Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 96284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
“Pretty much.” He nodded once. “I liked my grandpa a whole lot, though. He was nice. We used to play cards with quarters and Jolly Ranchers.”
I smiled. Those were the good memories. I had similar ones with my grandmother on Dad’s side. Only, she and I would play cards with rock candy and taffy.
“I went into the guest room to find Grandpa’s cards,” Jake continued quietly. “Privacy wasn’t really a thing in my world yet, so I was just rummaging through his suitcase. And I found a picture of him kissing another man.”
Oh damn.
“It was an older photo,” he said. “But it couldn’t have been too old, ’cause I recognized him right away. Maybe from the ’70s or somethin’.” He grew visibly uncomfortable and shifted against the headboard. “I’ve been tryin’ to analyze my own reaction to that picture the past few years. I remember feeling…some sort of warmth, like a happy feeling. It wasn’t a lewd picture or anythin’—they were fully dressed and just givin’ each other a kiss. I have no idea who took the photo, only that they were standing on a beach. Grandpa was happy. So…I don’t know if that’s why I…” He blew out a breath and rubbed at his forehead. He appeared frustrated. “Anyway, I called out to my mother. Which… I can’t even imagine the shitstorm I created that day, ’cause I never noticed anything different. Or maybe Ma didn’t bring it up with her folks. I don’t know. I don’t remember much after how Ma reacted to the photo.”
That was where the fear had come from, wasn’t it?
“What did she do, Jake?”
Keep your cool, I told myself. It would do me no good to get angry.
“She was livid,” he replied bluntly. Like a flip of a switch, he shut down. I sensed it. “Thing is—fuck. I’m not supposed to make excuses for her, but anyway. She was in the middle of cooking, you know? So when she ran upstairs, she was holding a knife. So that made everything worse. She ripped the picture from me and squeezed me to her—way too tightly. And all I saw was that knife right in my face. With the photo cutting into my cheek—and she kept saying we were never gonna mention this to anyone. We were gonna keep quiet. Over and over—we’ll stay quiet, my darling. He’s a sick man, and he’s gonna burn in hell. You don’t wanna burn in hell like him, do you?”
Holy fuck. Rage flooded me—poured into me like a lava stream—and I couldn’t help but picture an eight-year-old Jake hearing those words. I’d seen photos of him from that age. And he’d always been the mediator, the one who tried to keep the peace and make people happy.
Jake’s mother must’ve known, right? This had to have been behind-closed-doors drama at one occasion or another.
“Your mom knew about her dad, didn’t she?” I asked. “Like, before seeing that photo.”
“I believe so. Yeah.” He nodded. “And the thing is, I think my grandparents separated at some point. I have this vague memory of my mom and her brother talking when I was a kid—something about the year their dad wasn’t around. Grandma wouldn’t let him into the house or whatever.”
Jesus Christ. I was at a loss for words—and I felt bad too. I’d brought that up in Norway. Greer had given me a book about indoctrination of all sorts, covering everything from military doctrine to reprogramming former gang members. Religious indoctrination had its own chapter, of course. And yeah, I’d been curious about Jake’s past. He’d reacted so fiercely to homosexuality when we’d met. LA had reprogrammed him a bit. He’d relaxed pretty fast. He’d accepted a job at a gay club. We had friends who were gay and bi. I was bi, and he hadn’t reacted poorly to that. Whenever we were in New York, he got a little disappointed if Greer wasn’t around.
Scars had a way of making themselves known, though. Jake having no problems with other people’s sexuality was one thing. This was about him, personally. A whole other ball game. Now it was personal—and Jake couldn’t claim he was straight anymore.
“You really never brought that up again?” I wondered.
He shook his head. “Not once. I blocked out that whole day altogether.”
Made sense, I guessed. We suppressed memories as a way to cope.
“I think I developed a defense mechanism for when we touched on a topic just a bit too close to what’d happened,” he admitted. “Whatever Ma preached, I agreed to. It was better than getting a lecture. Haley had a friend who was too progressive for Ma’s likin’, so I escaped to my room whenever she was at our house. Some city girl from Seattle who wore too much makeup and had two moms. All that made me so fucking uncomfortable—but now I know it wasn’t because of them.”