Page 29
A car passes outside, bass rattling faintly through the windows. Fucking South End.
I push the coffee mug away. “Did he pay?”
Mom’s eyebrows draw together.
“Money,” I say. “Did he send money?”
“No.”
“Did you ask?”
“No, of course not.”
“Why not?”
“Because I didn’t want him to have a claim.”
“To me?”
“Yes.”
I laugh again, softer this time. Meaner. “Well, guess he fooled you.”
The envelope sits on the coffee table in the other room. There’s money somewhere behind it. Money and a whole life built without me, now cracked open just enough for my name to fall through.
Under it is something worse and dumber and hotter, something I can’t grab without burning my hand.
My father was gay.
My father was gay, and I spent last night with my dick out in Becca’s spare bedroom with a bunch of men telling me what to do.
My skin prickles.
I look down at my hands on the table.
Big. Scar across one knuckle from the pizza oven. Flour still caught near a cuticle because apparently I can shower and still bring work with me. Nothing about them says this conversation has rearranged anything.
“You okay?” Mom asks.
I look up.
“No.”
She accepts that with a small nod.
Good. I don’t want comfort.
“Was he ashamed of me?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Mom reaches across the table, then stops before touching my hand. She lets her hand rest there, halfway between us.
“Henry was not your father in the way he should have been,” she says. “I won’t pretend otherwise. But he was never ashamed.”
