by Roan Parrish
X stands up and starts pacing in front of me. “That what you fucking think of me, you asshole? That I’m a damn bigot who’d throw away twenty years of friendship?”
I shake my head, looking up at him.
“God damn it, Colin!” he yells. “I can’t believe you!” He shakes his head. “This is—this isn’t a new thing, is it?”
He’s got his hands on his hips, staring down at me, and I stand up so I don’t feel quite so small.
“I—um, well, yeah, but I—”
“I could kill Pat!” Xavier roars.
“What?”
“See, I knew it.”
“Huh?”
X throws himself down on the stool next to me, looking thoughtful. “I always knew it was something. I even wondered if it was that you were gay, but then you always had such a problem with Daniel….” He shakes his head. “Fucking family, man. I get it. A lot of my family, they don’t… get me anymore. They think since I married Angela and started my job… like, that I’m not real anymore. You know? They think I’m putting on airs or something. It’s… you know, it’s bullshit—ignorant bullshit, but it still hurts that they think that. They think Angela’s a gold digger or something. Like, that she wants us to be all rich and living in the suburbs or some shit. But they don’t even know her. They don’t want to get to know her.”
The relief—no, the gratitude—that X is just talking like usual is so sharp that my throat gets thick and tears prick my eyes.
“And sorry to speak ill of the dead,” he’s saying, “but I didn’t just hate your dad because he was a racist dick. I hated him for this, too. The way you were always scared of disappointing him. How nothing you did was ever good enough. Man. I hated him for that.” X’s voice is fierce and I’m reminded of all the times he had my back.
“Thanks,” I say. “For not hating me.”
X glares at me. “I’m gonna try really hard to remember that you’re freaked and not take it super fucking personally that you thought I might care.” He shakes his head at me like I’m the biggest idiot to walk the earth. “So, who’s the guy?”
“What? What guy? Why d’you think there’s a guy?”
“You’re not the confessional type, C. Not a big sharer, ya know. So I figure there’s a reason for you to tell me after all these years.” He winks at me. “Unless of course it’s because you finally want to confess your love for me.”
I smack X, spilling lemonade on the counter in the process, and he cackles.
“Nah, it’s cool, bro. I’ll keep it on the DL with you.” This time when I move to push him off his stool, he wards me off, suddenly serious. “For real, if I mess up this kitchen, Angela will have my ass.”
We both crack up at the same moment, and when we’ve finally calmed down, X toasts me with his lemonade, walks into the living room, and flips on the TV, settling back against the couch like things are exactly as they’ve always been.
X knows. The kids at YA know. Daniel knows. And no one cares.
That’s what I’ve been saying over and over to myself for the last few days. No one cares and I feel… better. Not just because people know I’m gay. (I can’t get used to that phrase no matter how many times I think it.) But because I’m doing something. I’m not just sitting around waiting for things to happen the way I always have.
The next thing that has to happen? I have to tell Brian and Sam. Not because of some bullshit like they deserve to know. But because I’m so fucking tired of how much energy it takes to keep it a secret. I was thinking of Anders and all the work he has to do. He had to tell his parents that he was just going to YA with Mikal in support. Had to sneak around to meet up with his friends. Keep his phone turned off and in his pocket whenever he was at home in case a text came that would give everything away. And all of it just to feel safe in his own house.
In one of the texts Anders sent me a few days ago, he said he wanted to start practicing a new violin piece for a recital that’s coming up but because of all the lies and the fear and the way he’s constantly on guard, he just didn’t have the energy.
That hit me hard. Made me wonder how many things I might have done if I hadn’t spent so much energy hiding.
Now I feel like I’m going to puke with nerves and I can’t stop jiggling my knees and cracking my knuckles as I wait for Sam to show up. He thinks we’re meeting to talk about the shop, and when he walks through the door, I actually think I might pass out.
“Hey,” he says. “Been a while.”
He looks tired, or maybe just still sad about Pop.
We go into the kitchen to make coffee and the smell of it nearly turns my stomach. My knees are like jelly.
I can hear Brian in the shower, but the idea of standing there with Sam until he gets out is unbearable. I pound on the bathroom door. “Brian, can you get out here for a minute?”
“Dude, what the hell?” Sam asks, pouring coffee into the lumpy green mug he always uses.
I shake my head and pour my own coffee.
“What? What’s wrong? What’s up?” Brian says, crashing out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his hips and a spot of lather in his wet hair. He blinks confusedly at Sam and me drinking coffee in the kitchen. “You okay?” he asks.
“Don’t look at me,” Sam says, nodding at me.
“Yeah. Yeah, fine, I just wanted….”
“Okay, business stuff—it’s cool,” Brian offers, and I jump on it.
“Right, so. Are you guys cool with expanding or whatever to take on vehicles Pop never liked working on?”
“You’re the one who’s good at those repairs, bro,” Sam says. “It’s fine by me, but it’d mostly be on you.”
“Yeah, fine by me,” Brian echoes. “I’m not really involved anymore, anyway.”
“Okay,” I say, staring at the floor.
“Um,” Brian says, “that it? ’Cause….” He gestures to his wet hair.
My throat feels tight and my mouth is clamped shut. I squeeze my eyes shut and picture the icy calm of the winter ocean at Rafe’s beach house—the way the waves broke on the shore and were pulled back together every time.
“I… I… I’mdatingaman,” I spit out, my heart pounding with relief as the words linger in the air.
“Um, what?” Brian says. “Sorry, didn’t catch that.”
I turn to Sam, whose eyes are narrowed in confusion. He shakes his head too.
“I… um, I’ve been… um… I’m dating a guy.”
Brian lets out a nervous laugh and looks between Sam and me, his face panicked.
I realize I’ve been holding my breath and I make an effort to let it out and breathe in again. Think of Rafe, think of Xavier, think of the waves. In and out, in and out.
“I don’t—I don’t get it,” Brian says finally.
“It’s not a joke,” Sam says. His voice is poisonous.
“I—Sam—” I start.
“No, I get it,” Sam says.
Standing here, in this kitchen, he looks so much like Pop. He and Brian both have Pop’s dark hair and eyes. And the expression on Sam’s face—a kind of irritated contempt—looks so much like Pop’s that for a moment it’s like having him back.
“Pop’s dead so now you can finally spread your goddamned wings and soar like a butterfly, right?” My heart lurches into my throat. “You’ll just change the shop to the way you’ve always wanted it to be. Prance off to the Pride parade like nothing ever happened. Great. Just fucking great. Lucky you. It’s like he never existed at all.”
“I don’t—what?” I say.
“Jesus, man, you think I didn’t know you liked dick?” He lets out a disgusted, vicious little laugh. “Come on, Colin. You’ve never had a girlfriend.” He’s counting things off on his fingers. “You never talk to women. Even in high school, you never went out on dates, just hung out with your football friends. All you ever wanted was Pop’s approval and to hang out with all his friends. Then Daniel came out and it was like you hated him. You made it yo
ur mission to shit on everything that made him happy. Anytime anything about him being gay came up, you stomped on it in a total panic. And Jesus save him if he said anything about it in front of Pop. It’s like you thought you needed to protect Pop from it all, like he was the kid and Daniel was the one doing something nasty.”
“I—but… I….”
“Fucking pathetic, man. It was goddamned depressing to watch you. I was so relieved when you finally moved out. Thought maybe you’d grow a pair and stop squirming under Pop’s thumb.”
“Me!” I yell, the anger finally breaking through the shock and shame. “What about you? You were always too fucking scared of Pop to say one word against him!”
“No, brother,” he spits out. “That’s where you’re wrong, as fucking usual. I wasn’t scared to speak against him. I just. Didn’t. Care.” He bites off each word like he’s going to spit it at me. “Because this business is just a job to me. A job I like, but a job.” He snorts. “Shit, Pop was miserable after Mom died. He was gonna be miserable no matter what. So I didn’t get my damn feelings hurt when Pop shot down an idea, because I didn’t fucking care. I’ve got my own life and my own shit to take care of, so Pop could run this place however he wanted. But you…. Oh, man, you practically dug your own grave every time he shot you down. Pop and I got along fine because he knew to keep his nose out of my business. But, Jesus, Colin, you two were wrapped up tighter than a square knot.”
“I… so… but—” I stammer.
“I don’t give a shit who you sleep with, man. I really don’t. You never cared about anyone but yourself anyway, so I don’t know why I’d think that’ll change now. Never cared what anyone but Pop thought, anyway.”
“Sam, I….”
“You what, man? You don’t care, so why don’t you just admit it?” Sam bites his lip. “How many times has Liza invited you over for dinner but you never come. You never ask about anything outside of the shop. Ever.”
Sam’s face is angry but his eyes are hurt. He looks really, really tired.
“Are you—did something… happen?” I ask, a shot in the dark.
“Yeah,” he says, biting his lip. “Yeah, something fucking did happen, actually. Liza was pregnant and she lost the baby last week.” Sam’s lip is trembling and he looks down at the floor.
“Fuck, Sam. Shit, I’m so sorry.”
He pours his coffee down the drain and sighs. “Thanks.”
“No, seriously. I’m sorry. About… Liza and the baby and about being so… whatever. It’s been… made really clear to me lately that I’m not good at seeing what the hell’s going on, so….”
“B-b-but….” I hear from behind me. I’d almost forgotten Brian was here. “I don’t—I don’t understand.” His voice is small, like when he was a kid. Like when Pop died. “I don’t…. If you’re… if you… but then why were you so mean to Dan? Why did you…?”
Brian’s shaking. His wet hair is dripping onto his bare shoulders and he’s covered in goose bumps. He’s hugging himself against the chill, his eyes darting from me to Sam and back again.
“I, um, I apologized to him,” I say lamely.
Brian’s eyes are wide.
“But… but I was horrible to him. I was fucking horrible to him because I thought that’s what you wanted! You were always so miserable and it was, like, the only thing I could do that seemed to make you feel better was tease him. And so I-I-I did. And now… you—and…. Fuck!”
Brian grabs at his wet hair. He looks like he’s going to be sick.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so goddamned sorry.”
“Can you go?” Brian says. “Just….” He shakes his head and walks into his bedroom, the spot of lather still in his hair, leaving Sam and me standing in the filthy kitchen.
“I did it. I told Brian and Sam. I fucking did it!”
Shelby cocks her head to one side and then rolls onto her side on the floor to clean her own ass.
“Yeah, that’s about right,” I mutter and flop onto the couch.
I can’t stay sitting down, though. I’m jittery with excitement and fidgety with nerves. In one way, it’s as if everything was leading up to this—to me telling Brian and Sam. In another, though, the person who had the real power to break me when I told him is the one person I can never tell. In any case, it feels totally anticlimactic because I still don’t have Rafe.
I’m not sure what I expected. That he’d snap back to me like a rubber band the second I told them? I pace around the living room, trying to figure out what to do. After an infuriating few hours of pacing, cleaning, sit-ups, showering, more pacing, and more cleaning, I call Daniel.
“Dude,” he answers the phone. “Congratulations.”
“Huh?”
“You did it! You came out to Brian and Sam, right? I’m proud of you.”
Daniel’s voice is light, but his words settle comfortingly in my empty stomach.
“Wait, how did you know?”
“Oh, um, well, I got a very distraught message from Brian basically apologizing for treating me like shit all these years, and blaming you for it. No, I didn’t mean—I’m kidding.”
But I know he’s not kidding. Neither was Brian. He didn’t mean it like that, but he’s right. I never gave it a moment of thought. But Brian would never have treated Daniel that way if what he said wasn’t true. If he hadn’t been trying to somehow do something for me. Brian can be an idiot, but he’s not mean.
“I’m sorry, man,” I say. It hangs in the air.
“No, I—that’s not what I—I wasn’t trying to—”
“No, I know. I get it. But still.”
“That’s why you called, right? Because you did it?”
“Yeah. I—well, not exactly. Rafe’s upset with me. Thinks he can’t trust me to… well, partly to be honest about… you know, our relationship, but also, like, to be there for him. He said he needed time to think. And I don’t know how to… like, show him that he can. Trust me, I mean.”
There’s a pause before Daniel says, “Can he?”
“What? Yes!”
“Are you sure?”
“What? Fuck you, man! What, because you’re—”
“Would you put a lid on it, Colin? I’m trying to help you. Explain it to me. Tell me why Rafe can trust you.”
“Damn, man, why d’you have to be such a dick about everything?”
“Why do you have to get so defensive about everything?”
“I don’t—” I take a deep breath. “Fine.”
There’s murmuring on the other end of the phone.
“Rex says don’t be a dick to me or he’ll have to defend my honor,” Daniel says.
“Psh, yeah, I’d like to see him try,” I say, instantly pissed again.
“Dude. I was kidding. A joke. Just calm the fuck down. Did you ever think that maybe you’re the one freaking Rafe out enough that he thinks he can’t trust you. If every time he asks you a question, you fly off the handle, then maybe—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it. Jesus. Fine.”
“So, explain it to me.”
“I can’t.”
“Why.”
“Because. It’s—you’re—I—we. It’s private.”
Daniel chuckles. “Fine, don’t tell me. But if I were you, I’d tell Rafe. Not just that he can trust you, but why.”
Daniel rambles on for a while about him and Rex and it all gets a little bit therapy for my taste, but then he says something that strikes a chord.
“If Rafe’s what you want, then you have to fight for him the way you’d fight someone who was trying to take something away from you. You know how to fight. You’ve just got to figure out what are the right moves to win this one.”
15
Chapter 15
So that’s what I’ve spent the last two weeks doing. Fighting. But not for me this time. For Rafe.
I called the board of directors and talked to the chair, Carly, who seemed friendly enough at first. Once she realized who
I was, she began by thanking me for working with the kids and even snuck in a fairly subtle suggestion that the shop might want to donate money for programming in the future. But when I turned the conversation to Rafe, she was cold. Not unsympathetic—hell, she’d known him for years—but absolutely decided. I tried everything I could think of to get her to give him another chance. I even sent her testimonials I had the kids make, but she was immovable.
Under no circumstances could they have someone with a record working with youth. She was, she told me, frankly horrified that Javier had hired him in the first place, and they were now undertaking a thorough review of everyone he’d vetted.
I went back to Books Through Bars, where I’d been with Rafe, and talked to people there about what his options might be for working with queer youth. They were full of righteous indignation about him getting fired, which was at least satisfying, but they explained in no uncertain terms the realities of how having a record made you nearly unemployable in any job involving youth.
Of course it was delivered alongside impassioned monologues about racial disparity in incarceration, the school-to-prison pipeline, and an ex-inmate shadow economy that rivals that of undocumented workers—not to mention several articles that someone e-mailed me from their phone. Still, the takeaway was clear. There wasn’t much I could do.
Now I’m here. At Rafe’s apartment, where I’ve never been invited. To tell him that I fought.
And that I lost.
The pounding of my heart in my ears is louder than my knock, and it speeds up as the door squeaks open and Rafe fills the doorway. He looks awful. His hair is dirty and coming out of its hair tie, and there are dark circles under his eyes. Worse, he looks defeated. Every muscle is slouched inward like they’re curling around him, a last-ditch protection against the world. In his threadbare gray sweats, he looks like he’s back in prison.
Worst: he does not look pleased to see me.
“I told you I needed time.”
“I know,” I say. He’s blocking the door. “You look like shit.”
He narrows his eyes at me but backs up just enough to let me in, like he doesn’t even have the energy to tell me to fuck off.
