Discovering Delilah(82)

She furrows her brows. “What does Harborside have to do with this?”

“What do you mean? There are tons of gays there. Why would he buy in that kind of community?”

Aunt Lara smiles and shakes her head. She covers her eyes with her hand, and when she meets my gaze again, her eyes soften, as does her tone.

“Honey, that’s the bubble I’m talking about. To you Harborside is a diverse community because you grew up spending summers with Tristan and Brandon, and your generation is more accepting. Those lifestyles are normal to you because it’s what you were exposed to from a young age.” Lara has known Tristan and Brandon as long as we have. She usually visits us in Harborside for a few days each summer. Of course, this year everything’s been different, with her recovering from her injuries and all of us trying to deal with the loss of my parents.

“It’s not normal, according to Dad.”

“Right, because your parents lived in a different bubble than you. A different bubble than me, even though they were only a few years older than I am. As far as Harborside goes, they fell in love with the romance of living on the water, the family environment, the slower-paced lifestyle. The Taproom was a great investment and a fun way for them to keep busy in the summers. Their friends weren’t gay.”

She takes my hand and holds my gaze. “Don’t you see, Delilah? Your generation’s bubble and your father’s generation’s bubble coexisted on the same plane but saw things very differently. They never saw Harborside as a gay community. To them it was a family community. A place to spend time with you and Wyatt, where you could build memories, which you have. Great memories.”

I try to process what she’s said. Try to see it from her point of view, and I guess it kind of makes sense.

“So you’re saying that I see it as diverse because I’m immersed in my friendships. My bubble.”

“Yes, exactly. Your parents’ friends were straight. They saw Harborside completely differently. They saw Brandon and Tristan as two boys in a sea of thousands of families. You see Brandon and Tristan as two gay men in a pool of a diverse younger generation.”

“But they looked at me like I was such a disappointment.”

“Not a disappointment.” Aunt Lara nodded, and her eyes became hooded, even more worried. “Honey, your parents, your father specifically, didn’t know how to handle it. He was only human. He needed time to come to grips with it.”

“My mom looked at me funny, too.”

She shrugs, nods. “They were a little stunned. You were their baby, even if you’re all grown-up. They worried about you.”

I steal a glance at their headstones and feel as if my father’s sitting right there watching me. But the eyes I see staring back at me are no longer judgmental. They’re worried.

Oh, Daddy.

I reach for Aunt Lara’s hand, and she squeezes mine.

“He used to tell us that same-sex marriages were wrong.” I lift my eyes and meet her sad gaze. “I spent years feeling ashamed of myself, hiding who I was.”

She shakes her head. “I’m so sorry, Delilah. I wish I had known how you felt. I wish they had known when they had more time with you, to digest it and process it and move forward. They never would have wanted you to suffer in silence. When we stopped for gas on the way home from your graduation and your mom emailed you, your father felt terribly guilty for whatever look he gave you. He said he looked at you like his father would have looked at him, and he hated himself for it.”

“Wait. What?” My heart leaps to my throat. “What email?”

Her brows knit together. “They sent you an email when we stopped for gas. They said they needed to apologize. Didn’t you get it?”

I stand and run toward my Jeep. I hear her calling after me, but I keep going. After graduation we took pictures, packed up our room, and after my parents drove home, Wyatt and I went to a party. That was the night we caught Cassidy’s boyfriend cheating and Wyatt beat him up. Later that night we found out about my parents’ accident. I haven’t even thought about checking email since school ended. I never used it for anything other than school stuff.

I click on the email app on my phone, and sure enough, there’s an unread message from my mom’s email. I’m afraid to click on it.

Aunt Lara catches up to me.

“Why didn’t she text me?”

“I don’t know. Did your mom text often?”

I shake my head. “No. She always called.” I look up at her, clenching my phone in my hands. “I’m afraid to read it.”

“Want me to read it first?”