âWell?â
âYeah. I should get moving.â I make a face. âI just donât feel like dealing with my dad tonight, you know?â
âCanât say I blame you. Still, you have to get your stuff sometime.â
Sheâs right. I donât know what I was thinking when I packed, but Iâve got nothing decent to wear to worktomorrow. âIf Iâm lucky, heâll be asleep on the couch.â
âIf weâre going, letâs do it,â Gabi says as she gets up.
âIf
weâre
going?â
âIâm coming with you.â
âGabi.â I look up at her for a long moment. âYou let me stay at your place, you listen to me and let me dump all this crap on you... Youâre the best. If we were even slightly straight, Iâd ask you to marry me.â
She laughs. âYeah, yeah.â
I push my chair back and get to my feet slowly. âYou know what though? I think I need to do this on my own.â
The lights are all still on when I get to my dadâs place. My place until last night, but already it doesnât feel like home. The truth is it hasnât felt much like home since Mom left.
I hesitate at the door, wondering whether Iâm supposed to knock. Itâs tempting just to walk in. If Dadâs passed out, I might be able to sneak past and grab my stuff withouthaving to say a word. On the other hand, Dad made it pretty clear that Iâm no longer welcome here.
I knock loudly. Then I wait. My heart bangs around,
thump thump thump
, all fast and hard and uneven, like itâs lost its rhythm. Finally I hear footsteps, and then the door swings open.
Dad stands there, hand on the door knob, not saying anything. Heâs wearing saggy burgundy sweatpants and a white T-shirt thatâs a size too small.
âIâve come to pack up my stuff,â I tell him.
He steps backward to let me in and then closes the door behind me. I donât take my shoes off, although this is one of the many things Dad has big control issues about. I just walk right past him down the hallway to my bedroom.
What used to be my bedroom.
Dad has dumped all the clothes from my closet, all the books from my shelf, all my stuff, in one jumbled heap on the floor. I donât say anything. I just start packing. Socks,photo albums, sweaters, school yearbooks, winter coat, pack of markersâI donât sort it out. I just cram it all into my backpack and the extra bags I brought.
I can feel Dad standing there, in the hallway behind me, watching. His eyes are burning holes in my back but I donât turn around. I just keep packing, keep breathing, keep telling myself itâs just a few more minutes until Iâm out of here.
Dad clears his throat. âDerek.â
I donât answer. The only thing he could say that Iâd want to hear is
sorry.
âLook,â he says. His voice is cracked and high-pitched. He doesnât sound like himself at all. Despite my intentions, I turn around and look at him. Those skinny legs and that sticking-out stomach, those track pants pulled halfway up to his armpits.
âLook,â he says again. âThis isnât how I expected things to be.â His face crumples. He looks lost. He looks
old
. âThis isnât how it was all supposed to turn out,â he says.
âYeah, well.â I start to turn away, to pick up the next armful of crap to stuff into a bag.
âI just want you to know that,â he says. âI didnât choose this.â
âYou think I did?â It comes out in a weird croak, and to cover up I raise my voice so that Iâm practically yelling. âI havenât had a whole lot of choices either, Dad.â
Thereâs a long, long silence.
âThis gay thing,â he starts to say.
I cut him off. âYou know what? Iâm not really interested in discussing
this gay thing,
as you call it.â
He sighs and folds his arms across his chest.
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