Page 7 of One Little Problem
2. Lying is the best policy
Who needs honesty? Lying and crazy schemes for the win.
Did mail come on Sundays? Probably not, but I checked anyway.
There was no mail for me. I stood at our mailbox, looking at the empty inside for a few moments before shutting the lid. There was lots of space around, as we used to have active farm land and a barn and whatever else people had when they farmed, stuff that I should probably know and did not care about at all because the mailbox was empty and I had enough of a vantage point to see that the mail truck had not driven up and no one had put anything in the mailbox. I was standing right next to it. I checked it again anyway.
I’d applied to a bunch of science programs for the summer. I had to wait to see if I got in to any of them. The purpose of which was, like, science, not maturity and patience, so if they could hurry up with that, that would be great. I was used to projecting confidence. Only a fake it until you make it attitude got me through being a target, the gay kid and a science nerd, though lately it seemed like I’d gotten to that stage where I didn’t have to fake it anymore, I’d made it instead.
But the idea of smart people in white lab coats debating my strengths and weakness and adjusting their glasses importantly as they evaluated me, writing notes about all my flaws on a clipboard that I’d never see but would always wonder about what was on it… no idea if that’s what the decision making process for selecting applicants even was but that was how it worked in my head.
When I got back inside, Dad was waiting for me. “Ryan, I need to talk you.” Almost sounded like he wanted to break up with me but that would be rude, who broke up with their son before breakfast? Especially when it was their turn to cook.
“Strong start for someone who should be groveling right about now,” I told him. Groveling required French toast, I decided. At the very least, I wanted French toast.
“Groveling? I haven’t done anything that warrants that.” He started getting things out of the fridge.
“Really, how long are you going to dislike Luke for?” Dad thought I could do better than Luke. Maybe that made sense to someone who identified as straight and couldn’t appreciate another guy’s physical appearance. But hey, there was more to life than looks, that’s what we tell ourselves, right? Well, Luke had a personality I wanted to put my mouth all over too; I just didn’t know how. He was sweet and silly and clueless.
Dad paused, holding eggs in his hands in front of the refrigerator. “I don’t dislike him.” He resumed motion, putting the eggs on the counter.
“So, you’re okay with us dating?” I should get a tape recorder. If he happened to say yes, I needed the proof so that I could remind him when he changed his mind.
“I didn’t say that,” Dad said. Dad didn’t think Luke was right for me. He relented a little when Luke came out to his parents and it didn’t go well, but now he was back to being on guard. I’d say that Luke should get hurt all the time and then Dad would weaken, but I actually liked my boyfriend and didn’t want him injured mentally or physically.
“We’ve been trying,” I reminded him. “We follow your rules.”
Dad snorted. “You’ve never once followed my rules.”
No point arguing there. “Luke does though. He’s afraid of you.”
Dad nodded, smiling. “I like that.”
I couldn’t smile back. “But you don’t like him.” This was another of those things I couldn’t change but it still made me sad.
“It’s just very confusing,” Dad said and I assumed he meant Luke and not the scrambled eggs he was now making. “I want to like him. I know it could be worse, especially knowing you—"
“Hey, groveling,” I reminded him.
He gave me a look that made it pretty clear there would be no groveling, but he agreed to make French toast when I asked. “I want to give you my blessing,” Dad continued. “Except I still don’t trust him. I don’t know how to fix that. I can’t make myself trust him.”
I considered that a moment. That sucked. “You could lie to me,” I suggested.
Dad sighed the sigh of a long-suffering parent, which he had perfected, but I was immune to that by now. “That would be great parenting.”
“I’m okay with it,” I assured him. He could definitely lie to me more. Six-year-old me agreed. When I asked where babies came from, he told me. No make-believe stork for me.
Dad tensed. “I’m not lying to you, that’s actually why I want to talk to you.”
“Not about Luke?”
Exasperation appeared on his face. “Not everything has to do with Luke even if you think so—"
“Not this again.” That was another one of his complaints about my relationship. He paused in making breakfast. I wanted to tell him to get on with it, but I didn’t have a great feeling about this. Had he done something wrong? Hopefully he hadn’t, like, gambled away all the money in my college savings account, which was mostly money he’d set aside from Mom’s life insurance. Hey, what a fun thought.
… If he did gamble that money away, at least he’d have to give Luke and I break. There would be no moral superiority for him.
“You’re right,” Dad told me, which was another thing I needed to record him saying. “That’s not what I want to talk about.” He looked so serious, not wearing a hat, but if he was I had the feeling he’d take it off and wring it in his hands.
