Crappy Pancakes
The bleary flash of headlights swirled around my eyes. I swiveled on my seat. I sighed. He was still there.
He took his eyes off the road for a split second and smiled at me. He playfully punched my shoulder. “Wake up, tiger.”
I rubbed my eyes. “Yeah, I’m up.”
We reached a barren parking lot a little ways from the highway. In the dim twilight, the tin exterior of the diner flashed a calm sapphire shade on the concrete floor. I stared into its fluorescent windows, flickering as insects swarmed towards it.
He slipped his hand into mine, and I flinched away. He looked hurt. “Dad!” I complained. “I’m not a little kid anymore.”
The rim around his eyes wrinkled, and he ruffled my hair. “Sometimes I forget,” he said. He draped his heavy arm over my shoulder and we continued into the diner.
The black and white tiles shimmered wet, but we easily slid over them. He led me to the booth at the backmost part of the rustic interior. “I’ll have a pancake and eggs,” he told the waitress, who scribbled his order down. He nodded at me.
I leaned forward on the broken down table. “Same.”
“Coming right up!” she said with a perky grin. She sauntered off behind the counter and into the kitchen.
“So,” Dad said. He pursed lips and clucked his tongue. “What was it you wanted to tell me?”
My heart drummed in my chest. I’d forgotten all about it. I swallowed.
“Dad, I don’t know how to tell you this,” I began. His eyes flashed with interest. I felt a crick at the back of my neck. I fumbled with my fingers. “I’m …” I cringed at the words forming at the back of my head. I looked up at him. “You know what, it doesn’t matter anyway.”
I saw his jaws tense. He backed into his seat with a blithe nod.
The waitress came back with two steaming plates. She set them in front of us. I could only stare at mine. I didn’t have the appetite. And it seemed, neither did he.
He grabbed his fork. “Dad,” I interrupted. He looked up from his plate. “I’m gay.”
My head spun with thoughts of possible responses from him. What if he wouldn’t love me anymore? What if he thought it was his fault? What if …?
But he never faltered from his pancakes. He only shrugged. “Yeah,” he said matter-of-factly. He pointed his fork at my plate. “Eat up.”
“What?” I asked, thinking I’d missed something.
“Yeah,” he mumbled, chewing.
“You don’t care?”
He arched an eyebrow. “No. Eat up,” he insisted. “I don’t care, son.” The side of his lips twitched up to a greasy grin. I felt a tug on my lips.
He set his utensils at the side of his plate. “You’re my son. The fact that you like dudes doesn’t change that.” He shrugged. He pointed again. “Pancakes getting cold.”
I warily grabbed my knife and fork. I smeared butter on my pancakes and drowned it in syrup. I blinked up at Dad before I took my first bite. He winked at me.
I made a face at the bitter substance that touched my tongue. The food at the diner was awful. I never understood why Dad bothered to take me there every weekend.
Somehow it didn’t matter. Those were the best damn pancakes I’d ever had.
