Ever After

Crying Eyes

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This chapter is in Jack's perspective.

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Unlike he'd promised, Mark hadn't texted or called me back – not a single word in response since the event on the rooftop two days ago, meaning he'd become just as mute as my father, who was doing what he always did to avoid being called on at dinner, playing with his food as if it were more interesting than his wife or only at-home child (which, to be honest, baked potatoes weren't).

In fact, I'd go as far to say that I'd become too interesting after the strange night. It was as if the simple town of Athlone had flipped over on its side like a beached whale, given the impossibility of ever returning back to where it'd come from. If I thought long and hard enough (which I only started doing after meeting Mark), I was technically still the same guy I'd been three months ago, the guy that existed before having a coffee-scented piss stain on his newly pre-ripped jeans. I was the guy who everyone stayed away from, the one who was far too determined to isolate himself to ever approach a single living, breathing soul. I was the one who would have a fit if they were ever to be told what to do or if anyone were to step out of line.

But now?

I realized, as I watched my father mash his potatoes, that I'd become softer, sweeter – more feminine, just as he'd said. After having had multiple sex sessions with my boyfriend, having taken far too many trips to WikiHow on how to come out, and having already said it to my parents (or have someone say it for me), I'm gay enough to wear rainbow shirts, shoes, and hair dye everywhere I go. Hell, I may as well have a cape on my back with the pride colours behind text that reads "I'M HERE, I'M QUEER," although it would barely make a difference, for the entire town had received word already.

It was all thanks to my mum – whenever someone even mentioned something only slightly relevant to the gay society, she'd go on and on about every fact she'd researched the night I fled with Mark, just praying they'd ask "How do you know so much about gays?", so that she could go on and on about how gay I was. My father, however, never liked to be around during these conversations, I'd learned – especially now (breakfast time), when mum decided to make dinner especially awkward.

"You know, I read an article today," she said, earning slightly intrigued glances from both my father and I. "It was about how homophobes all got together to discuss their hatred against gays and lesbians."

There was no response to her dramatic pause for effect.

Not phased in the slightest, she continued, "But, two women interrupted the gathering and kissed right in front of them – they were all disgusted, but the public was delighted!"

"That's great, honey," my father said.

She turned to face me, her lips pursed into a delighted smile. "It's amazing. It's love! What's not to love about love?"

"Apparently a lot of things," I said, giving a small nod to my father's end of the table.

He pretended not to notice, although I'm sure he did.

Over the last two nights, I'd been thinking of how to approach my father, for he'd made it very clear that he didn't wish to speak to me, at least, not until his mind became a little less like the blizzard beyond our dining room window.

There were a lot of tips online, but none of them seemed to cooperate. They all sounded too general, too simplistic for such a serious topic, as if coming out were just an ordinary part of life that everyone goes through. "Find a good time to speak with your parents"; "Surprise them by inviting your boyfriend or girlfriend over"; "Give them time to think about the news" – please. I'd only given my father two days, and yet I was just about willing to run away for good (which I would've done if it weren't for Mark holding me back like a ship's anchor).