by Chase Connor
“Mom’s freaking out every time I say anything about the future.” I agreed. “I mean, I don’t even have a plan, and she’s freaking out just thinking about me leaving home.”
Cooper nodded along.
“My parents just wish I had a plan.” A.J. snorted.
Obviously, that caught my attention. Turning slightly in my seat, I turned my attention from Cooper to my boyfriend.
“We can make a plan.” I smiled gently.
A.J. just gestured vaguely, waving me off, then picked up his menu again. Glancing over at Cooper, he gave me an understanding half-smile. Alex suddenly folded his menu and laid it on the table.
“Lobster, I guess.” He shrugged. “When in Maine, right?”
Cooper was frowning at his Alex again.
The first night of a vacation, staying in a different place, and sleeping in a new bed is a little odd no matter how many times I do it. Having A.J. to sleep with was supposed to be nice, but I was used to sleeping alone. Even when we had stayed at the beach house over Spring Break, and we had all hopped from room to room after our parents went to sleep, we never actually slept all night with each other. As I laid in the comfortable, but foreign bed, staring up at the ceiling in the dark, with A.J.’s arm and leg thrown across me, his warm breath blowing against my face, I just couldn’t sleep.
Maybe this is why so many adults now tell young adults to live with someone before getting married.
Can you share a bed with them?
Will they breathe fried shrimp breath in your face?
Do they put off a lot of heat in their sleep?
Are they snugglers?
Sighing to myself out of slight irritation, I still couldn’t help but smile as I felt the weight of A.J. against me. The bed we were sharing, which we had made love in before he fell asleep, was not my normal bed. The house sounds in the beach house were different than the house sounds at home. The sheets were not the same texture of my sheets at home, and the pillow was a bit firmer. The air conditioning in the beach house was not on, though Northeasterners usually don’t have much use for AC until deep summer or unless it is an exceptionally warm summer. The days are usually warm and breezy but the nights are generally still pretty chilly.
Before we had gone to bed, but after we had made love, A.J. had cracked the windows in our bedroom so that the room would be nice and cool for sleeping. However, with A.J. half draped over me and the sheet and blanket pulled up over us, I felt too warm. At first, I thought I might be able to ignore the heat coming off of my boyfriend and just fall asleep. That was when he started breathing heavily and warmly against the side of my face. Then his body started radiating heat, and I didn’t know if I could push the blankets off of myself without waking him. For several minutes I did my best to just deal with the situation with the intent to remedy the problem the following night. Either we would have to open the windows wider for sleep, or he would have to get under the covers, and I would sleep on top of them.
Shifting uncomfortably in bed, I found myself testing how much I could move without waking A.J. up. Maybe I would be able to push the blankets off without him waking up. I didn’t want him not to snuggle against me as we slept, but I didn’t want to wake up in a pool of my own sweat, either. I continued to shimmy gently and inch my way around underneath him, trying to figure out how to remedy my problem. When A.J. startled in his sleep and gripped me tighter, I froze.
“Mmmm. I love you.” He mumbled, half-asleep, half-awake.
Smiling to myself, I decided to just deal with the heat.
Lazily, my eyes closed, and a smile came to my face. Before long, I was sleeping as soundly as my boyfriend.
Chapter 5
Cooper
Maine, at least on the coast, is pretty chilly in the morning, even during the summer months. Generally, in summer, the temperatures are in the mid- to high-70s, with the highest recorded temperature being 105 degrees Fahrenheit on July 10th, 1911. I had learned that randomly while browsing the internet about Kennebunkport before leaving for our guys’ trip. However, on January 16th, 2009, the lowest temperature of -50 degrees Fahrenheit was recorded. Maine is not without its extremes at times. Usually, though, the average low temperature in June is 54 degrees Fahrenheit. So, not cold, but unquestionably chilly. It’s a temperature that will get your blood pumping when you step out onto the deck of your rented beach house on a June morning.
Luckily, I had pulled on my jeans and a light jacket before I stepped outside the second morning of our stay. The sun was rising from the horizon, glinting off of the choppy waves that the moderate breeze was blowing in towards land. I smiled to myself as I took in the crystal-clear blue sky and the warmth of the sun, even though the wind was doing its best to chill me to my bones. Alex hadn’t even stirred on his side of the bed, where he had been sleeping facing away from me, when I woke up and slipped away. I had spent a few minutes in the bathroom, brushing my teeth, and doing my best to get my hair under control, before slipping into some clothes quickly. When I snuck out of our room, his face was buried in his pillow, and he was still fast asleep. I hadn’t heard any noises coming from A.J.’s and Logan’s room either when I made my way through the house. Apparently, I was going to be left to my own devices on the first full morning at the beach house.
Praising the heavens that I had the foresight to slide my feet into some kicks before I left the house, I walked down the steps of the deck and headed towards the beach. The sun felt like a blanket against my skin as I practically skipped across the road and into the sand. I could taste the salt in the air, and the cold wind tickled my nose as I strolled along the beach at a leisurely pace. Looking out at the water as I walked, I couldn’t help but wonder how much it would suck if Logan ever wanted to surf at first sunlight. Sure, the water was pretty chilly even during the day, but in the morning, with the cold breeze, it had to be fucking brutal. I thought back to surfing when it was rainy, and sixty-five degrees during Spring Break and I shivered at the thought. The trip had been fun, but the water was wicked cold. I chuckled to myself at thinking in such a Northeasterner fashion.
I could practically feel the chilly dampness of the sand through my sneakers as I made my way along the beach. Of course, I had to chastise myself, knowing that the shoes would forever contain at least a little bit of sand. At least until I threw them out from frustration. Even that couldn’t remove the smile from my face as I strolled along, not worrying about how far away from the beach house I walked. It wasn’t like I could get lost on a beach in Kennebunkport, Maine in modern-day America. There’s only so far you can go before you run into a McDonald’s, after all.
My smile only faltered when I thought about the previous night. At the seafood restaurant, everything Alex had said and done had irritated me. He wasn’t being all that bad—at least for Alex—but I just couldn’t bring myself to be happy with anything he did. Maybe it was due to the argument we had had when we first arrived at the beach house. Maybe it was due to every little thing I was starting to remember about his privileged existence since I met him freshman year at Dextrus. Maybe Dad’s words had gotten into my head. Maybe I was just being a little bitch. I wasn’t sure. Regardless of the reason, I knew that I just wanted him to back me up against his father. It was possible that I didn’t think that Alex would have trouble understanding my struggles as a person of color…I just wanted him to take my side over his father’s.
Was that asking too much of a person?
Even if you know that you’re right in a situation—in this case, my speech being more important than Headmaster Johnson’s pride—can you expect someone to take your side against their father? Even if Alex agreed with me, that my speech needed to be given, even if he agreed that what I said was emphatically and undeniably true, how could he tell his father that? In order to take my side, he would have to tell his father that he had been complicit in keeping Dextrus Academy lily-white and elitist for far too long.
I knew Mr. Johnson. He wasn’t a bad d
ude or anything. He was shielded within his own bubble by the privilege he had as a rich, white man. Like most people in the world, he had a job, and he wanted to keep it. Going up against the board of Dextrus Academy was career suicide. It wasn’t just comprised of rich, white dudes—it was worse. They were rich, old, white dudes—set in their ways and undoubtedly aware of the fact that they were actively keeping Dextrus Academy lily-white and elitist. Even if Mr. Johnson agreed with me, struggled with how unfair Dextrus’ admittance policies were, he wanted to keep his job and status. I wanted to be angry at him for that…but I couldn’t.
And that made me angry with myself.
Wasn’t I supposed to—as a black man—be indignant and demand that Mr. Johnson do the right thing? How could I forgive him for being weak and a little bit cowardly? Aren’t we all a little bit weak and cowardly for one reason or another? Sure, I had mentioned my ethnicity, my economic status, and my sexual orientation in the speech—but I had ignored those issues all through my time at the school. I had done what I had to do to make sure that I would not get kicked out of Dextrus so that I would have all of the opportunities that my father and I wanted me to have. I did what I had to do—things that the other students didn’t have to do—in order to keep my head above water.
Wasn’t that the same thing for Mr. Johnson?
Grumbling to myself, I folded my arms over my chest and turned to stand and look out at the ocean.
Fuck.
Mr. Johnson had always been vocal about how smart and special he thought I was while I was at Dextrus. He had verbalized to Alex numerous times how happy he was that the two of us were friends. He had predicted my valedictorian status during my sophomore year. When Alex had come out to his father, told him that he was in love with me, Mr. Johnson hadn’t even batted an eye. Alex’s mother and father supported Alex and me from the very beginning of our friendship and into our romantic relationship.
I knew that Mr. Johnson was not a bad person.
So…why was I holding him to a higher standard than myself? Why did I expect him to be brave and always do the right thing when I hadn’t been perfect and done the same?
Privilege.
Mr. Johnson had more privilege in almost every way. He was white, he was rich, he was educated, he had a certain level of power. Those of us on the lower rungs, even if we say “fuck it” and scream all we want, cannot affect change without at least a few of the folks in the upper tiers heralding us. Maybe Mr. Johnson couldn’t outright take on the school board, but he could have been political, used some finesse. When they had approached him about my speech after commencement, he could have said:
Well, it’s not ideal, old chaps. But the kid has a point. Maybe we need to move into the twenty-first century. Show some magnanimity to ensure the future of Dextrus Academy? It’s only in our best interest to allow anyone with the grades to at least apply for scholarship status. Think of the positive response we would receive in the community at large? We could even reach out to some of the other guys in the old, rich, white men’s club to see if they’d like to sponsor a few boys themselves.
Okay. Maybe not that exact speech, but something like it.
If he couldn’t manage that, the absolute very least thing he could have done was not get snarky with Alex about it. Why take it up with Alex instead of with me? It just felt like, whether he intended it or not, he was trying to turn Alex against me. To make sure that his son was still on “his side.”
That’s what truly pissed me off.
Mr. Johnson, whether intentionally or not, had started to wage a battle with me over Alex’s affections.
That shit won’t stand.
I didn’t hate Alex. And I knew that he was aware that I was right about everything that I had said. But…if he told me he understood, said that out loud, the gauntlet would be thrown down. Would his dad still pay for his college? Would it cause a rift in his family? Alex was probably doing the same thing that Mr. Johnson did when it came to the Dextrus school board, and I did when it came to attending Dextrus for four years of high school. He was surviving. Keeping his head above water. He was also trying to preserve the relationship he had with his father.
When I thought about it that way, I felt a pang of guilt. If someone told me that I had to go against my father, to take their side arbitrarily, I probably would have told them to suck my ass.
Knowing all of that didn’t make me feel any better about the fact that Alex had made himself clear. At least for now, it was his father over me. All I could think about was whether or not this was setting a precedent for the future. Would he continue to take his dad’s side, irrespective of right or wrong, regardless of how much he loved me, even if we married, had kids, and made a life together after college? There was no way I could endure that.
A sigh that seemed to come from the tips of my toes burst from my mouth as I looked out at the ocean, my arms still over my chest. Thinking about Alex and his father made me feel a little less cold. The anger had gently warmed me as I tried my best to enjoy some solitary time on the beach before everyone else decided to roll out of bed. As I looked out at the horizon that the sun had just peeked out over less than an hour prior, I found myself smiling, remembering that it was a brand-new day. Maybe things could be different. Maybe Alex would wake up with a new outlook on things, reconsider his stance on his father and the school board’s idiocy. Things rarely stay bad for long. I turned away from the ocean, intending to continue my walk along the beach, away from the house, when movement several yards down the beach caught my eye.
A child.
A relatively small, so likely young, child was standing on the beach. I frowned to myself as I looked at the child, trying to figure out what he was doing all alone out on the beach so early in the morning. The waves lapping the beach and the intermittent howling of the wind abated just long enough for me to hear the child’s cries. My frown deepened as I started walking, more quickly than usual, towards the child. As I neared the child, I could see his red face and tear-streaked cheeks. He was lost. And crying like a Banshee.
“Hey.” I cooed as I approached, trying to not look like a scary stranger. “Hey. Are you okay?”
The kid—who I could finally tell was a boy—looked up at me, obviously not having seen me approach. When he looked up, I fully expected him to look terrified, scream, and then run in the opposite direction. I knew that chasing a kid on the beach—one whom I did not know—would not be a good look if anyone caught the show. But would I have any choice if it came to that? The kid couldn’t have been more than six-years-old. I couldn’t let him run around so close to the unpredictable ocean all alone for long. Much to my delight and relief, the boy just cried harder, his arms reaching out to me as though I were his parent.
“What’s going on, little guy?” I asked softly, making sure to smile as I approached and knelt down in front of him. “Where’s your mom and dad?”
He was sobbing so hard he couldn’t form words, but his arms went around my neck, and he buried his face against my flesh. Okay. So, I obviously wasn’t ready to start a family yet. All I could think about was tears, snot, and slobber getting rubbed all over my neck instead of how to alleviate the child’s fear and sadness. Then again, he wasn’t my child, so maybe that wasn’t so unnatural after all.
“It’s all right.” I patted and rubbed his back, trying to soothe him as he squeezed my neck. “Did you lose your mom and dad?”
I felt his head moving up and down against my neck.
“Where did they go?” I asked, wondering who would take their child out to the beach and walk away far enough that their small child wouldn’t be able to see them.
I looked around as best I could, but found that the kid and I were the only two people on the beach for as far as I could see. There wasn’t even a speck of someone moving far off in the distance.
“I dunno.” The boy sobbed against my neck.
Gently, so as to not make him think that I was pushing him away, I pulled awa
y so that I could look into his red and tear-streaked face.
“Did they come down here with you, little guy?” I asked.
He shook his head, a hiccupy movement making his body spasm. His tears were starting to abate, and he was running the back of his hand under his nose, so maybe we were making some progress. At least, he wasn’t as scared as he had been when I first found him.
“Okay,” I said, brushing his hair out of his eyes with a smile. “Did you come down here alone?”
He nodded furiously as more tears welled up in his eyes.
“It’s okay,” I assured him. “You aren’t in trouble. Okay?”
He managed a half-smile as he wiped his nose with the back of his hand once more.
“Do you know which house is yours?” I asked.
He only thought about this for a second before shaking his head.
“Do you know your colors yet?”
I’m not dumb, but I have no way of telling how old a kid is, or knowing at what age they start to learn their colors. For all I knew, I was dealing with a two-year-old who barely knew one through five.
“Yes.” He sniffled. “I know red and blue, and yellow—”
“Awesome.” I held a hand up for him to give me a high-five. “You’re pretty smart.”
He gave a full smile as he tentatively slapped my hand with his much smaller one.
God. He used the one he wiped his nose with.
“Do you know the color of your house?” I asked calmly. “The one where we’ll find your mom and dad?”
Again, he had to think for a second, but then his eyes lit up.
“It’s yellow!” He beamed at his own cleverness.
“Very cool,” I replied as I looked across the road at the houses in a row on the other side of the street.
Most of the houses were coral and blue with a few red ones mixed in for a little razzle-dazzle. Only two were yellow. One of the yellow ones was the house that Logan’s dad had rented for us to stay in, so finding the boy’s house was easy. It was just across the road and slightly to the right of us. Maybe a hundred yards away. I smiled to myself and then looked at the boy.
