My Life After Now - By Jessica Verdi Page 0,35

little,” I admitted.

“Patrick was Seth’s best friend in the world. They met in second grade and were inseparable ever since—kind of like you and Max and Courtney. He had his share of problems, but he loved Seth and he adored you. We didn’t find out until very late that he had AIDS. I don’t even think he knew until those last months.”

A memory was dislodged. I was about six, and Papa was so sad. I asked him what was wrong, and he told me that Patrick had died. He’d had a disease. I asked if I could catch Patrick’s disease. Papa took me into his arms and promised me I couldn’t.

Okay, now Papa’s reaction made a whole lot more sense.

Dad and I spent the rest of the day at his art gallery. They were closed on Saturdays, and we set up a picnic on the floor and ate falafel sandwiches and drank milkshakes surrounded by all the works of art.

I don’t know how he did it, considering it was the only thing both of us were thinking about, but Dad didn’t mention it again for the rest of the day. Instead we talked about the play and we talked about the documentary he’d just seen about a guy who decided to live for an entire year without earning or using money and we talked about the vegetable garden he wanted to plant in the spring.

We walked around the gallery, pausing in front of each painting and sculpture. Dad told me about the artists and what the intention was behind some of the more abstract pieces. I couldn’t believe how much they were selling some of them for—my favorite painting, an enormous canvas covered in different shades of blue, with paintbrush bristles dried into the paint strokes, was sixty-five thousand dollars.

As the sun started to set outside the gallery doors, Dad surreptitiously glanced at his phone. He’d texted Papa before we’d left the house, letting him know where we’d be, and I knew he’d been hoping he would show up. We both were.

“Still no response, huh?”

The corners of Dad’s mouth turned down the slightest bit. “He’ll come around,” he said, tucking the phone back in his pocket.

“If you say so,” I said.

“Lucy, have I ever told you about the time I told my parents I was gay?”

I thought back. “I don’t think so.”

He nodded. “I was seventeen. The prom was coming up and my parents asked me one night at dinner if there were any girls at school that I wanted to ask. I was so taken off guard I distinctly remember choking and spitting out a mouthful of peas. I’d thought they’d known I was gay; I’d always assumed it was obvious. I’d never shown any interest whatsoever in girls and the walls of my bedroom were covered with pictures of Luke Perry and Johnny Depp.”

I giggled and Dad smiled.

“So I shook my head and said, ‘Uh, I’m gay. I thought you knew that.’ I was so casual about it. But they weren’t. Apparently they hadn’t had the slightest idea—and they were not happy. My mother immediately started praying and my father actually kicked me out of the house, shouting that no son of his was going to be a faggot. I had to stay with friends for over a month.”

“But Grandma and Grandpa are members of PFLAG! They love Papa!”

“They do now. But it took them a while to get used to the idea.”

“Whoa.”

“The point is, Lucy, that they came around. And so will Papa. Just give him a little time,” Dad said.

We threw away our food containers and packed up to go home. “Dad?” I said as we walked to the car. “Thanks for today. It actually wasn’t such a terrible birthday, all things considered.”

He took my hand. “I love you, honey.”

“Love you too.” I let those words linger in the air for a moment. “Oh, and one more thing—can you not tell Lisa about any of this? Or anyone else?”

He studied me for a moment. “Of course,” he said, and we drove home.

19

Sunday

Papa didn’t get home until the next morning. Dad and I were sitting at the table, stewing, our untouched breakfast congealing in front of us, when he shuffled in. He was still dressed in yesterday’s rumpled clothes and his face was all stubbly. Dad breathed a long sigh of relief. I watched and waited.

He hovered in the doorway, pausing, looking at me. When he finally came in, he scooted my chair out so I was