“I missed you too.”
Mondays may be awful, but Clover makes up for it. My nose is pressed behind one of her ears. She smells like Dad’s just let her in from the backyard: like grass and that butterscotch-y aroma pine sap gives off. Her fur is still sun-warmed.
And then my nose wrinkles at new scents—acrid, smoky, burnt spices.
“Dad!”
In the kitchen, my dad leans over a charred dish in a metal baking pan. He looks as if he’s mourning over poor Dobby’s dead body.
Small confession: I’ve never actually read the Harry Potter books. But I’ve seen all the movies and all the internet memes, which sort of counts, right? I mean, it’s not full Potterhead status, but I hate long books. This is something we don’t discuss with Lucy—she’s a diehard fan and mostly a Ravenclaw according to the Pottermore sorting quiz she’s taken nineteen times.
Next to Dad’s elbow, the iPad is playing the Food Network. I grab a pear from the copper-wire fruit bowl at the center of the kitchen island, where Dad continues to grieve. I hop onto a bar stool opposite of him. “What is that?”
“According to Ina Garten, it’s a French apple tart.”
I sniff—the sweetness of the apples is altered by scorched crust. Ina’s cheery voice mocks us from the iPad. Her recipes are a death wish for amateur cooks.
My mouth puckers. “Looks like something Clover upchucked after eating Mom’s roast beef.”
“Be quiet,” says Dad with a sideways grin.
I only tease him to keep that look in his blue eyes bright and effervescent. “What have we said about trying to replicate Food Network recipes, Dad?”
Chin lowered, Dad mumbles something back.
“Come again?”
“Not without notifying the local authorities first.”
It’s not that my dad is lacking in skills at the stove. What he does with bread and eggs and sugary toppings is a religious experience. But he’s also under-baked birthday cakes and burnt cobblers and made things that were supposed to resemble pies look like Willow’s soiled diapers.
Thing is, Dad’s constant kitchen experimentation is a result of pure boredom. He’s a stay-at-home tech advisor for a software company. It was easier when Willow was a baby, when Mom had this itch to get back into the wedding business. The decision to relocate his office from a swank downtown Atlanta office building to a back corner of the house was all his. Managing drool and pacifiers and constructing impenetrable baby gates kept him occupied while he waited for the next techno-challenged college brat to accidentally crash their laptop with a virus from watching free porn.
“So,” I say as I wave my pear at the crispy would-be tart, “what’s this about?”
“Uncle Dawson and Aunt Sandra are coming to visit.” He nudges the blackened tart with an oven mitt. “You know your aunt insists on something home-cooked.”
The pear’s skin breaks easily under my teeth. I chuckle and chew at once. Thanksgivings are always a hot mess of bad dishes starring Aunt Sandra’s under-seasoned green beans. The entire Cameron clan is talentless in a kitchen.
“Is Gabriel coming with Uncle Dawson?”
A loose curl rests against Dad’s wrinkled forehead. Our hair is similar, except his curls are smooth, while mine become defiant when I let them get too long.
Maybe it’s because we’re not… Nope. Reel it back in.
“I doubt Gabe wants to suffer through another car ride with Sandra and her Christian rock playlists.”
Pear juices dribble to my chin when my mouth curves up.
Aunt Sandra is one of those church-every-Sunday-morning southerners, one of those pray before every meal, “God bless you” when you sneeze, can quote Bible scriptures on the fly religious types. It’s not a bad thing. Religion isn’t a bad thing. Even as a kid, I knew having something to believe in was important. A deity, the universe, whatever. But it’s the people who use religion for status and power over others and not for comfort and hope that betray its purpose. Aunt Sandra isn’t holier-than-thou either. I’ve heard her swear at least three times behind the wheel.
“Maybe Gabe can endure?”
Dad laughs. “Your uncle loves Gabe too much to test those waters again.”
He’s right. Gabriel, Uncle Dawson’s partner, is a faithful Catholic who can only handle so much Christian rock. The ninety-minute drive from Athens to Dunwoody is pushing it.
“Dawson will be thrilled to spend time with you,” Dad says. “That is if you’re not too busy being a social surf king.”
I roll my eyes. What even is a social surf king? Thankfully, I didn’t inherit my dad’s sense of humor.
I love Uncle Dawson. He has a history of being amazing. He was the first person to hoist me on his narrow shoulders to celebrate my coming out. It was as if he was doing it for both of us. He was taking his first breath as an openly gay person with me, a moment he didn’t get to have when he came out in his early twenties. I was happy to share.
“I’ll try to make myself available, Dad,” I finally say.
“Good. Are you gonna post about it on your SnapBook, InstaTweet, or whatever?”
“Dad…”
“Let me guess. There’s a rule against notifying the world you’re hanging with family, right?”
“Pretty much.”
We laugh. I love laughing with my dad, love how the depth of his chuckle infects me. Its low rumble manifests way down in Dad’s chest before it springs free like a dolphin cracking the ocean’s surface.
Tossing a dishtowel over the charred dessert, Dad leans on his elbows, his chin against pinkish knuckles, before he asks, “How was school, kiddo?”
My body mirrors his slumped appearance. My muscles put a lazy effort into a shrug. “Another Monday.” It’s the easiest answer. My thoughts still drift like abandoned satellites. In the deepest, darkest parts of my brain, Chloe’s words echo.
Someone like you is always somewhere.
Someone like me. What does that mean? Someone gay? Someone whose sexuality will always be the punchline of stupid jokes from assholes like Ford? I can take the heat. Coming out at fourteen was scary and heavy and exhausting, but that was three years ago. I’ve adjusted. Plus, being queer is freaking boss.
“Kiddo?”
I blink at my dad. My jaw moves with nothing coming out.
Willow comes running in, yelping and sparing me additional fatherly questioning. Bert swings from one small hand as Willow leaps into Dad’s open arms. They twirl and giggle.
“Well, hello there! How was your day?” Dad asks.