Ollie’s adorable grandmother sits at the head of the table, and she’s so freaking cute. Her gray, almost purply-tinged hair sits curly on her head but is combed in the front as if she can’t reach the back anymore, and her rosy cheeks are covered in so much rouge it almost looks like sunburn, but her smile … her smile seems to be contagious, and I can’t help returning it. I think it’s because Ollie inherited the same cheekbone structure, and her smile reminds me of him.
Damn. This is beyond out of control now.
I’m a few feet away from the table when I hear “Trust me. Clark isn’t gonna last. I give it one more month. Tops.” It’s Vic.
I freeze, completely dumbfounded.
“If you say so,” Ash mumbles. “I’m happy he’s moving on.” Ash’s voice cracking gives away his lie. “I’m moving on.”
“Don’t worry about that, either. His little hissy fit probably shows he’s not over you.” They’re both sitting with their backs to me and still have no idea I’m eavesdropping. “But he can’t exactly complain when he’s too busy being ashamed of who he is to see what he lost.”
I’m about to yell What the fuck? and lose my shit because they still don’t get it. I don’t think anyone in this family does. How has Ollie never sat them down and told them what it’s really like for him?
Ash huffs. “Guess it was dumb of me to think maybe, possibly, he’d see the ring and pick up his phone to fix it.”
Is he saying …
“You don’t want that though,” Vic says. “You and Taylor are getting married, right? It’s not like if Ollie had changed his mind, you’d break it off and go running back to him. He could promise all he wanted that he’d come out, but how many times did he say that while you were together?”
I glance sideways at the table to see if anyone else is listening. They don’t appear to be, but if this afternoon has taught me anything about this family, someone’s always listening.
“You’re right,” Ash says. “I just... Shit, I dunno. I guess his continued denial about the way he’s living is more proof he can’t face who he is.”
Their words play into my fears. That I’m here to make Ash jealous and that Ollie doesn’t actually want me. I contemplate running, but it’s their warped vision of Ollie’s position that keeps my feet rooted to the ground.
I take a deep breath and try to calm down, because it’s not my place to say anything. Nope. Not at all. Even if I was Ollie’s actual boyfriend, it’s not my place.
Don’t say anything. Do not … say … any—
I plonk the salad down in front of Vic and Ash. “Is that what you believe?”
Okay, great. Not only is my mouth not listening to me, but it’s also yelling. Everyone except the kids turn their heads to face me.
“What’s wrong?” Ollie’s mom asks from across the table.
I stare at Vic and Ash, and Vic stares right back as if he doesn’t know what he’s done wrong. How can he not understand?
Ash, at least, seems to know he messed up or he’s at least embarrassed, as he hangs his head.
“Is that what you really think? That Ollie is ashamed of who he is? That he can’t accept he’s gay?” I look at the rest of the people at the table, who all stare back with concerned scrunches in their brows, and holy fuck, this family’s genes are crazier than I thought. They’re all giving me the same look, and it’s uncanny how much they look alike.
“What do you mean?” his mom asks, her confusion matching everyone else’s.
Oh, God. They really do believe that.
“Hasn’t Ollie ever told you what it’s like for him? Hasn’t he ever told you about what happens in locker rooms? Let’s just say the word fa—” I glance at the kids, who’ve now turned their attention to me too. “Not nice F-words are thrown around like candy. When the guys screw up on the ice, they’re called ladies, and the whole sporting industry thinks anyone who’s gay isn’t man enough to play sports.”
They barely blink at me. No reaction, no realization. Suddenly, I feel like I’m in one of my nightmares. I’m back in high school being stared at for being the only gay boy in school. Not that I ever was, but I was the only out kid in school thanks to the football team.
While self-consciousness tries to make me run away, my anger builds. “None of you understand, do you?” I turn to Vic. “You’re in professional sports. How can you sit there and not empathize with Ollie at all?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know any gay guys in MMA.”
“How many people train at your gym?” I ask.
Another shrug, like a sulking teenager being sent to the principal’s office. “About twenty who could go pro if they work hard enough.”