“Now boarding flight 276 to San Francisco. At this time, we’ll take all first-class passengers,” a friendly voice announced over the speaker.

“Let’s go,” Colin said as he stood.

Matt was helping Gina into her sweater as I stood. For Matt’s birthday, Colin gave him tickets for all of us to go to a 49ERS game. As I sat on the plane next to Colin, I thought a lot about San Francisco and the time I spent living in the area with my dad for a while.

I also thought about those crazy trips I was making to San Francisco for beating sessions. I’m glad that’s behind me. Thoughts were on my dad and the games he and I would attend here and there. I remembered to pack my 49ERS hat that my dad got me, and we all had football jerseys.

As we drove to the hotel, memories of this city and my dad filled my head. I almost laughed out loud as I thought back to the time when I was scared to go home to my dad with the “F” on my chemistry test. I was stupid to think that my dad would hurt me, it was just all I knew at the time.

I gazed around the hotel lobby as I made my way from the elevator and spotted Gina sitting alone on one of the large couches.

“Hey, Gina. Where’s Mr. Matt?” I asked and sat across from her.

“He went over to the valet and asked them to bring the car around,” she replied.

I nodded and glanced at the automatic sliding doors just as Colin was walking through them toward Gina and me. He caught my eye and gave me an upward nod.

“Ready? Matt’s got the car,” Colin said.

I stood and checked the couch where Gina was sitting to make sure she had everything.

“Jacket on, miss,” Colin said to Gina and pulled the jacket from her arms and held it open for her.

As I held the back door open for Gina to climb in, I was glad that I wore layers. Candlestick Park was always cold. Always.

While walking into the stadium and around the concourse, I noticed how much Matt watched over and touched Gina. He held her hand everywhere and kept her close. I watched their hands a lot and wondered what it would feel like to hold a woman’s hand and walk around with them. I’d never held a woman’s hand before. Not like that. He kissed her while we waited in line for her to get one of those foam hand souvenirs. Gina leaned against him as he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and she put her arm across his lower back and held onto his side. Seeing Gina hold Matt innocently like that made me run my hand that was in my sweatshirt pocket over my side scar. I could never let a woman hold onto me like that.

This was a good reminder to me that I’d never settle down with a woman. There’s no fucking way I could handle someone putting their hand close to my side, or letting them look in my eyes. Or sleep next to me. The fear would be there that I could have some terrible nightmare and have to try to explain why I wake up sweating.

No. I definitely am not boyfriend material. Not like Matt is. Or Colin, for that matter. Both of them could care for a little submissive…love her and take care of her outside a dungeon cell. Not me. I don’t even date. Dating gives women a false sense of what’s really going on. I know that I can’t give a woman anything but sex, so why bother with dating?

“Thank you for my foam finger, Matt,” Gina said and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him.

“You’re welcome, pet,” Matt said and kissed her forehead.

Colin and Matt each got different 49ERS hats and put them on while Gina was waiving her foam hand around. Finally, we moved to our seats; Colin got kick ass seats for us. The Niners won, which was fantastic to be at a home game with the team winning. After the game, Gina took a picture of Colin, Matt and me by the railing with the field in the background.

Colin and I sat in the clubhouse to the golf course in his neighborhood and waited for Matt to show up for our Friday golf game. Matt was running late due to working a little later at the hospital. When he arrived, he had Gina with him.

Gina handed Colin and me each a gift bag. I opened mine, and it was a picture frame that said “Best Buds,” and the picture was the one Gina took of the three of us at the Niners game last weekend. Colin’s frame was identical to mine. These were really neat, and I sat and stared at the picture. These guys were my family.

“Thanks, Gina,” Colin said as he stood and hugged her.

“You’re welcome. I got one for Matt, too. He already took his to work, but his is the same as both of yours,” she said.

This was the first picture I’ve ever had with myself in it and frame. Things like framed pictures weren’t in my life. My mother never had a picture of me anywhere in the house. I never saw a picture of me in school until my senior year of high school.

“Son, your senior year pictures are this week. Do you have any thoughts on what you’d like to wear?” my dad asked one Sunday afternoon in January.

I stared at him blankly. I had read on the announcement flier at school that all students would have their photo taken for the yearbook and that parents could decide if they wanted to purchase additional pictures or pay for a photo shoot.

I didn’t bother saying anything to my dad about it. I didn’t want him to spend any money on me. I didn’t want to be an extra expense for him any more than I already was. He’s already been incurring fees and copays for me having to see doctors. I felt bad enough about that.

“Anthony, son, are you listening?”

Shit! I nodded.

“Yes, sorry. I know the school is having the senior photos this week. It’s free though since we won’t be selecting a package or something. I think the school will take the picture for the yearbook for each student even if they don’t buy a package. So, I’ll probably just wear a solid color shirt.”

“Anthony, I want to buy some pictures of you,” he said.

“What? I mean, why?”

“Because, you’re my son and I’ve missed out on having pictures of you in my office and on end tables here at home.”

“But—”

“Look,” my dad pointed to the newsletter he received in the mail yesterday. “Students with last names starting with A – G are scheduled for photos Monday. That’s tomorrow.”

I nodded. My dad wanted pictures of me. Not only did he want pictures, but he wanted to pay for them. That night after my shower, I practiced smiling in the mirror. I wanted to take good pictures so he wouldn’t feel like he wasted his money.

I got up early to get ready for school and senior picture day. I wore a pair of jeans and my soft, blue, knit long sleeve shirt, and as I was doing my hair in the bathroom, I practiced smiling again. My smile faded when I caught a hint of the bruising around my neck.

“Shit, no,” I whispered taking a closer look.

I stood up straight and tugged the hem of my shirt down and shrugged my shoulders some. My bruises were still so new and hadn’t faded much and these were evident with this shirt. I’ve been away from Bruce and Connor almost four weeks, but the marks were still very obvious.

I can’t take pictures.

I felt sick. My dad wanted photos, and I can’t even take a goddamn fucking picture. I began to feel myself growing angry and upset. I pounded my hand on the bathroom counter and stared at my hideous neck.

Suddenly my dad appeared in the doorway of the bathroom. Shit, he probably heard me hitting the counter.

“Sorry…I’m sorry,” I apologized and looked at the counter. “I didn’t ding it.”

“It’s ok, son. What’s wrong?”

Wasn’t it obvious to him? The fact that he couldn’t tell what I was upset over, made me even more upset. I stared at him in the mirror.

“Look! Can’t you see? I can’t take pictures like other kids.”

“Why?”

“Because of this!” I angrily pointed to the bruising that crept out of the shirt. “I can’t…”

My dad walked into the bathroom, stood behind me and wrapped his arms around me. Fuck, the hug thing. It made me feel weak, and I tried to fight off the tears, but it was so hard with him hanging onto me like that.

“It’ll be alright, Anthony.”

“No, it won’t! Can’t you see it?” I asked him out of frustration.

He squeezed me and looked me in the eye through the mirror.

“Here’s what I see, Anthony. I see a strong, young man who has had a rough life and recovering from years of abuse. I see a young man, worrying about how he looks and what others will think if they were to see bruises. I see a young man who is learning to live without fear. I see a courageous young man, who happens to have my eyes. I see my son.”

“I don’t want anyone to see them. They’ll think I’m weak and that I let it happen, or that I didn’t fight back.”

“Son, you’re not weak. Anthony, there were two of them that tormented you for years and years. That’s all you knew. Your body went through hell. You were so malnourished and underweight when I first saw you in the emergency room.”

“I don’t want any kids to think that someone else got the best of me.”

My dad gave me a small smile in the mirror.

“Anthony, they didn’t get the best of you. The best of you is yet to come, son. Now, let’s see if you have a button shirt with a collar for your senior pictures.”

“Anth,” Colin got my attention dragging me from the comfort of my dad’s encouraging words. “You should put yours on your desk at work.”

I would do just that.

As the three of us golfed, I was quiet and thought about my dad and how proud he was when the pictures came in. I remember him buying a bunch of photo frames, and he hung a few pictures of me in the hallway, took a few to work, put some on the fireplace mantle and had one in his room.