Ctrl + Alt + Dalt (BxB)

Ctrl + Alt + Dalt + 3

"That's where you're wrong." He grabs me by the shoulder, spinning me to face his amber gems of empathy, his hands slowly rising up from the base of my neck, skin gliding against skin, his hands engulf the sides of my cheeks—and for the first time in a long time, I don't feel the urge to run away—even as he pulls me closer and plants his lips upon my...forehead? Really? "You live in the bay area now, right next to San Francisco, it's pretty safe to come out here—I promise."

"Really?" I ask—although perhaps I'm asking because of the forehead thing—was I ready for a kiss? Did I want a kiss? Did I actually want him—Jordan—to kiss me? I mean, really?

"Yes, really," he answers—almost as if he's right on cue, in sync, and in line with answering the very question from my thoughts. "And I promise to be there for you whenever you need me. So how do you want to handle it all today, then?"

"Honestly, I appreciate you for being here for me and all, but you have rent to pay—you really can't afford to skip work."

"You really want me to go?"

"To work, yes."

"And you?"

"I need time to think about what's next."

"I'll warn you now, because I know what usually comes next and it's going to be painful."

"What is?"

"You're going to reach out to people. You'll choose to start with your closest, most-trusted relationships—although you won't always get the choice of who you have to actually deal with first—trying to figure out friend from foe—many of them will reject and disown and disavow you from their lives, while some will simply pretend to support you only to disappear as they later ignore you—"

"Sorry, that sounds a lot like what I did to you."

"Right, like I said, you're forgiven," he says, putting his hand on my shoulder, and lowering it away again before he continues, "since we are where we are, I can assure you that only the rarest few ever become violent—but the big take away is that you need to mentally prepare yourself for every potential outcome as well as the possibility to have to clean house, entirely—especially in your case—"

"Right," I say, knowing exactly what he's referring to. "The popular group."

"Popular people are often the most homophobic, even if they claim otherwise—but I don't need to tell you that, do I? Considering you chose to hide behind them for a reason."

"So it would be harder for anyone to claim that I'm gay," I admit, simply.

"And, thus, harder for you to accept yourself," he counters.

"Right," I concede.

"I'll take you home, then." He starts the car and gives me a warm, supportive smile before we drive off and out of the parking lot.

"Thanks," I say as we return onto the highway in the direction of my home. The churning unease sinks into my guts as the dread engulfs me. Home. I don't know if I'll still be able to call it that for long. The first hurdle—my parents.

~ ~ ~

As soon as I open the door to my house, my eyes meet two pairs staring back at me. One pair of eyes sits at the far end of the long dinner table—my father—while the other pair stands near the stove, baking cookies—my mother's anxious habit. Neither appear very happy, although serious, neither appear angry, either.

"Have a seat, son," Father commands. Mother joins him, sitting down onto the seat next to him, both seats bearing down on me from the opposite end of the long, dinner table. I say nothing as I take my place on the farthest end of the table and sit down on the chair—the hot seat.