Page 7 of Betting Brett

Brett

Themoonhangslowin the sky, casting a silver hue over the sprawling ranch community of Shafter Falls. The roads are familiar yet seem somewhat different tonight, echoing the mess of thoughts swirling in my head. Izzy is having dinner with one of her friends tonight, so it seemed like an ideal time to talk to my parents, knowing that things have the potential of turning sour if I don’t handle the upcoming conversation well. I don’t want her around for any of this. I drive past the fields Andy and I used to play in as kids, the old oak tree where we carved our initials, the same spot where Andy fell and got badly scratched, so bad that I carried him all the way to the doctor’s office. Each landmark brings a fresh wave of memories, painting vivid pictures of a simpler time, a time before the complexities of adulthood had woven themselves into our lives when we didn’t have to worry about bills and judgmental assholes.

The world was much simpler back then.

I also can't shake off the conversation I had with Andy. The bet, the lingering glances, the unspoken words that seemed to hang in the air between us. I kept wondering if he could read my thoughts, if he could see the dirty pictures I was painting in my head. Imagining him on his knees, hands on my thighs as he spread them, kissing at my growing bulge.

Shit, I was glad we were sitting down when he made that bet because I had gotten instantly hard.

It was a reaction that didn’t necessarily surprise me, but it did require some unpacking. I wasn’t the kind of guy who pretended to gag whenever someone mentioned other men being attractive. I was well aware that hot people came in all shapes, forms, and genders. I just never explored it. I never really allowed myself to think about it much. I was so focused on raising Izzy, doing my job, and being a functioning human that maybe being attracted to men didn’t even rate an afterthought.

Not anymore, though. Now, it’s all I can think of.

Actually, to be more specific, being attracted toAndyis all I can think of now.

As I near my parent's home, a sense of apprehension settles in my stomach, a gnawing feeling that the conversation I'm about to have has the potential to alter the dynamics of my family forever. I realize I need to talk to my dad first. I can always trust him to have a calm reaction to things. I just need to make sure it’s during a moment when my mother isn’t around, because I already know that she’s going to be a problem. The house looms in the distance, suddenly feeling too constricting, too rigid to contain the changes inside me.

I park the car and take a moment to gather myself, my heart pounding in my chest like a drum. With a deep breath, I step out of the car, the cool night air wrapping around me like a cloak of courage.

I can do this. I’ll be fine.

Inside, the house is bathed in the warm glow of the dining room lights, and the familiar sounds of my parents settling around the dinner table reach my ears. I hesitate at the doorway. My mother is at the head of the table, as stern as she’s been my whole life. My father sits opposite her, talking about a new truck he is thinking of getting.

“Hi, Mom, Dad.” I greet them and join them at the table, the weight of my revelation making each step feel like a whole journey.

“What are you doing here?” My mom asks sharply. She never has liked anything that didn’t follow her plans or comes as a surprise. “Not that I’m not always happy to see you,” she adds belatedly.

“I just thought I’d stop by and chat,” I tell her, not willing to dive into the reason for my visit just yet.

“And Isabelle?” she asks, plucked brow arching like a bow, ready to shoot me with arrows.

“She’s having dinner with one of her friends,” I answer, hoping that’s the end of it.

“Who?” she cocks her head, light brown curls of hair bouncing. “You know not all of the children at her school are appropriate for her to spend time with.”

“I don’t have any concerns about the friend she’s with,” I tell her firmly.

"Hmm, all right,” she subsides, but unwillingly. It suddenly occurs to me that I have never specified that my mother should not say unkind things about Isabelle’s peers to her. It never occurred to me that I might have to.

“And how was your day, Brett?" She asks as a subject change.

"It was good, Mom. Busy, but good," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady, to maintain the facade of normalcy for just a little while longer.

My father chimes in, sharing details about a neighbor's recent renovation, a subtle reminder of the community's ever-watchful eyes. Things spread fast here, from new kitchens to new husbands, gossip moves like a wildfire burning through a tinder field. The conversation at the table flows naturally, yet underneath the surface, I can feel the undercurrent of tension in me, the unspoken words that threaten to shatter the fragile peace.

At the meal’s end, my mother gathers her dishes and disappears into the kitchen. This is a cue for my father and I to clear the rest of the table and load the dishwasher. Finally, unable to bear the burden of silence any longer, I clear my throat, drawing the attention of my father. I’ve always had a good relationship with him, and I hope I can trust him to help me with this. "Dad, there's something I need to talk to you about," I say, my voice betraying the nerves that are bothering me.

My father pauses in gathering the dishes, giving me his full attention. Laugh lines crinkle at the corner of his eyes. "What is it, son?"

I take a deep breath, my resolve hardening as I prepare to voice the thoughts that could rock my world from the very core. "I've been doing a lot of thinking lately about myself, about who I am. And I'm starting to realize that I might not be... straight."

The room falls silent, the gravity of my words hanging in the air between us. My father's expression is one of contemplation, his mind working to process the information I just shared.

After a moment, he speaks, his voice steady and calm. "Brett, you know that I love you, no matter what. But you also know how the community, how our church views these things. I just don’t want you getting hurt by anyone." He throws a quick glance toward the kitchen, where the clinking of dishes signals my mother putting leftovers away.

I nod, familiar with the objections. Still, he’s not red-faced and shouting at me, so I take that as a positive sign and push on. "I know, Dad. But I’m not going to pretend that this isn’t a part of me. It's not fair to me, and it's not fair to the people I care about. It’s not fair to Izzy. I need her to see that no matter who she grows up to be or love, that I will always love and support her.”

My father sighs, the weight of the world seemingly settling on his shoulders. "I understand, Brett. And I’m not saying you’re wrong. Listen, I think we all wonder what it would be like. We all have those kinds of yearnings, those thoughts. Some people have them stronger than others. Just remember, no matter what you decide, you are my son, and I love you."

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