“When I moved to Atlanta after high school. I actually came out to my parents on the phone—yeah, I know, not the greatest, but it worked. They kind of already knew, especially my mom. Moms always know. It’s like a sixth sense. A homo-sense, if you will.”

I laughed, feeling relieved that Noah’s coming out story was on the lighter side of things. A stark contrast to my painful experience.

“How ‘bout you?” Noah asked. My smile wavered, the buoyant mood in the room being drained out as if someone took a pin to the balloon we were currently floating around in.

I decided to start with the simple stuff first. “Well, both my parents are Cuban. My mom came when she was twelve, and Dad when he was sixteen. Both of them ended up in New York—that’s where they met, at some nightclub. They danced salsa all night and never stopped.”

“Aww, that’s sweet.”

“Yeah, my dad loves saying that story. They really were a loving pair, never scared to hold hands or kiss each other, even when other parents never seemed to be that touchy-touchy. They really did teach me what love meant.” Memories flooded back: my parents driving and my mom playing with my dad’s hair, us walking through the mall and my dad wrapping my mom up in a random hug and dipping her down for a kiss.

My dad, red-faced and shouting, cracked through the glossy memories. Vitriol, anger, fear, all directed at me.

“Then I came out to them, and it changed everything.”

Noah’s eyebrows shot up, nearly disappearing under a swoop of dark brown hair. He ran a hand through it, setting it messily back in place. “Ah, crap, I’m sorry. What happened?”

“I came out to my mom first. She was okay, but she knew my dad wouldn’t be. He came from a very traditional Cuban family, with all the toxic bullshit that sometimes comes with that. He was extremely masculine, followed the traditional roles down to a T. My mom would have to serve him at parties, always cook, always clean, that kind of stupid shit. And rolled up in that was an intense anger toward anything queer.

“When I told him I was bi, he blew up. I’d never seen him so angry. I thought he was going to kick me out of the house, and I was only seventeen. I was scared, crying, shouting. My mom was doing the same. It was a fucking disaster. But I didn’t get kicked out, and the next day came, and he acted like nothing ever happened. I never forgot that night, but I never brought it up again either. And we won’t get the chance… he died three years ago. Heart attack.” I pulled in a deep breath. I hadn’t talked about this with anyone.