by M. E. Parker
At first, I just felt numb. But as I made the mile walk back to my apartment, I began to hate Mark Jacobs. We’d been a couple for over a year. I knew a day would come when he’d leave. But I never thought it would end with him cheating on me. I didn’t think he was that guy. It made me wonder if it had happened before.
Deep down, I knew I should accept part of the blame. I couldn’t give him everything. In the beginning, he was sweet and understanding. He said it didn’t matter. But for the last few months, I could tell he was getting impatient. He wanted to fuck me. And for some reason, I couldn’t give him that part of myself. And since he made it very clear from the beginning that he only topped, we spent the last year getting each other off in a variety of ways. It was enough for me. But I knew it wasn’t for him. It wasn’t that I wasn’t willing to bottom. I was, and I’d played around enough to know that I’d probably like it. I just didn’t want it to be Mark, and I didn’t know why. A little voice suddenly popped in my head. You know why. He isn’t Chance. He’ll never be Chance. I hated that little voice that crept into my consciousness every so often. The one that reminded me of my ex-best friend. The one that wouldn’t let me be free of the first and last guy I ever loved. The one that seemed to hold on to some tiny thread of hope that Chance Wyrick would suddenly forget that he was straight and ask me to marry him.
I was just a few blocks away from my apartment when my anger redirected itself from Mark to Chance. It’s Chance’s fault. He did this to me. I was pretty sure it started when we were eight years old. Just like that, my mind drifted back thirteen years to a hot summer day in Wytheville, North Carolina…
“…1,018, 1,019, 1,020. Ready or not, here I come!” I yelled as I wiped the dirt from my forearm where it had been resting against the old oak tree in our backyard while I covered my eyes. There were a limited number of hiding spots. We both knew them all. We’d played the game so many times, it was no longer really a game of hide and seek, it was more like a glorified version of tag. It wasn’t finding Chance that was the problem; it was tagging him before he ran to home base, which happened to be the air-conditioning unit on the side of the house.
I quickly scanned the usual spots, searching for any sign of him. I got lucky when I noticed just the corner of his big toe peeking through a patch of grass by the back porch. There was a spot under the deck that was barely big enough to crawl into. I never hid under there, it was too creepy. But Chance was braver than I was. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!” I called in the opposite direction of the porch, hoping to throw him off before I walked quietly towards his position. It wasn’t long before he knew I’d found him.
“Just because you found me doesn’t mean you can catch me,” he yelled as he took off running towards home base. I sprinted as hard as I could in his direction, but it was no use. Chance was faster. Our laughter echoed through the backyard as I chased him. I was gaining on him a bit, but I knew I wouldn’t catch him. I didn’t care. Chasing Chance was one of the best parts of the game.
He glanced back at me and grinned before he turned the corner and sped up. I ran harder and reached out in front of me, hoping I could get to him in time. He screamed out and fell to the ground. At first, I thought he was just fooling around, and then he rolled over holding onto his leg. His face was red, and his eyes were closed tightly. He was gritting his teeth.
I dropped to my knees on the ground beside him. “What happened? Are you okay?”
He shook his head furiously while he squeezed his eyes shut. “My foot. I don’t know what it was.”
I sank to my knees and looked at his foot that was red on the bottom and starting to swell, and then I looked on the ground and saw a bee of some sort, dead on the grass next to him. “Crap, dude, I think you stepped on a wasp. It looks like a yellowjacket.”
“Well, it hurts like crazy,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut again.
“Come on. We have to go inside and tell my mom,” I said, offering him my hand.
As soon as he stood, I could tell he couldn’t walk on it. I draped his arm around my shoulder and held onto his hand as I wrapped my other arm around his waist so that he could lean against me while he hopped on one foot into the house. I liked holding onto him. It felt nice.
A half-hour later, I was lying next to him on my bed playing Xbox. My mother, who was a nurse, and not very gentle, had dug the stinger out of the bottom of his foot with a pair of tweezers, rubbed some pasty white stuff on his foot, and then propped his foot up on one of my pillows and plopped an ice bag on it. He never shed one tear. He was the bravest kid I knew. I was lucky he was my best friend. I caught myself grinning at him. “Dude, pay attention! You’re about to get killed,” he said as he elbowed me while he continued to command the Xbox controller.
It was only two weeks later that we took our first camping trip together. We didn’t know it then, but it would become an annual tradition for years to come. Our parents, with Chance and me in tow, would make the hour-long hike up to Black Bear Camp Site in the Smokey Mountains and pitch tents for the weekend at the end of every summer. It quickly became something I looked forward to almost as much as Christmas morning. Our parents made three rules: stay together at all times, never leave the campsite, and stay away from the river.
Of course, the first thing we did was run straight for the water. The rocky outcrop on the shore of one of the fastest moving parts of the Little Pigeon River just outside the campsite, became the first place we’d go as soon as our parents gave us permission to run free. It was the first year Chance and I sat on that rock together.
We were chucking pebbles and twigs into the water when Chance turned to me and asked, “What do you wanna be when you grow up?”
I looked at him and furrowed my brow. “I don’t know, my mom thinks I should be a doctor, but I think it would kind of be cool to be a chef.”
He looked at me incredulously. “A chef? You mean like that guy on Hell’s Kitchen?”
I grinned at him. “Yeah.”
Chance laughed. “That guy’s a jerk.”
I shrugged. “Yeah, but he has his own TV show and he’s rich. Why? What do you wanna be?”
It was Chance’s turn to shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe a football player or a baseball player. I wanna be rich. I want a gigantic mansion with a swimming pool inside it.”
I laughed. “Me too. Hey, maybe we could be neighbors.”
A wide grin spread across his face. “Or we could just live together and play Xbox all the time.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think grownups do that. You have to get a wife.”
Chance made a gagging noise and then pretended to vomit. “There’s no way I’m marrying a girl.”
I laughed. “Me neither.”
Chance reached out and pushed my shoulder. “We can do whatever we want when we’re grownups. Nobody can tell you what to do when you’re a grownup.” I hoped he was right. All I knew was that I agreed with Chance. I’d much rather live with him than any girl.
My thoughts were jolted back to the present as soon as I reached my apartment building. I wasn’t sure what had brought on the little trip down memory lane. I didn’t even know what being gay meant when I was eight years old, but I’d always wondered if that was the day I fell in love with him. I felt a tear roll down my cheek and I wiped it away with my shoulder. I couldn’t sort out in my mind whether the tears were for Mark or Chance. I suspected both.
chapter three
Chance
I fell back on my bed exhausted. The day had flown by. I’d somehow managed to cram weight training, three classes, and a three-hour practice into twelve hours. I should have been able to go straight to sleep, but I had a project due the next day and I needed to shower and run over to the architecture studio to add some finishing touches. I allowed myself to close my eyes for a few minutes. I must have drifted off to sleep because my phone woke me. I looked down. Mom. I didn’t want to answer, but I knew she’d keep calling if I didn’t.
; “Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, baby. You sound tired.”
I chuckled. “How can you tell from two words?”
“I’m your mother, Chance.”
I smiled. “I guess I’m a bit tired. It was a long day.”
“Well, you should take a hot shower and go to bed.”
“That’s the plan,” I lied.
“Good. What time should we expect you tomorrow?”
I squeezed my eyes closed. I wished I had an excuse not to go to Wytheville. But I didn’t. Thanksgiving was two days away and there was no excuse my mother would accept that would get me out of it. “It’ll be late,” I said. Technically, I only had one class the next morning, but I wasn’t going to be in a hurry to get home.
“Okay, honey. Will you bring Natalie?”
I let out a breath. “No, Mom, we broke up.”
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. She seemed like a lovely girl.”
“Yeah. She is.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine. It was me. Not her.”
“Well, don’t worry, Chance. You’ll find your person one day.” It wasn’t lost on me that she said person and not girl.
I desperately needed a change of subject. “So, who all’s coming for Thanksgiving dinner?”
“Well Gramps and GiGi are going to Aunt Sarah’s this year and Grandma and Grandpa Wyrick are not feeling up to the drive. Of course, I invited the Michaelsons, but Julie’s working all weekend so she can take some time off over Christmas.” The Michaelsons. Andy and his mom. They won’t come, I thought to myself. Even though our moms remained the best of friends, Julie Michaelson hadn’t accepted an invitation from my mom that would put Andy and me in the same room together for years. But no one ever talked about it. Everyone just pretended like everything was fine. “So, it looks like it’ll just be you and me and Dad, which might be nice for you. You can take the next few days to rest,” my mom said.
I squeezed my eyes shut and crinkled my nose. An entire dinner with my father without a safety buffer sounded excruciating. I let out a sigh. “Okay.”
“I’ll be glad to see you, Chance. You get some rest tonight and call before you get on the road tomorrow.”
“I will, Mom.”
“Love you, baby.”
“Love you too, Mom,” I said before I hung up the phone and threw it down on the bed beside me. I’d done a pretty good job of avoiding my father for the better part of a year. They had visited several times for games, but I always managed to arrange a dinner with Travis and his family so I didn’t have to be alone with my old man. Don’t get me wrong, his words were always encouraging and kind, but I couldn’t stand the way he looked at me. It was as if he knew. It was as if he could read my thoughts and was judging me for them.
I managed to pull myself out of bed and take a quick shower before I made the ten- minute walk to the studio to finish my project. As I walked, I thought about the first time I realized my father wasn’t perfect. I was twelve years old…
Mom and I were snuggled up on the sofa watching Will & Grace. I hadn’t seen but a few episodes, but I thought it was funny and it made my mom laugh, so I liked watching with her. Dad walked in during the middle of the show. I flinched when I heard his angry voice for the first time in my life. “Turn that off!”
My mom jumped and sat up. Her brow wrinkled. “Charlie, what’s wrong?”
“I’ll not have that trash playing in my home. Turn it off.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Charlie. It’s just a TV show. Calm down,” my mother argued.
“It is not just a TV show, Elizabeth. It’s trash. It glorifies homosexuality and drug use and you have allowed our twelve-year-old son to watch it. Honestly, what were you thinking?”
I’d never heard him speak to my mother that way, and I didn’t like it. “It’s okay, Dad, you should watch. It’ s funny. Jack and Karen are funny, Dad. It’s not bad, honest.”
I looked up at my father’s red face. “Did you just hear him, Liz?”
My mom’s eyes sparked with anger when she looked at me. “Chance, go up and pack a bag. You’re sleeping over with Andy tonight.”
“I am?” I asked, wondering what the heck was going on.
“Yeah. Julie called earlier. Just go up and get your things together.”
I wasn’t going to argue. I was happy any night that Andy and I got to have a sleepover, but I wondered why she hadn’t told me sooner. As I packed my bag, I heard them arguing. Their voices were hushed, but I knew something was terribly wrong. I wanted it to stop. I noticed the drawing on my desk and grabbed it. I’d wanted to talk to my dad about it. Maybe it would distract him, I thought.
I ran downstairs and interrupted them. “Dad, look. I drew this. I thought we could build a tree house,” I said hastily. I held the drawing out to him. “See. These are the stairs to get up to it, and those are windows, and the door is over here,” I said, pointing to my drawing. “We could build it together,” I said, looking up at him, hoping he’d forget why he was so angry.
To my disappointment, he shook his head. “You need to concentrate on your studies and football practice and forget about drawing and treehouses.”
I was fighting tears when my mother pulled me into a big hug and kissed the top of my head. “You run on over to Andy’s. Julie’s waiting on the front porch. I’ll see you in the morning.”
As soon as I walked up to the front porch, I saw Andy waiting there with a giant grin on his face and I instantly felt better. I hadn’t even noticed I was still clutching the drawing in my hand until Andy pulled it away from me. “What’s this?” he asked as we walked inside the house.
“Oh, it’s nothing. Just something I drew. I didn’t mean to bring it,” I said, feeling embarrassed.
“Oh my gosh, Chance. This is amazing. I can’t believe you drew this. Dad, you should see this. You won’t believe it.”
I looked over at Mr. Michaelson who sat at the kitchen table in front of his laptop. He looked up from whatever he was working on and smiled. “Oh yeah? Do you mind if I take a look, Chance?”
I felt my cheeks turn red and shook my head. “No, sir.”
He held the drawing in his hand and studied it for a long time before he looked up at me. “You’re very talented, Chance. You have a natural eye for design and a grasp on proportion and scale. Have you ever thought about being an architect?”
I shook my head. “What does an architect do?”
He said, “Well, they draw up plans for building things. The plans are called blueprints. I have to look at blueprints every day for my job. They’re like instructions on how to build houses and other buildings. Your drawing is as good as some of the blueprints I’ve seen.”
I couldn’t stop a smile from spreading across my face. Mr. Michaelson smiled back at me. “You know, I bet the old oak tree in the backyard would be the perfect place to build this treehouse. Would you boys like to help me?”
I nodded furiously while Andy cheered loudly, running around the kitchen like a madman.
The next day, Mr. Michaelson, Andy, and I went out into the backyard and took measurements for the treehouse.
The following day, Andy and I sat together on a pew in the back of the church, with our thighs pressed together. We played hangman on the back of a church bulletin while my father gave a sermon on the evils of homosexuality. He called it a sin of the flesh. No different, he said, than adultery. It was an unnatural temptation from the devil. It must be resisted through prayer and the teachings of Jesus Christ. I pretended that day that the sermon wasn’t directed at me or my mother. But I knew it was. I pretended not to listen. But I did.
The Michaelsons quit coming to church after that day. That Sunday was the last time I remembered seeing them there. It was also the last time I remembered Andy’s dad and my dad speaking to each other.
The weeks that followed were bittersweet. My weekends were spent with Andy and his dad building the treehouse. It was incredible to see my design come
to life. When it was finished, the three of us stood in the backyard, admiring the structure. Mr. Michaelson handed me my drawing. “You should always keep this, Chance. It’s your first design and you’re going to want it someday when you become a famous architect.” It was the first time I ever wanted to be anything other than a ball player.
Andy smiled and told his dad that I was going to design a mansion with an indoor pool. Mr. Michaelson grinned. “That sounds really cool.” Andy looked up at his dad. “Dad, can best friends live together when they’re grownups?”
Mr. Michaelson smiled. “Sure, they can. Your mom and I are best friends and we live together.”
Andy laughed. “Yeah. But you’re married to Mom.”
He shrugged. “Sure, but we’re still best friends. We like spending time together and we always have each other’s backs—just like you and Chance. You guys are lucky to be best friends. You should always remember that and treasure it.”
That night, Andy and I laid shoulder to shoulder in our sleeping bags in the new treehouse. I thought about how my parents were barely speaking to each other. I felt the tension between our fathers. I knew something had changed, but I couldn’t figure out why and I didn’t like it. “We should make a pact,” I said to Andy.
He grinned. “What sort of pact?”
“I don’t know. Just that we promise to always be best friends no matter what. To always have each other’s backs, just like your dad said.”
“Okay. How should we do it?”
I leaned up on my elbow. “I don’t know. We could make a tiny cut on our hands and become blood brothers. I have my pocket knife.”
Andy laughed. “No way. You’re crazy. I’m not cutting my hand. Why don’t we just spit shake on it?”
I thought about it for a second and held my hand palm side up and spit into it. “Best friends no matter what.”
Andy grinned, spit into his hand, and grabbed mine. “Best friends no matter what.”
The sound of the door of the design studio clicking made me jump. I’d been so lost in thought, I didn’t even remember walking inside or sitting down at my drafting table. I looked up at the framed picture hanging above it. It was the drawing of the treehouse. My mother had it framed and gave it to me just before I left for college.
