Colors (bxb) [DISCONTINUED]

showtime

"It's showtime."

🔵🔴⚫️⚪️🔘

The car ride to my house is quiet, tense, awkward. My mother doesn't say a word to me and I don't say a word to her.

Despite being fairly thankful for the silence, there is a part of me that wants for dialogue to occur, that wants for her to engage with me and be able to understand me. How will she ever comprehend me being gay if she doesn't talk with me?

She can yell at me, and I could yell at her — but that won't stop me from being gay, and that won't stop her from holding bigoted misconceptions about it.

Regardless of how I feel, though, I bite my lip and stay mute. I don't have the courage and I don't have the energy to talk about anything right now. Especially considering . . .

Especially considering that my dad is at the house, waiting for us to return, waiting for me to return. My dad is home, waiting for me, waiting to meet me for the first time. How am I supposed to talk about my troublesome sexuality when I'm minutes away from meeting the man who helped give birth to me? How am I supposed to talk about my sexuality at a time like this?

Maybe I picked the wrong time to come out . . .

But . . . Maybe this is a blessing in disguise. I might not want my mother to treat me any differently, but that doesn't mean I'm jumping at the chance to discuss anything with her. My sexuality makes me uncomfortable — sad, but true. Talking about my sexuality makes me uncomfortable. If my father's sudden arrival can take some of the attention away, then . . . Well, I'm not exactly angry at him for it.

I came out. That's the only thing that matters. I came out of the closet. I'm free. I don't have to hide anything from her. I don't have to lie anymore. The happiness and relief I feel from that alone is stronger than the anxiety I feel from eventually meeting my father, or eventually having another conversation about my sexuality.

As far as I'm concerned, family-wise, I'm openly gay. And that is all that matters.

Besides, it's not like my mother can shove me right back in the closet . . .

Right?

🔵🔴⚫️⚪️🔘

My mother turns into the neighborhood, effectively cutting me off from the world that I grew to enjoy with Justin Reynolds. At his house, in his neighborhood, I felt a happiness and freedom that was fairly new to me. Now that I'm back home, back in this neighborhood, a place where I've closed the blinds and shed tears in the darkness of my room . . .

Don't think too hard, Kris. You're out. None of that matters anymore. The past doesn't matter anymore. You're out.

I nod to myself, repeating the mantra in my head. You're out; you're out; you're out. If that's the case, though, then why does it feel like I'm being taken into a penitentiary? Why does it feel like I've only cleared one level, and I have a few more demons to beat before I'm truly free?

My mother drives down the street, slowing down as we reach our house. I stare at the tan car that's parked on the side of our driveway. I'm not a car fan at all — that's Tyrese's specialty — but even I can tell that the vehicle is severely outdated. Not only that, but two of the windows have tape over them, and there's a deep bump in the back. Whoever the owner is, I wouldn't feel an ounce comfortable driving with them.

You know who the owner is.

A chill of anxiety rushes down my spine. That's my father's car. He's here. He's inside of my house, a house that has probably never seen him, a house that has no idea the relevance he has on its inhabitants. Maybe he's even standing inside of my room, looking around, thinking of who his son could have grown up to be. Maybe he's thinking the same disquieting thoughts as me, wondering about the man who should've been in his life.