Nathaniel Jean's Senior Year

19: Nathaniel Jean's Favorite Person (Once Upon a Time)

"I can explain," Was the first thing I said.

My mother turned away from the phone screen as if she couldn't bear to look at it anymore and sat down in the nearest armchair, a hand to her chest and an ashen expression on her face. For a long, terrible moment, the room was absolutely silent.

Then my father looked up at me. He let the phone fall out of his hands, and I heard the sound of its screen cracking on the wood floor.

"Then explain," he grumbled. "Explain this, Nathaniel Connor Jean. And do a good damn job."

It was as if neither of them took any notice of the mess the house was in. They didn't care about the cans scattered across the floor, or the cushions that had been pushed out of place. My mom was still sat in the armchair, staring blankly ahead and repeatedly tapping her palm against her chest as if it would help her control her heart rate.

"Last night was a mess, okay?" I said lamely, having no idea how to discredit the literal photo evidence they'd seen. "We did dumb stuff. Dares, you know? None of it—none of it meant anything."

Without another word, my father picked up my phone. He crossed the room to stand in from of me, and I had to refrain from stepping back. "You're telling me you did this," he turned the phone around to show me a picture of Lucas and I in the hot tub, "Was a dare?"

I needed to say something. I needed to get myself out of this corner. All I had to do was think. I could come up with something. Lying was my forte.

But I was stuck.

I froze up. My brain abandoned me, leaving me with my mouth open, waiting for something intelligent to leave it. Nothing came. What could I say? He had a picture right there.

"Explain," he barked, startling me out of my silence.

"What do you want me to say?" My voice had never been so quiet. I felt like a small child being scolded by an imposing stranger. My father was a big man. He was scariest when he raised his voice. Staring up at him under the weight of his glare, I felt tiny.

    "I want you to tell me that my son isn't a fucking faggot!" I flinched as he yelled. He took another step towards me, and this time I did take a step back.

     I tried to lift my chin and at least feign confidence, but my quivering hands gave me away. "And what if I can't tell you that?" I whispered. Dread held a vise grip my stomach—I had just, after six years of hiding, sort of come out to my parents. But there was something else, too, mingling with the dread. Something like hope—hope that they wouldn't do anything drastic. Hope that I hadn't just put everything at stake for a few pictures. Hope that they might just be really mad for a while, then eventually become tolerant, and one day maybe even accepting.

       There was no point in pretending. I'd wasted so much time pretending. Pretending hurt.

But not as much as honesty did.

    My father handed me my phone, his eyes more angry than I'd ever seen them, though the rest of his face was strangely calm. Over on the armchair, my mother began crying.

     "I want you out in two hours," my father said, turning his back on me. My hope shattered, like porcelain artwork crushed under a malevolent boot. Just like that, without a second thought. That was the worst part—the fact that eighteen years didn't mean a goddamn thing to him. The fact that he could so easily say those words with zero remorse, as if they brought him no pain at all. The fact that he hadn't even hesitated. He hadn't thought of an alternative—as if I were merely a bad coworker causing issues, who could be fired in the blink of an eye to fix the problem quickly and efficiently. That's how he thought—in terms of business, always.