Page 91 of Fathers of the Bride
I was homeand eating the remains of a German chocolate cake I’d made—it wasnotvegan. I’d made it for myself and Avery and, at the time, Andy. Avery had had three pieces and I’m fairly certain Kelly snuck a tiny slice. Andy missed out entirely, and was now officially off the list of people I baked for.
Anyway, I was eating my delectable chocolate cake trying to understand everything that had happened. Yes, yes, yes… I’d seen lots of trolls online making fun of me. Andy insisted I not read those kinds of comments. He tried to keep me off Twitter. Of course, he failed. I looked and saw the complaints: “He doesn’t represent our community,” “Why does he have to be such a queen?” “He makes all gay men look bad.”
Seriously, I’m a style guru. What do they expect? Atilla the Hun? And I have to say all of this is based on the fact that to call a man female has been an insult for centuries. As the father of a beautiful, bright, socially engaged young woman I say thank you. Call me a big old girl any old time. Okay, maybe don’t call me big. But feel free to call me a girl.
All right, getting off my soap box now. It hurts that other gay men don’t like me—even if they don’t like me for all the wrong reasons. And it hurts that a lot of straight people like me precisely because I’m a tad girly. They can laugh at me, while in the back of their minds (or possibly even in the front of their minds) think I’m less than they are.
Andy knows all this. This is what he didn’t want—
“Daddy, you’re not going to eat that whole cake?” Kelly wanted to know when she came into the kitchen.
“Of course not,” I lied, though part of me wanted to slap this child whose judgment had ripped the cake from my mouth. Instead, I pushed it away, saying, “I’m so sorry about Evil Kayla.”
“Don’t be. I really should have behaved better. I’m a grownup, she can’t hurt me.”
“Kelly, she squirted you with a bottle of ink.”
“Oh, she’s horrible all right. But you should never let horrible people make you horrible too.”
“That’s very smart. How did you get to be such a smart girl?”
“Daddy, you taught me that.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Did I? I couldn’t remember.
“Oh wait, I think I—sweetheart, that was about paint, I’m sure I said, ‘Never let horrible people make you choose horrible colors.’”
She looked at me as though I was being silly, but I swear I did a segment on exactly that. I decided it best to change the subject.
“Can you imagine being angry for… how many years? Seven? Eight?”
“Nine. And you were angry at Papa for two years.”
“Two years and nine years are not the same thing. You’re better at math than that.”
“You know what I mean.”
“My relationship with your father is complicated.”
“I feel bad for him.”
“What?!”
“She tricked him. She could have told him we weren’t really friends. If she’d grown up to be a better person, she would have. But I guess she’s the same old Evil Kayla.”
“Your father should have known better,” I said, stiffly. How could she possibly have forgiven him so quickly? She certainly didn’t getthatfrom me.
“He really was just trying to help.”
“I don’t see it that way.”
“Daddy, please don’t be like that. I was really hoping we’d spend Thanksgiving together. The way we used to.”
Oh, my God, Thanksgiving! I’d almost forgotten. Ever since Kelly was sixteen and began to volunteer at Safe Haven, our family tradition has been to spend Thanksgiving there making dinner for the women who were temporarily between abodes. When Andy and I split, we broke the meal in half. He was there for the main course, leaving immediately afterward; while I came loaded down with a dozen pies for dessert. Needless to say, I was always the more popular of Kelly’s fathers.
When Kelly asked if I wanted to do ‘shifts’ for Thanksgiving the way we’d done the last two years, I said, “No, we’ll be fine. There are things we need to talk about anyway.”
