White Rabbit(76)

“Rufus, stop,” Sebastian pleads, horrified, and before I can ignore him and launch into a second round—to say to Mr. Williams what I’m wishing I’d had the guts to say to Peter at the police station—I feel his hand on my arm, and I look over at him.

Beyond the stormy fear in my boyfriend’s eyes, I see a sort of resolution, and it makes my jaw snap shut with a click. This is the moment Sebastian has been running from all night, and now that it’s caught up with him at last, he’s decided to face it—and whatever happens, he’s the only one who can fight this battle. If I really want to help him, I need to keep my mouth shut for once.

Turning to face his father, his tone as hollow and fragile as a rotten log, Sebastian says, “I didn’t come home because I d-didn’t … I didn’t know if you’d want me there anymore.”

His erratic breathing fills the stuffy silence around us, and Mr. Williams blinks, his mouth dropping open; gazing at Sebastian with dark, confused eyes, he takes a moment to find his voice. When he does, it sounds strangely rough. “You … didn’t know if I would want you there?”

“You were s-so … so mad at me,” Sebastian states thinly, his hands opening and closing. “I know you’re dis-disappointed—”

“I never—” Mr. Williams covers his mouth and shifts, sucking air through his nose; then, dropping his hands to his hips, he hangs his head. It takes him a moment to speak. “I wasn’t … I’m not mad at you, Sebastian, I—”

“You broke Mom’s bowl,” Sebastian whispers. “You threw it.”

“I was … I was upset.” The man tries to make it sound as if there’s a clear distinction. “I didn’t mean—that doesn’t give you the right to just leave—to disappear like that! It’s not acceptable behavior. This isn’t something you can just … drop on me and then walk away. You can’t expect me not to have a reaction.”

“You threw it!” Something catches in Sebastian’s throat. “You were so angry, and I thought … I didn’t…”

“Sebastian—” Mr. Williams begins, but his voice thickens so much that he has to stop. “I would never turn away from you—not ever. You know that. You have to know that. Nothing you could do would ever make me … reject you. Nothing. I love you, no matter who you are, or … or what you do with your life. That’s a fact. And you’ll always be welcome at home. It’s your home.”

“But you said.” Sebastian struggles to breathe, struggles to keep it together. “You said. You said it was wrong.”

“I said some … some very stupid things,” Mr. Williams admits with difficulty, seeming suddenly aged. He rubs a hand over the burnished dome of his shaved head. “I grew up in a very religious household. Your granddad was a pastor, and he taught me a lot of uncompromising things early on, about what’s right and what’s wrong, and I…” He peters out, giving his son an exhausted look like he’s run out of gas, and he changes tack. “You know, there are some openly gay athletes on a few of the teams up at the university now, and I’ve learned a lot from working with them. I respect them—we respect each other—and not so long ago that’s something I wouldn’t have thought possible. And I thought that meant I’d finally moved past some of the things I once believed—the things I was raised on. But when I saw those pictures … when I realized what they meant, what you’d been keeping from me, I just…” He shakes his head helplessly. “A lot of old feelings came back in a heartbeat. Feelings I’m not proud of. And I didn’t handle myself very well.”

“I didn’t m-mean for you to … to find out like that.”

Mr. Williams is silent for a moment. “But is that what’s going on, Sebastian? Are you gay?”

“Maybe?” My boyfriend can only offer an honest shrug, still unable to fully articulate the boundaries of his sexuality, perhaps not even aware of where exactly those boundaries lie; whether he’s bi or pan or heteroflexible—or something else. There’s no litmus test for this stuff, and you can’t exactly weigh yourself on the Kinsey scale. For now, it could be that “maybe” is the clearest and most accurate answer he knows how to provide. “Can you … can you handle that?”

Seriously, thoughtfully, his father asks, “What do I always tell you about family, Sebastian?”

“Blood is always thicker,” my boyfriend answers quietly, somewhere between a question and a statement.

“Blood is always thicker,” his father repeats with solemnity. “And you’re my blood. You’re my son, and I love you no matter what, Sebastian. I don’t want to be the kind of person you feel you have to hide yourself from. If you can be a little patient with me, I can handle anything.” Mr. Williams then puts on a brave smile, and gestures awkwardly in my direction. “So Rufus is really your … is he your, uh … he was the one in the pictures.”

“Oh, um, yeah.” Sebastian looks at me, as if surprised to see me standing there, and offers a nervous gesture. “Dad, Rufus is my … my boyfriend.”

“It’s nice to see you again,” I offer inanely, and then Sebastian’s father and I share what will probably go down in the record books as History’s Most Awkward Handshake, considering how pointedly rude to him I was just minutes ago.