Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 90877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
My father was a different story altogether. He’d suffered a heart attack two months ago, had open-heart surgery to repair the valves, and the whole incident seemed to have shaken him. Maybe it made him consider his own mortality or something. At the time, we didn’t know his fate, so I’d gotten in touch with his estranged brother, and after he’d shown up to offer his support and some sort of reconciliation, Dad seemed even more bewildered.
He was less ornery now and more humble—well, for him. Or maybe grateful for the little things was a better way to describe it. One time I’d even walked in the room to find Grant holding his hand and reading to him from an old Western novel the center kept in their library. I couldn’t forget that image for days after. Nor the one of Dad laughing with his brother over some childhood memory. Like a full belly laugh that’d made my skin prickle.
But there were signs even before the heart attack that Dad was softening, that our confrontation might’ve made something register, however small. He was more engaging with Grant the very next visit and even asked me more questions. He’d briefly met Marc once during an intense discussion after his surgery, but at the time, Dad’s focus had been elsewhere. Still, I talked about Marc often, and I could see the wheels spinning. Soon more questions would come, and I didn’t plan on holding back. But for now, baby steps.
“Let me take a photo of the two of you,” I told Grant and Jeremy, whipping out my phone.
They posed near the Stonewall Inn entrance, and when Grant boldly reached for Jeremy’s hand, my stomach tightened even as my heart soared. The anxious parent in me looked around to make sure we were safe. I wasn’t foolish enough to pretend homophobia didn’t still exist, even in the largest, most diverse city in the country. Interestingly, my worry about Grant’s outfits—today it was his Hamiltonesque King George—had retreated to the background. Besides, nobody had batted an eye here. I supposed in a metropolis this large, they’d seen it all.
“Where’s a better place for them to be their true selves?” Marc said from beside me as I snapped away, reading my reaction well, as usual.
When we traded places so Grant could take a photo of Marc and me, I was bowled over when Marc knotted our fingers together. But I didn’t pull away, instead relishing the moment. I would never take this liberating feeling for granted again, knowing what others had gone through before us.
After we visited Christopher Park across the street, which featured monuments from the LGBTQIA rights movement, we found a low-key Italian place to grab dinner in the West Village.
“My feet are killing me,” Jeremy complained after we’d placed our orders.
“I hear you.” Marc smiled. “We can go back to the hotel and rest up. We have another big day tomorrow.”
Our plans for the next couple of days included all the touristy stuff from the Statue of Liberty to Times Square to Central Park, as long as the weather held. Spring in the city was as temperamental as it was in Cleveland. So we had backup plans, including museums, which seemed to please Grant and Jeremy.
“So far, this city is awesome. I can see why Mom loved it,” Grant said, buttering a roll. “But I can tell why it would be overwhelming too.”
“Definitely.” I took a sip of water. “She thought our city was a tad more manageable.”
After we finished stuffing our faces with wonderful pasta, we walked back down Christopher Street toward our hotel, passing a few other gay establishments, including a drag queen bar called Ruby Redd’s. The marquee read that Frieda Love would be headlining, and I thought it sounded fun. And given Marc’s grin, so did he. Maybe we’d find one in our own city and make a night of it.
As we passed by the Stonewall Inn again, Grant studied a flier near the door before turning to me. “Will you go inside and buy us some T-shirts? They would be so cool to have, but we’re obviously not old enough.”
Grant and his collection of shirts.
“That sounds like a great idea,” Marc said, glancing inside the window.
“Right?” Grant replied. “We can meet you back at the hotel if you wanna stay for a while.”
I scrutinized him, wondering what in the world he was up to. Was this really about buying shirts? But I didn’t read anything coy in his expression, nor Jeremy’s. Maybe he really wanted a shirt but also knew Jeremy and his aching feet needed to get back to the hotel.
Except there was no way I wanted them wandering around the city alone. “I think it’s better if we stick together and—”
“I’ll walk with them to the corner and make sure they know the way back. It’s only a couple of blocks south,” Marc said, squeezing my shoulder. “I’ll meet you inside the bar.”