Page 92 of What We Brave
"Yes! Someone boring and stable who wants to buy a house in the suburbs and argue about whether to get hardwood or carpet." I'maware I sound ridiculous but can't stop. "Instead I'm sitting here considering a relationship with two men who live together and have more trauma than a tornado survivors support group."
"Laine."
"What?"
She crosses her arms, giving me that look—the one that says she's about to call me on my bullshit. "When have youeverdone normal?"
"I—"
"You grew up in how many countries? Twelve?"
"Fourteen."
"Fourteen countries. Living in church basements and construction trailers. You've been a travel nurse for a decade, moving every few months." She ticks items off on her fingers. "You speak four languages. You can build a water filtration system from scratch. And correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you once help deliver a baby in a bus station in Honduras?"
"That was an accident. I mainly just stopped her baby from sliding right out onto the floor." That was one experienced mama. Four other kids, she basically ordered me around and told me when to catch. It was exhilarating and terrifying at once.
"My point is—your entire life has been the opposite of normal. So why are you suddenly acting like you'd even know what to do with simple?"
I open my mouth. Close it.
She's not wrong.
"You'd be bored out of your mind with a dentist," Jamila continues. "Admit it."
Nope. No way. "Maybe I want to be bored. Maybe boring sounds really good right now."
"Liar."
I slump onto the couch. "Fine. Maybe I'd hate it. But at least I'd know what I was doing. There's no roadmap for... this."
"There's no roadmap for any relationship that matters." She sits beside me. "But I'm guessing that's not really what's scaring you."
It's not. She knows it's not.
"What are your parents going to say?" she asks quietly.
And there it is. The question I've been avoiding since the words left my mouth at Reid's house.
I lean my head back against the cushions. "I don't know."
"Have you thought about it?"
"I've been trying not to."
Jamila waits. Patient. Giving me space to actually think instead of panic.
My parents. God.
"They've seen a lot," I say slowly. "You know? They've been missionaries since before I was born. They've been all over the world, and lived everywhere. With people from every background imaginable. Different religions, different family structures, different everything." I twist my beer bottle between my hands. "They never judged. Never tried to force their beliefs on anyone. Which sounds weird, I know, since they're missionaries and building churches. But they always tried to lead through love and acceptance."
"But?"
"But I'm their daughter. Their only kid." The words stick in my throat. "And they're Christian. Really Christian."
"Some of my biggest supporters were in my church. A black baptist church in Georgia. So Christian doesn't automatically mean intolerant."
"I know. I know they're not..." I search for the right words. "They're not the type to disown me or anything dramatic like that. But they're going to havefeelings. Big ones. About their daughter telling them she's in a relationship with two men."
