Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 65346 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 327(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 218(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65346 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 327(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 218(@300wpm)
That made both brows leap. “You did? How did it go?”
“It went well. It was quick, but he… well, he saw the video. Or at least news of it. He told me he wants to talk to me and doesn’t care about the tape. He sounded really shaken up.”
“So you’re gonna go?”
“I’m gonna go.”
That made my heart grow a pair of wings and beat up toward the sky. This felt good, like progress was just a hug, talk, and a cry away. I knew there had been a large rift between Rex and his dad, but I could feel a bond even stronger than that. And if this bat-fucked situation ended up bringing out something good from it, then, well, good.
“Okay,” I said, giving him another kiss. “Good luck. Call me when you get there.”
“I will.”
With that and one last kiss, Rex left, waving at the baby deer–feeding group. I let myself into the guesthouse and flopped onto the couch, unsure exactly how this day would end.
Hopefully better than it started…
24
Rex Madison
My dad lived in a modest house in a suburb of Atlanta, on a quiet, tree-lined street with a brick front and a well-manicured lawn and hedges. I used to hate it. We moved out of our massive water-front property and into a house half its size, my dad wanting to downsize and start new after my mom passed. It marked a terrible time in my life, and the negative emotions never left me until I left this place.
The new house had always been constricting, like the colorless walls were all closing in on me. I’d ride bike only to get out of the neighborhood and onto the Silver Comet Trail, a state-crossing bike trail that offered an escape from the cookie-cutter norms that the suburbs had to offer.
Now, though, my view shifted. I thought back to the chaos of the New York city streets, the shoulder-to-shoulder mass transit, the constant smell of car exhaust and questionable body odors.
It was a contrast that I’d come to appreciate after the last few months I’d spent at the Gold Sanctuary. The quiet life sounded better and better by the day.
Things weren’t going to be quiet, though. Not yet. Especially not today.
I parked next to a moving van, a sweaty pair of movers lifting up a delicate-looking wardrobe. I could see a figure monitoring them from the second-floor bedroom window, my stepmom’s telltale hair bun shadowed by some kind of backlight.
I didn’t bother wondering what was happening. They could remodel all they wanted. I was here to talk to my dad, and that was it.
Another pair of movers shuffled past me, holding a box of books and stacks of pamphlets. I recognized those pamphlets. They had come from Sylvia’s organization, meant to “educate” about the harms of gay marriage and the prosecution those with opposing beliefs now felt.
Give me a fucking break. When you get denied seeing your dying partner at a hospital because you’re missing a marriage license, then you can talk about prosecution.
It was almost enough for me to turn around and walk away. Anger seethed inside me. My father had supported her, and by extension her message, all those years. Whether he did it to collect votes or not, it didn’t matter, he’d still stood behind her. And he may have not known that his own son happened to be one of the very people she shat on, but that didn’t matter either. There were kids out there who could stumble on their toxic message and take it to heart.
My dad. Let me just talk to him and get it over with.
I couldn’t imagine an explanation that would suffice, but I walked into his house with as open a heart as I could have. I thought of my mom, and how she would always lead with her heart. It never failed her, and I knew she’d want me to live the same.
The foyer was a flurry of activity. There seemed to be a few assistants both on separate calls pacing around a table full of donuts and coffee boxes. A cluster of smart-looking kids sat in a corner next to the packed bookshelf, laptops open on each of their laps. They must have been my dad’s campaign team. I recognized a couple of them, from the last time my dad ran.
Only one looked my way and quickly looked back down, flustered.
They must know about the video.
I internally winced. Of course they know about the video.
The panic and dread tried grabbing the wheel, but somehow, someway, I managed to claw it back. I took a breath and walked up to the campaign staffer who’d looked my way. She had her dark hair braided in tight twists, falling down her shoulders, over her shirt that had my dad’s name across it: Gavin Madison, the first two letters of his name capitalized with a peach underneath them, symbolizing Georgia.