks. The way someone does when they’re not afraid to show you their back.
He doesn’t invite us in, but he also doesn’t close the door, so I take that as a hint. It’d piss me off if he invited me into my own home, anyway. Silas and I slip through the screen door and then close the main door behind us to keep out the early-winter chill.
Dad takes his time settling back into the armchair with a series of masculine grunts, swigging some more of his sad, room-temperature-looking drink and then fishing around on the side table to pull himself a Marlboro. He goes through all the motions to light it up, and blows a long stream of smoke in my direction before he finally looks me in the eye again and speaks.
He doesn’t even have to say words to make me feel about two-feet tall, though. He just does. The familiar smells. The way he moves like we’re waiting on him to get comfortable. It all tells the story of who’s in charge here. I don’t even know if it’s deliberate, or if it’s just how he is.
“Well,” he repeats. “What do you want?”
I start to open my mouth, but before I get to the point of shaping the words, I realize I don’t actually know what I’m trying to say. All the thoughts that tumbled through my head on thedrive here, none of them involved the actual beginning part of the conversation.
What am I supposed to do?
Just… come out?
Even the thought makes me wince, like it’s something that doesn’t belong to me. Coming out is for kids who know themselves and are brave; I’m an adult. I wasn’t repressed or dating women for show, I just figured out this part a little late. The idea of having some big coming-out storyline makes me feel like I’m appropriating something that isn’t mine.
But as the thoughts bat around my head like rogue ping-pong balls, they always lead to something I know is not fucking cool.
I don’t need to come out, I’m still normal.
Nope. Scratch the word ‘normal’. That’s a gross, intrusive thought that’s not fucking cool. Bad brain.
I don’t need to come out. Coming out is for gay people.
I’ll take ‘internalized biphobia’ for a hundred, Alex.
