I sat there staring at the blank screen, my hands trembling, my gut churning. That was it. I’d told them. And it had gone as badly as I’d feared.
My phone buzzed. A text from Gia.
Gia
I’m so proud of you. Give her time. I’ll work on them. I love you.
I typed back with shaking fingers.
Marco
Thank you. For everything. Love you too.
I set the phone down, dropped my head into my hands, and let myself break for a moment. Just one moment. Then I had to pull myself together because Étienne still had to make his call, and it was going to be worse.
So much worse.
I found Étienne in the living room, sitting on the couch with his phone in his hands. He looked up when I came down the stairs, his eyes searching my face.
“How bad?” he asked quietly.
“Bad.” I sat beside him. “My mom cried. She said I’m choosing sin over faith. Asked if I’d tried praying it away. My father walked out.”
“Jesus.” He reached for my hand. “I’m sorry.”
“Gia was great, though. She’s going to work on them.” I pulled him closer. “Are you ready?”
“No.” He laughed, but it was hollow. “But I’m doing it anyway.”
“Do you want me to stay? Or give you privacy?”
“Privacy. At first.” He stood, squared his shoulders. “I’ll call from the kitchen. But if it gets… if I need you, I’ll…”
“I’ll be right here.”
He nodded, kissed me quickly, then walked to the kitchen. I heard him take a deep breath. Then the sound of a call connecting.
“Papa?” Étienne’s voice carried from the kitchen, speaking English. “Do you have a minute? I need to talk to you about something.”
I couldn’t hear his father’s response, but I heard the tone—gruff, impatient.
Étienne continued in French, his voice steady at first. I caught my own name and a few words I recognized. “Bisexual,” in English. “Ensemble.” Together. “Amoureux.” In love.
Then Philippe’s voice exploded from the phone, loud enough that I could hear every word, even from the living room. Angry, harsh syllables that needed no translation.
Étienne’s voice rose to match. “Papa, s’il te plaît?—”
More shouting from his father. I heard “dégoûtant.” Disgusting. “Honte.” Shame.
I stood without thinking, moving toward the kitchen. Étienne was leaning against the counter, the phone pressed to his ear, his face pale and his eyes bright with unshed tears.
“Ce n’est pas une phase,” Étienne said, his voice shaking. “C’est qui je suis. I’m bisexual. And I love him.”
Philippe’s response was colder now. In English. I caught fragments?—
“Not my son…”
“Dead to me…”
