I Still Need ✓

1. I'm lazy and I can't lie

He was the other reason I didn't want to come out. He was gay as well, and as much as I hated the guy, I didn't want to prove his stupid, homophobic father right with his statement that 'it's contagious'. I didn't understand why Dylan still lived in the same house as that jerk. I really didn't like Dylan, but nobody deserved to be treated like that.

As Floyd and I had come to the exit of the supermarket, I realized we'd now have to part ways again. It wasn't really worth it to come here, was it? So much effort for such a short time to be able to see him. Ah, who was I kidding? Getting to spend time with Floyd, no matter how short, was always great.

He waved at me with a bright smile, before turning to to head home. I paused and held out my hand to stop him, because I really wanted to walk the way with him, but our houses were literally in opposite directions. He'd think it'd be weird, wouldn't he? I mean...

Oh, whatever.

"Wait, I'll walk with you," I stammered, hurrying to catch up with him.

"Fun," he replied. "Walking alone is boring."

I smiled, shouting victory in my head, and fell in step beside him. Now I could talk with him for a few more minutes.

God, I was absolutely hopeless, wasn't I?

Upon arriving back home, my father immediately asked me the same question he asked me every single day. "Floyd your boyfriend yet?" He'd never fail to remind me.

"No, Dad," I sighed, starting to place groceries in the fridge.

I had once accidentally let something slip about my crush and I was then forced to tell my parents who it was and to come out to them. It wasn't really that bad, because I was pretty open with my parents, especially with my father, and lucky for me, they're open-minded people.

My mother was a little reserved about the whole gay thing at first, because she had been brought up in an extremely catholic family. She had really wanted her son to marry a woman, especially since I was the only son she had. But it was all good now. My father had successfully dragged her across the line by just... treating the situation like it was normal—which it was, of course—and that really helped.

"He's never going to be my boyfriend, Dad," I told him.

"You never know what will happen!" he said, full of hope and determination. I rolled my eyes and tried to shove a bag of vegetables in the freezer, but it just so happened my mother came in the kitchen at this moment of shame and pulled me aside. Taking the bag from me, she snarled, "Hugo, we have another freezer in the back. If you offer to do the groceries for me, at least do it good."

"Okay, Mom," I sighed. "And it's well."

"What's well?" she asked irritatedly as she emptied the bag of groceries and placed all the products in their assigned places, completely having forgotten that I was supposed to do it.

"You have to say 'at least do it well', not good."

"Now, Hugo, don't get smart with me. People make mistakes like that all the time."

"Yeah, but you do it all the time and you never learn from your mistakes," Dad said nonchalantly, while peering at his laptop as if he wasn't listening to the conversation. But we all knew he was. He always was. It was like he had a special pair of ears that could always hear everything going on, even though he was doing something else.

His wife wasn't very amused by it either, and snapped, "Shut up, Kurt."

I couldn't help but smile at her simple retort.

There was a time when I used to be concerned about my parents' constant squabbling, because children always said that, when their parents fight, they're getting a divorce, but I learned soon enough that my parents were... an odd case. They were people that somehow couldn't live with and without each other at the same time.

If it worked, it worked.

Then, my sixteen-year-old sister—another one of those I-hate-everyone-in-this-house cases—walked into the kitchen with her eyes glued to her phone, the thick curtain of dark blonde hair obscuring her face. "What's for dinner?"

"Something made by our sweet Eve!" our father announced brightly and she groaned and whined (and almost stomped her feet) and she said, "I don't want tooo..."

"You have to! Wednesday is your day."

Yes, our parents assigned a day in the week to have their children cook for the family. They thought it was of much importance that we learned how to do it. They were very lucky we got their genes, or their kitchen would probably have gone up in flames already.

"It would be more convenient if you actually remembered that today is your day," Mom told her and Eve rolled her eyes. I knew what she was thinking. She often forgot and if she did manage to remember, she hoped they'd let her 'forget'.

Eve turned to me and asked sweetly," Hugo, will you help me, please? I promise I will help you next time."

"Sure, I got the groceries, so why not cook, either?" I retorted, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Already on my way of being a damn housewife."

"Gotta learn to be one for your future husband," my father joked, then forced a fake cough to add, "Floyd."

"Come on, if Floyd and Hugo would get together, Floyd would be the housewife, not Hugo," Eve remarked, still staring down at her screen.

"Why, thank you, Eve," I said. "Why so nice suddenly?"

"I gotta be nice to the person who is cooking for me, right?"

"I'm not cooking for you. I'm helping you. You're not letting me do everything."

"Do you want to switch instead?" she sighed.

And our banter continued, until we ended up doing it together anyway. The relationship of me and Eve could be summarized in one sentence; both secretly wishing the other would die in their sleep. Honestly, when it came down to it, this entire family consisted of people who just... hated each other, but don't tell anyone there was a thick layer of love underneath.

Once we were finally all at the dinner table, happily wolfing down our food, Mom suddenly said, "We're going to your grandmother's birthday."

"I don't have to be there, right?" I asked. My grandmother was the reason my mother was initially not happy with me being gay. The old woman always felt the need to keep nagging about it and send me nasty glares, as if I was something disgusting. Homosexuality was unacceptable in her eyes.

In short, I didn't like visiting my grandmother.

"Yes, you do," my mother ordered. "It's her 80th."

"Yeah, well, she hates me."

"That she does," Eve muttered and I told her to shut up, to which she shrugged apathetically. Then she suggested, "Bring a boy and go make out with him in front of her nose to piss her off."

"No, we're not pissing your grandmother off," Dad scolded, a hidden smile in his voice. "She's already sour enough."

Mom hit him on the arm—it was still her mother after all—but then she agreed, "Sour as can be. The least we can do is grace her with our sweet presences."