The Switch Hitter (GxG)

Chapter 3

I felt, more than heard, the vibrations of the garage door as it opened. I heard my dad drive in and cut the engine. My nerves were scrambled, my hands clammy, and breathing irregular as my heart threw itself against my rib cage. I took a few deep breaths to calm myself.

You can do this, I reminded myself, it's just dad.

But what if you're wrong?

I shook my head. I was going to do this. I couldn't hide it any longer. 

I heard the doorknob turn and I jumped, turning my head towards the door. My dad walked in and grunted a hello to me before walking into the kitchen. I heard the fridge open and the rattling of bottles. I sighed a little. Not again.

My hands were shaking as he came back into the living room, a beer in each hand, and sat in his arm chair, across from me. He put one of his bottles down and fumbled with the remote, turning the TV on to a random cop show. I looked down into my lap, waiting for him to say something. 

After a few swigs from his beer, he finally looked away from the show and eyed me.

"You finish your summer homework yet?"

I looked up nervously. "I, uh--"

He interrupted me angrily. "I swear to God Sophia, if you get to school and start failing because you didn't fucking do anything all summer--"

"I know, I'm sorry, I j-just, just wanted to talk to you?"

He huffed. "What?"

I clenched my fists to stop the shaking. "Please, please don't be mad--"

"Shit, what the hell did you do now?"

I winced. I hate it when he swore at me.

"Nothing Dad, it's just--"

I paused, took a deep breath to steady myself, and looked up at him.

"I'm gay."

I watched his expression morph first into shock, then into anger as he stood up and started towards me. Terrified, I turned and ran, locking myself in my room just as he reached the door. He pounded on it with his fists and screamed, "NO! NOT IN MY FUCKING HOUSE!"

He continued pounding on the door as I desperately backed up to the opposite wall, waiting for the screaming to stop, for him to calm down. I crawled onto my bed and hid underneath the pillows, like that would protect me from his anger.

Eventually the knocking slowed, then stopped and I heard him sit down against my door and start saying, "Why? Why? What did I do to deserve this?"

But I knew he wasn't talking to me. He was talking to his God. The one who told him to hate people like me. 

I heard him get up and lumber away towards the kitchen and open and slam cabinets angrily. I knew what he was looking for. Dad always kept a backup case of beer in the cabinet in case he ran out unexpectedly. I shuddered. I guess the shame of having a gay daughter was worse than having to stomach warm beer.

I knew that there was no way he'd let me stay here any longer, so I grabbed a bag and started packing. Clothes, toothbrush, toiletries, essentials would go. I looked around at everything I would leave behind. Pictures of me and my dad at games, little league championship trophies. This year's team photo, my dad in his coach's uniform, me in my jersey with 44 on the back. 

My lucky number.

I reminisced sadly at all the happy memories that we'd shared. All the times he'd coached me, made me a better player, a better person. But it was all for nothing. I ended up disappointing him anyway. I always did.