Talia finally comes out to her parents

The day Talia came out to her parents as bisexual.

After I left, Talia and Rachel had made love again, just the two of them. I don’t know what happened between them, but whatever it was, it sealed the deal.

Talia was head-over-heels for Rachel, and she wanted her parents to know. No, it wasn’t an attention-seeking phase, and no, it wasn’t an experiment. There had been tearful praying from her mother, and angry shouting from her father. Eventually, her dad had stormed out of the house and come back drunk at three am.

All told, it sounded pretty fucking awful.

Still, I’ve heard stories of worse. At least Talia’s parents didn’t do anything vehemently idiotic, like throw her out of the house or disown her. Things gradually got better between them, though after that night Talia spent a lot more time away from home.

It got me thinking about my own relationships—if they could even be called that. When I learned what Talia had put herself through for Rachel, I began to question if maybe, just maybe, my “totally casual” dating philosophy wasn’t totally missing the point.

···

“But, who do you WANT to invite?”

Stephanie mumbled the question through a mouthful of cheeseburger. Prom was just a few weeks away, and I had yet to decide who to ask. If I didn’t do something in the next day or two, there was gonna be drama. I just shrugged, imagining the faces of whichever girls I didn’t invite.

Stephanie clicked her tongue impatiently and took another bite of her cheeseburger. Since she had started dating Simon, Stephanie and I rarely got to hang out, just the two of us. After months of awkwardness, it was a relief to finally be able to spend five minutes alone with my friend without—uh, without…

I was staring at her cleavage again. Dammit.

“I don’t know, Stephanie! What would you do if you were in my situation?”

“Listen, I want you to try something. This is an acting exercise I do whenever I’m having trouble with my character.”

“But I’m not acting. I’m me.”

She waved a disapproving french-fry at me, harrumphing:

“I’m trying to help!”

“Okay, okay!”

Stephanie took a comically thoughtful sip of her milkshake and then cleared her throat, affecting a soft, soothing voice:

“First, stop looking at my boobs and close your eyes.”

Laughing, I obliged her.

“Now, imagine you’re driving through town. You’re driving that same shit-box minivan that you crashed into a truck last month.”

“Check.”

“Shh! Now, you look at yourself in the rear-view mirror. You look good, maybe the best you ever looked. Shaved. Nice fresh haircut. You’re wearing a tux. You straighten your bowtie.”

I did my best to play along.

“Now,” she continued, “you pull up in my driveway.”

“Why your driveway?”

“Shh! Because that’s where all the girls are finishing their makeup and stuff. Anyway, you hop out of the car, anxious to see how beautiful your prom date looks in her dress. Anxious for her to see how good you look in your tux. You knock on the door. It creaks open—there she is, the girl you’re taking to prom!”

I said nothing. I just opened my eyes. Stephanie looked at me, expectant:

“Who did you see?”