When I was a younger, if I walked into my dad's bedroom without knocking he simply wouldn't speak to me. Wouldn't look at me. Wouldn't crack a smile.
To this day the bewilderment of having a parent refuse to acknowledge my existence stuck with me. It was how I learned not to enter a room without knocking. Traumatic but effective.
I knocked on Dad's door three times.
"You may enter," he said in a booming voice.
Standing halfway in-halfway out, I leaned against the doorframe. I didn't want to be here longer than I had to. He was more bearable than Mom but that didn't mean much. A fallen tree branch was more bearable than Mom.
A vanilla candle burned on his window sill.
Wyatt's downstairs. Say what you want to say and get out of here.
"I'm hanging out with Wyatt today."
In an indecisive manner he rearranged the few succulents on his shelf by size, "You spend a hefty chunk of your time with that young man." Then, by color of the pot. By color of the plant. Once more by size.
Why did we have to skate down this road again? Maybe, I should be a lawyer, how often I defended the state of Wyatt and I's friendship.
"That young man is my best friend,"
"I think you're sneaking off, doing Alurozor knows what," he used an accusatory tone.
Shudders ran down my spine at his insinuations. I sighed audibly hoping he would get the point and shut up. I didn't come in here to interrogated.
"As a concerned parent—" His delusions allowed him to believe Wyatt and I were boinking or in layman's terms hooking up.
He listed his evidence: banning that guy from the movie theater, going across the country to a book signing, expensive rug shopping, and general suspicion. Two states should not be considered across the country.
The family photo on his nightstand caught my eye. I wouldn't have gotten a fraction of this from Mom. In fact, I wouldn't have gotten any of this from Mom. She had a sixth sense about these things.
"Goodbye," I swiveled on my heel and stepped into the foyer.
"I'll walk you to the car. Dan's his chauffeur correct?"
I shook my head. "Mr. Maganlith lets him drive himself around."
Dad stepped into his mint colored slippers, "You should've your mother and I aware of that. I'd like to speak with Walter before you leave."
"Wyatt!"
"I believe that's what I said," he unlocked the front door.
I texted Wyatt.
Me: my dad wants to speak with you
Me: he thinks we're sexually inclined
Wyatt: i can handle it
He held the front door open for me, "That's how a man," he cleared his throat,"—or woman—should treat you."
Since the dinner with the Chloros family, he went above and beyond to prove he was okay with gay. It was strange.
Wyatt stepped out of his car in soccer shorts and a maroon polo. He stood on the other side of our front gate and waved.
"Where are you taking my daughter?" Dad and his sunflowers towered over Wyatt.
My heart thudded in my ears. I omitted the part about Wyatt's lack of a chauffeur because I knew he'd overreact. "Don't say it like that." I pushed open the gate's door.
"My family's beach house. We're painting." he replied with the truth.
My intestines untangled themselves. Was I relieved that Wyatt told the truth? Or that I didn't have to? Honesty wasn't my strong suit. Did I have a strong suit?
"You're serious?" Dad asked.
Wyatt jested, "As serious as this heat."
"The beach house is where?"
"Em Ridge."
"Emerald Ridge," Dad repeated. "The vegetation is stunning. Aren't they building a—"
They discussed property values, tourism, and construction. Wyatt hated the comparison but he was as into business as his own dad was. It rubbed off on him.
"Zayde, wait in the car." Dad waved me away like I was a pestering fly.
The car chirped. Wyatt's phone was on the armrest. I took at least 100 selfies. It was the proper thing to do. When Wyatt returned he wouldn't repeat what they spoke of. Something along the lines of man stuff that I wouldn't understand.
It stung to know if the roles were reversed, Dad would've slid me a condom and patted me on the back.
Ribbed for her pleasure my ass.