Page 45 of Oliver

“When are they ever?” she says, and I chuckle. “Do you want me to go with you? I could bring Freddie along or see if someone can watch him.”

I shake my head. “No, I should go alone. This is something I need to do for myself. And I’ve decided to meet them in public so things hopefully will stay mostly civil.”

She nods. “You know I support you. Be brave.”

I give her one more hug before heading out the door.

When I enter the restaurant where I’ve asked Mother and Father to meet me, I tell the hostess who I’m with and she directs me to their table. They’re sitting next to each other and I steel myself before sliding into the chair opposite them.

“Nice of you to join us, son,” Father starts off. “We’ve been waiting here for fifteen minutes. Almost got up and left.”

“What’s going on, Oliver?” Mother pipes up. “You’ve been ignoring our calls and texts for weeks. Your sister told us the wedding was canceled but that can’t be true.”

“Yes, your mother was very upset by that news,” Father says, scowling at me. “Surely Olivia was mistaken.”

You’re allowed to disappoint them. “She wasn’t,” I say. “The wedding is off. Amanda and I aren’t getting married. I’m in love with someone else.” Fuck, my heart is racing but I bloody did it.

Their eyes practically light up, no doubt assuming I’m referring to some woman a decade younger than me who will be utterly ecstatic about the idea of giving them grandchildren.

“Well, don't keep us waiting, dear,” Mother says. “Tell us about her.”

I wiggle my toes, clenching and unclenching my fists on my lap, then take a deep breath. “Actually, it’s a him.”

They both stare at me, like they’re sure they heard me wrong.

“I beg your pardon?” Mother says.

“He’s joking, darling,” Father says. “Our son isn’t gay.”

I grit my teeth. “Actually, Father, I am.”

He balks. “Preposterous. Since when?”

“My entire bloody life, but you two were always too narrow minded to even consider the fact that you might have a queer child,” I hiss.

“This is absurd,” Father retorts, his voice a harsh whisper. “You are not gay, Oliver. You were engaged to a woman. I don’t understand. You know better. Why would you choose to do this? To upset us like this?”

“Choose to upset you?” I say. “Being gay isn’t a choice, Father, it’s who I bloody am, and it took me until I was thirty-six to tell you because I knew you would respond this way.”

“Respond in what way?” he asks, appalled.

“Make it about yourself,” I tell him. “Tell me how wrong I am. Try to deny it.”

“I don’t know what you want, Oliver,” Mother says, crying now.

“I want you to love me, for me,” I tell her, almost shouting. This conversation has derailed rather quickly. “All my life I’ve done what you wanted me to do and been who you expected me to be. I’ve done everything I can to earn your love and it still wasn't enough. I got good grades. I went to the school you wanted me to go to. I got the bloody job you wanted me to get even though I fucking hated it. I dated who I knew you would want me to date. I lied to myself and everyone around me for years about who I was because you made me feel like being gay was the worst possible thing I could be; Like my existence offended you; Like I was less than human because of my sexuality. And I fucking believed you. But then I met a man who saw the real me and loved me for who I was, encouraged me to be me. Told me that I was worthy and good and that I deserved to be happy, even if it meant disappointing my parents. And even though he probably never wants to see me again after the way I treated him I am going to do my bloody best to get him back because he is what makes me happy.”

“You’re serious?” Father says as tears slide down my cheeks. “Well, that’s ungratefulness for you. We’ve only ever wanted what was best for you, Oliver. I don’t know why you can’t see that. It’s not right, a man being with another man.”

“Christ,” I mutter, wiping the tears away, and pulling my chair back to stand. “I don’t have anything else to say. I’m going after Hunter. When you two get your heads out of your arses, let me know.”

Mother’s eyes widen and Father snarls.

“You’re choosing that boy over us? Over your own family?”

“No, Father,” I say, scooting my chair back in. “I’m choosing me.” Then I turn to walk away, but before I do I look back at them and say, “And by the way, I quit my job.”

Sixteen

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