Page 87 of Cheater and the Saint
“Sorry,” I said, finally pulling back and wiping at my eyes. “I’m sorry for crying on you. And I’m sorry for being an asshole last night. I’m sorry for all of it.” Too embarrassed to see his expression, I turned from him and poured myself a cup of coffee. “Do you want some?”
“Yes, please.”
I grabbed his favorite mug from the cabinet and filled it to the rim before handing it to him. Still not wanting to see what I knew would be pity or something else pathetic aimed at me on his face, I turned again to pour some creamer and sugar in my coffee.
“Leo.” Saint touched my arm. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I said out of reflex, walking to the table.
He sat across from me and sipped at his coffee. “That’s a load of crap. But if you don’t want to talk to me, okay. I won’t press you about it.”
“How was your swim?” I asked.
Sadness clouded in his eyes before he shrugged. “It was fine.”
The awkward silence between us was my fault. He’d been great at showing his vulnerable side in recent weeks, and I’d closed up like a clam protecting its precious pearl—my pearl being insecurities of my own, like not being good enough, and covering up a painful past.
“My dad’s dying,” I blurted out. “Heath just called and told me.”
Saint’s eyes flashed to mine, and his surprise was evident. “Are you close with him?”
Anyone else would’ve immediately saidI’m sorryor offered comforting words, but it was as if Saint had picked up on the truth.
“No,” I answered. “I don’t know how to feel. He hates me, Saint. Not for anything I did, but for who I am. He couldn’t accept I was bisexual and kicked me out. Disowned me. Now that he’s on his deathbed he suddenly wants to break our almost seven-year silence and make amends?” I scoffed and studied my coffee, tracing the designs on the cup with my finger. “I don’t know what to do.”
“My grandparents did the same to me,” he quietly said. I looked up at him and saw the hurt in his eyes. “Not to take the focus from you, but I want you to know I kind of know how you feel. In a way. When they found out I was gay, they told my mom to keep me away from them. That they didn’t want my filth to tarnish their reputations in the church community.”
“Have you talked to them since?” I asked, grateful he was sharing more about himself. I didn’t feel so alone.
“Not really.” Saint pursed his lips. “They sent a Christmas card every so often, and it was always the super religious ones. They’d write scripture inside it, usually theman shall not lie with manone, with a Merry Christmas to follow it.”
“Wow.” I took a drink and sat with my thoughts for a moment. “If you got a call from them that said they wanted to see you again because they were dying… would you go?”
“I think so,” Saint answered, biting his nail. “It’s hard to say, but I think I’d want closure. When they’re alive, it’s easy to forget about them and their hatred. Once they’re gone, though, the chance to make things right leaves with them. If not to make it right, then to at least tell them to their face that I’m happy. That they were wrong.”
I blew out a breath and hung my head. My nightmares from the night before were still fresh in my mind: the anger in my dad’s eyes as he hit me, the venom in his voice as he told me I disgusted him.
Could I really face him again?
“What about your mom?” Saint asked, drawing my attention back up. “Did she keep in contact with you?”
“No.” Heat spread to the tops of my ears. “She wasn’t the one to kick me out, but she stood there and watched with disgust as I packed my shit and left. Didn’t say a word to me then and hasn’t said one since.”
Saint was true to his word and didn’t press me for more information. He listened when I talked, but respected when I didn’t want to. The only other thing he said on the subject was, “If you decide to go, I’ll be here for you.”
And somehow that helped.
After I finished my coffee, I wasn’t in the mood to eat anything, so I went into the bathroom to start a shower. I hoped the hot water would ease some of the tension in my neck and shoulders. As I stood under the water, I closed my eyes and focused on the feel of it on my skin—wishing it’d help wash away my shame along with the grime.
Facing my dad again after all those years would be finally confronting my inner demons. This shame I carried inside me, the one that told me I was worthless, the one that used to make me whore around in an attempt to fill the hole in my chest, might finally be put to rest.
If only I could man up and face it.
