never be manly like he was. His gravelly voice, gentle and strong, always made everything okay.
The leather feels smooth and warm as I rub it with my fingertips, like it’s just waiting to be worn. If only my feet were as big as my dad’s, I’d wear them. Even though cowboy boots are in general horrifying and a major don’t, I’d wear them proudly, because they’re his.
I rub the leather and imagine he’s here with me.
Dad, I think. What the hell am I supposed to do? Mom is falling apart, Dad. I don’t know how to put her back together again, and I’m so sorry. I’m letting you down, because I should know how to do this and I don’t, Dad, I don’t.
Dad, I think. This kid Max, who we used to call Guy Smiley in AP Comp because he is one of those dude bros who is always smiling because life is perfect? He’s gonna help, I guess. Because I know how much you loved that truck. And him helping is so random, and I don’t even know how to talk to boys like him, and are you ashamed of me for that? That I’m not even a real, true boy?
And Dad, I think. What if we wind up on the street? Are you disappointed in me for not taking care of Mom as well as you would have?
I know it’s just my imagination, but I swear I hear his voice respond. It floods through my veins, from inside of me right up to my inner ear.
No, Jordan. Of course absolutely not, never. His usually rough voice is soft, like marshmallow.
I sit this way for a long time, not moving. It’s almost like I can’t. Finally, I take a deep breath, kiss the leg of my dad’s right boot, stand up and turn off the light.
I open the closet door and my mom is on her bed, reading. She glances up at me, and she doesn’t seem the least bit surprised to see me emerge.
Her eyes are glassy and pink-tinged like she’s been crying again. She smiles weakly. “I need some snuggle time. Mini-snuggle?” she asks.
I melt. I can’t help it. I always do. Because she’s so fragile, like a bird, inside, like her supple largeness is inadequate to protect her brittleness, and it’s my job to make sure she doesn’t break. Because she’s my mom, and she was married to Dad. Because I would still jump in front of a train for her, despite the fact that she sometimes makes me furious.
I sit down on the bed and she turns away and I settle into my outer spoon position.
I say, “Sure.”
“Do you know how I know you’re gay?” Betts asks as he jerks his controller to make Ezekiel Elliott juke past a defender on the big screen in front of us. “It’s because you had gay sex with a gay guy last night.”
I crack up and say, “Do you know how I know you’re straight? Your T-shirt.”
Zay-Rod, who is sitting on the other side of the couch from Betts with me in the middle, cracks up and says, “Aw, snap.” Betts is wearing some cheap-ass white shirt his mom bought him at Costco. It’s gone through the laundry so many times that now it’s more like gray white.
“What’s wrong with my T-shirt?” The Three Amigos are on hour four of our Madden Football Fest in Betts’s TV room. His Dallas Cowboys are huddling up. They’re trailing Zay-Rod’s and my Arizona Cardinals by three in the fourth quarter, but this drive could give Betts’s ’Boys the win. He breaks the snap and the Cowboys head to the line of scrimmage. Big third down.
I say, “Dude. That shirt is so straight it watches Tosh.0. That shirt isn’t even bi-curious. You need a shirt upgrade.”
“For real though,” Zay-Rod chimes in as Betts hikes the ball. “You go out in that and the ladies be like, yo. That shit needs some Downy.”
Zay-Rod’s Cardinals blitz, and Betts says, “Crap,” as he tries to help his quarterback evade the rush. Fail. Seven-yard loss.
“Clutch, dude,” I say as Zay-Rod slaps my raised hand. “Clutch.”
“Gang up on the white guy. Nice,” Betts says, and he crosses his right leg over my left one at the ankle. It’s an unspoken thing with the Three Amigos. We’re very physical with each other. Telling them I was gay didn’t change anything at all; it’s just what we do. His Cowboys get in punt formation and Zay-Rod hands the controller