Her dad ran out of the kitchen like he was prey and she was the hunter. Frances sighed and followed him into the living room.
“Hey, Dad, want to talk about it?”
“What?” Jimmy backed into his chair. “No. No, I don’t want to talk. What are you talking about?”
“What I said to you. Do you want to talk about what I said to you?”
“All of a sudden you want to talk to me,” Jimmy said.
“Actually, Dad, you haven’t talked to me pretty much since I came out to you.”
“Is that what you call it?”
“What do you call it?”
“I call it B.S.”
Tears sprang to the corners of her eyes. “I just don’t know how to pretend to be what I’m not,” Frances said.
“And I just don’t know how to pretend to be happy about it.” He rubbed his eyes. “Your mother has got to be rolling in her grave,” he muttered. “And your
