Page 82 of Big Britches

“Elijah Fowler?”

“Wow. How do you do that?”

“I told you I think better out here by the water. No. I don’t know him. Name only. He graduated a good decade ahead of me. But he played football at HOCO, too. So, he probably knows who I am. Maybe he’s not a homophobe.”

“Or a bigot.”

Titus looked at Pedro, surprised.

“Black people can hate Mexicans too, T. Prejudice comes in many shades and colors.”

“Why can’t people see beyond that? I don’t get it.”

“Ignorance, envy, fear… shall I keep going?”

“No,” Titus said. “It makes my head hurt.”

“I may have a remedy for that.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“What’s that I feel stirring down there beneath me?”

Titus grinned. “You wanna go swimming?”

Pedro rolled his eyes demurely. “But I don’t have a swimsuit.”

Eighteen

Pedro had a hard time leaving the warmth of Titus’s bed on Monday morning.

Pedro had a hard time leaving the warmth of Titus’s bed on any morning.

Today was different, though. They had gone through their usual ritual of mornings when Pedro was scheduled to work elsewhere—waking before dawn, sleepy sex, snippets of conversation, sex again, a shower, and then breakfast with Tucker.

Only the previous day was unusual. Titus had sat poolside more, while Pedro had played with Tucker in the water. He was contemplative, only answering when prompted. Pedro knew he had a lot on his mind–his father, the sale of his business, the groundwork of new businesses, and a potential political campaign. Somewhere, in the mix of all that, was their personal life and the inevitability of his coming out publicly.

It was a lot for someone to consider.

Mostly, Pedro recognized the signs of anticipatory grief stemming from Truman’s diagnosis. He knew from his own experience there was nothing he could do to ease this mental fatigue other than to be there for Titus. Offer support–or distraction–with his presence whenever Titus needed him.

Yet, he couldn’t miss work. Today, especially. Today he would see Silas for the first time since the awkward encounter at the Rialto. To call out sick could mean many things in Silas’s view.

Cowardice. Confirmation. Resignation.

No. Of all days, as much as he wanted to be there for Titus, this was one Pedro certainly could not miss.

“I’m going to call him,” Titus repeated.

“No. This one’s on me, T. It’s my job and I’m the one that should face him. If he fires me, well, then I guess you’ll be seeing me sooner than you think.”

“I told you about his history. He beat that kid to a bloody pulp.”

“He’s never given a reason for me to fear him. I can handle it. You’ve got a lot on your mind.”

“You’re much smaller than him, P. If he hurts you… I don’t know what I’d do.”

“Political candidates don’t fight, not physically anyway.”

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