Big Guy by Robin Stevenson

“Well?”
    â€œYeah. I should get moving.” I make a face. “I just don’t feel like dealing with my dad tonight, you know?”
    â€œCan’t say I blame you. Still, you have to get your stuff sometime.”
    She’s right. I don’t know what I was thinking when I packed, but I’ve got nothing decent to wear to worktomorrow. “If I’m lucky, he’ll be asleep on the couch.”
    â€œIf we’re going, let’s do it,” Gabi says as she gets up.
    â€œIf
we’re
going?”
    â€œI’m coming with you.”
    â€œGabi.” I look up at her for a long moment. “You let me stay at your place, you listen to me and let me dump all this crap on you... You’re the best. If we were even slightly straight, I’d ask you to marry me.”
    She laughs. “Yeah, yeah.”
    I push my chair back and get to my feet slowly. “You know what though? I think I need to do this on my own.”
    The lights are all still on when I get to my dad’s place. My place until last night, but already it doesn’t feel like home. The truth is it hasn’t felt much like home since Mom left.
    I hesitate at the door, wondering whether I’m supposed to knock. It’s tempting just to walk in. If Dad’s 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 I’m no longer welcome here.
    I knock loudly. Then I wait. My heart bangs around,
thump thump thump
, all fast and hard and uneven, like it’s lost its rhythm. Finally I hear footsteps, and then the door swings open.
    Dad stands there, hand on the door knob, not saying anything. He’s wearing saggy burgundy sweatpants and a white T-shirt that’s a size too small.
    â€œI’ve come to pack up my stuff,” I tell him.
    He steps backward to let me in and then closes the door behind me. I don’t 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 don’t say anything. I just start packing. Socks,photo albums, sweaters, school yearbooks, winter coat, pack of markers—I don’t 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 don’t turn around. I just keep packing, keep breathing, keep telling myself it’s just a few more minutes until I’m out of here.
    Dad clears his throat. “Derek.”
    I don’t answer. The only thing he could say that I’d want to hear is
sorry.
    â€œLook,” he says. His voice is cracked and high-pitched. He doesn’t 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.
    â€œLook,” he says again. “This isn’t how I expected things to be.” His face crumples. He looks lost. He looks
old
. “This isn’t how it was all supposed to turn out,” he says.
    â€œYeah, well.” I start to turn away, to pick up the next armful of crap to stuff into a bag.
    â€œI just want you to know that,” he says. “I didn’t choose this.”
    â€œYou think I did?” It comes out in a weird croak, and to cover up I raise my voice so that I’m practically yelling. “I haven’t had a whole lot of choices either, Dad.”
    There’s a long, long silence.
    â€œThis gay thing,” he starts to say.
    I cut him off. “You know what? I’m not really interested in discussing
this gay thing,
as you call it.”
    He sighs and folds his arms across his chest.