Going Off Script

by Jen Wilde

  Oh, that’s why she knows the waiters. So I just made a total fool of myself at her aunt’s swanky establishment. Another point to me.

  We follow Shrupty through the double doors, past the hostess, who knows Shrupty by name, and through the lounge. Beautiful people drink rosé while chatting on pink velvet fainting couches or seated at the marble bar. Shrupty strolls through the place with an air of confidence about her that makes me swoon. I notice something embroidered on the back of her jacket. It’s the word heartbreaker. I can’t help but smile. The jacket tells no lies.

  It’s obvious why her Instagram posts are so popular—she has amazing style. Meanwhile, I’m wearing the same outfit I wore to work: black jeans she’s seen me in twice already and another one of Parker’s button-down patterned shirts—this time it’s navy blue with little white bird print on it. But it’s not like anyone in here is looking at me anyway, not when Shrupty enters the room.

  “Wait here,” Shrupty says when we reach the back dining room. “I’ll find out what’s available.”

  “This place is fancy as fuck,” Dante says quietly.

  “I feel like I’m in Vanderpump Rules,” Parker adds. “Quick, Dante, throw a drink in my face!”

  They chuckle while I quietly descend into panic. I’m terrified that Parker will figure out I’m crushing on Shrupty. My body reacts to her in ways I can’t control: the blushing, the way I smile when she smiles, the fact that my gaze is always drawn to her. No one else would notice these subtle things, but no one else knows me like Parker. What if he figures out that I like her? What if he asks me if I’m queer?

  I want to come out to him, I really do, but I want it to be on my terms. I push my glasses farther up my nose and take in a breath, trying to pull myself together. Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe I can just squish my feelings for her all the way down, just for an hour or so.

  Shrupty comes around the corner and waves us over. The moment I see her smile, I light up like Times Square on New Year’s Eve. How the hell am I going to switch this feeling off?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  We follow Shrupty outside to what I can only describe as a gothic tea garden. Golden skulls on each table hold pink candles, creating an eerie but intimate vibe. Each table is adorned with black roses in copper teapots. Vines climb up the walls and cover the ceiling, winding around a shimmering chandelier.

  “Wow,” I say as Shrupty stops at a booth in the back and slides in. “This is your aunt’s place? It’s so…”

  “Strange,” she says, grinning. “I know. But it’s a good strange, right?”

  I slide in opposite her, and Parker follows me. Dante sits next to Shrupty.

  “I’m really vibing with this goth aesthetic,” Parker says, looking around. “It’s like being at a romantic funeral.”

  Shrupty laughs. “Right? I went through a really intense goth phase in high school. I spent hours back here writing terrible poetry and sneaking absinthe from behind the bar.”

  “Nice,” Dante says as he relaxes into the plush velvet seat.

  A waiter comes over to take our drink order. I almost drop the menu when I see how expensive everything is.

  Parker nudges me inconspicuously. “Don’t look so panicked,” he whispers. “I’ll put it on my card. Just stick to the cheaper options.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper. “You’re the best.”

  “I know,” he says with a smirk and a wink.

  I mentally scold myself for getting so caught up in my feelings for Shrupty that I didn’t think more about how much this would cost. If Parker weren’t here, I’d have to dip into my already limited savings.

  I order the cheapest drink on the menu: something called a Roy Rogers. Shrupty gets a virgin Cinderella, Parker orders a hilariously titled Benedict Cucumber Batch, and Dante keeps it simple with a beer.

  There’s an awkward silence once the waiter leaves. I glance at Shrupty and see her smiling at me, then panic and look at the table instead.

  To my relief, Dante starts telling us about his day at a photo shoot in the Valley. Parker interjects every now and then with a joke that makes us all laugh. Even though they’ve only been hanging out a week or two, I just love them together.

  Dante is super chill. He’s quiet and reserved, and when he does speak his voice is soft. Just being around him is calming. Parker, on the other hand, is high energy, all the time. Whether he’s making snappy one-liners or telling an animated story after a night out, he’s always switched on. But even though they’re so different, they just fit so well together. It’s like they balance each other out. Dante brings P back down to earth, and P brings Dante out of his shell.

  By the time the waiter returns with our drinks, I’m feeling much more relaxed about being here with Shrupty.

  She looks at me from behind her long lashes as she sips her mocktail. “Thanks so much for coming out with me.” She reaches over the table and takes my hand. “I’m so excited to be working with you.”

  My whole body flushes. “Me too.” I tell myself to pull my hand away, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I’m torn between protecting my secret and following my heart. So I go with it and hope that Parker is too distracted by Dante’s storytelling and dazzling smile to notice.

  Her hand lingers on mine a few more seconds, then she slowly pulls it away. I want to reach out and take it back, but I don’t. Instead, I decide to make a small but meaningful move by proposing a toast.

  “To Shrupty’s new role!” I say, holding my glass up. The others lift up their drinks and we all clink them together.

  “To Shrupty!” Dante says.

  “To new friends,” Parker says with a grin.

  “So,” Dante says to Shrupty. “Is this your first acting role?”

  She nods. “I’m kind of terrified. Honestly, I never even expected I’d pass the audition. And that guy was so damn intimidating.”

  “Malcolm,” I say.

  “Ah,” Parker says, recognizing his name from my midday text rants. “The boss. That’s why I love being a freelancer—no assholes telling me what to do all the time.”

  “What do you do?” Shrupty asks. Her jacket falls down past her shoulder and she lets it hang there. Her brown skin glows in the candlelight, and I have to force myself to look away.

  “I’m a makeup and hair stylist,” he says. He gestures to Dante. “That’s how we met.”

  “Awww,” Shrupty swoons.

  “You should have seen him before their first date,” I say, nudging Parker playfully. “He was so nervous.”

  Dante’s eyes light up. “He was?”

  I nod. “And he couldn’t stop smiling when he came home.”

  “Hush,” Parker says, trying to cover my mouth with his hand. I swat it away, giggling. “You’re giving away all my secrets.”

  Dante leans forward over the table, his dreads falling over his face. “I want to know all of your secrets.”

  Shrupty points at them. “See, that’s what I want. You two have such an obvious connection. It’s like you’ve been together for years.”

  For the first time in my life, I notice Parker shying away. He bites on his bottom lip and glances away. “Now look what you’ve done. I’m blushing.”

  “Aww.” I rest my head on his shoulder. “You’re so cute.”

  “You’re so lucky to have each other,” Shrupty says to us. “My cousins are all older than me, so we’re not that close, and my little brother is a nightmare. I wish I was close to him like you two are.”

  Parker and I look at each other and laugh.

  “Trust me,” he says. “We’ve had our moments.”

  Suddenly, I’m hit with a new terror. We’re getting dangerously close to talking about my childhood, and I’m not ready for Shrupty to know about that yet.

  “Really?” Shrupty asks.

  Parker nods. “We shared a room for most of our lives, and being all up in each other’s space like that isn’t fun. We fought a lot.”

  Oh god. I feel
frozen, watching helplessly as this conversation veers toward the edge of somewhere I don’t want to go.

  “Oh,” Shrupty says. “You lived together? No wonder you seem more like brother and sister.”

  “Yep. We’re good now,” I say, a little too aggressively. “That’s what matters.”

  He nods. “Totally. After our dads both skipped town, our moms couldn’t afford rent, so they moved us all in together. So we’re super close.”

  My panic rises in my chest. I watch Shrupty’s reaction, looking for signs of judgment. She grew up surrounded by wealth and Hollywood and glamour. There’s no way she’ll look at me the same if she finds out I grew up a friendless loner who had to scrape pennies together just to take the bus to work after school every day.

  “Should we order some food?” I suggest, trying to change the subject. We all open up our menus, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  “Where did you grow up again?” Shrupty asks. My shoulders tense up.

  “Westmill, an hour outside Seattle,” Parker says. “Don’t feel bad if you’ve never heard of it. No one has.”

  Shrupty laughs. Parker starts telling her about how poor we were, and I sink into the cushion of the seat, wishing it would swallow me whole. How do I stop this?

  Freaking out, I kick Parker’s shin under the table. He winces, then turns to me with a look of shock on his face.

  Just then, Shrupty’s phone rings. “Sorry, it’s my mom. One sec.” She answers it, and I take the opportunity to talk to Parker.

  “Please don’t,” I whisper to him.

  “Excuse me?” he says. “You ‘don’t’! You kicked me.”

  “Because you were telling her how poor we are. I don’t want her knowing anything about Westmill. It’s embarrassing.”

  Hurt flashes in his eyes, and his whole body stiffens. “Fine. I’m sorry I’m such an embarrassment to you.”

  I reach for his hand, but he pulls it away. “No, P. That’s not what I meant.”

  Shrupty ends her call and the table falls silent. The rest of the night is painfully uneventful. Parker hardly says a word. I’m too consumed by guilt to eat, but the food is all so expensive that I force it down so it’s not a waste of money. Dante and Shrupty try their best to keep the conversation flowing, but it’s clear that the mood has soured, and soon Dante is dropping Parker and me home.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Please don’t be mad at me,” I say once we’re inside.

  Parker raises his eyebrows. “You don’t get to tell me how to feel right now.”

  I hold my palms up at him. “Okay, you’re right. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry I kicked you.”

  He avoids looking at me as he walks into the kitchen and opens the fridge. “Honestly, the kick didn’t hurt as much as you telling me to shut up.”

  I crawl onto the futon and wrap myself under the blanket. “You were blabbing about us! I don’t want her knowing we got all our clothes from Goodwill or that we lived on food stamps. She wouldn’t understand.”

  He pushes the fridge closed without taking anything out of it, then leans on the counter, glaring at me. “Do you hear how disrespectful you’re being right now? Our mothers did everything they could for us. We shouldn’t be ashamed of that. Is that why you haven’t called your mom once since you arrived?”

  I shouldn’t be surprised that he knows that. She probably told my aunt, who told him. “That’s not—”

  He holds a finger up to silence me. “You know what? I’m. Not. Done.”

  My jaw snaps closed. I don’t remember the last time I’ve seen him this upset.

  “Bex, you saw what I went through in high school. You know more than anyone how much hell those bullies put me through. But I always was comforted by the fact that they didn’t know me, so they had no right to judge me. They were assholes who projected their own hatred and insecurities onto me. And no matter what they said, I never ever let them make me feel ashamed of who I was. But you … You know me better than anyone in the whole world. To see you avert your gaze from me tonight, to hear you say that you were embarrassed by our lives, like you were ashamed of us—of me…” He takes in a deep breath. “How dare you.”

  Tears well in my eyes. “I didn’t realize—”

  He throws his hands in the air. “Whatever. You obviously need to unpack a lot of internalized shit, girl. Because I’m not embarrassed or ashamed about how we grew up, or being from Westmill, or the lives our mothers gave us. And you shouldn’t be either.”

  He walks into his room and closes his door. I sit under my blanket, feeling like the worst person in the world.

  I want to stay in bed and give him space, but soon the Roy Rogers I drank is threatening to burst my bladder. I crawl off the futon and tiptoe toward Parker’s bedroom door. This is going to be awkward.

  I knock quietly, hoping he’s already asleep. But then I hear a sad, soft voice reply, “Come in.”

  When I peek my head in, he’s lying in bed with his laptop on his chest, watching something.

  “I have to pee,” I say sheepishly, my thighs squeezed together like they’re holding in a tsunami. “Like, bad.”

  He nods, and I scurry past him into the bathroom and close the door. When I’m done, I try to sneak out of his room quietly, but just as I’m about to leave he says my name. I spin on my heels and burst into tears.

  “I’m … so … sorryyyy,” I cry, covering my face with my hands. Then I kneel down beside his bed and take his hand in mine. “What I said was shitty and selfish and I take it all back. I should never have acted like I’m embarrassed by you, because I’m not. I’m proud to be the one person who knows you better than anyone else.”

  Parker looks at me with tears in his eyes, then lifts the comforter up. “Get in here.”

  I wipe my tears and climb in beside him. “I really am so sorry, P.”

  He nods. “I know you are, and I forgive you. But you better not talk about our mothers like that again, or there’ll be trouble.”

  I hold a hand over my heart. “I swear, it won’t happen again.”

  “Good.” He presses the play button on his laptop and an old episode of Grey’s Anatomy continues. Memories of us watching I Love Lucy marathons in bed as children come flooding back, and suddenly I miss my mother so much it makes my heart ache.

  “You’re right, you know?” I say quietly.

  Parker yawns. “About what?”

  “I’ve been ashamed of my life,” I say, choking back fresh tears. “It didn’t hit me until you said it. And as much as I didn’t want to hear it, I know it’s true. I’ve been ashamed of who I am for as long as I can remember.”

  Just saying those words feels like a release, like opening a door I’ve kept locked somewhere deep inside me. I cry quietly until the credits roll, letting the pain out one tear at a time. I’ve been ashamed. But I don’t want to hurt myself like that anymore. I don’t want to hurt my family like that anymore.

  “Parker,” I whisper.

  He takes in a slow breath. “Hmm?”

  I nervously bite down on my bottom lip, tasting the saltiness of my tears. “I have to tell you something.” My chest swells with emotion, and I try to stamp it out so I can speak. “I’m gay.”

  The words leave my lips like a wild bird that has been caged for too long. But Parker doesn’t say anything. I wait in silence for what feels like an eternity, panicked thoughts racing through my mind.

  “P?” I ask, my voice hoarse from crying. When he still doesn’t reply, I realize he’s fallen asleep.

  He didn’t hear me. I finally muster the courage to say those two life-altering words, and no one heard it. I roll over and take my glasses off so I can bury my face in the pillow.

  No one heard it. But I said it. And I felt it. Maybe that’s all that matters right now.

  * * *

  I’m making pancakes when Parker walks into the kitchen the next morning, his eyes half-open, creases down the side of his face from sleeping.

  “
You’re up early,” he says before yawning loudly.

  “I wanted to make you breakfast,” I say as I pour more pancake mix into the pan.

  “Aww,” he says as he drags a barstool out from under the kitchen counter and sits down. I set a place for him at the counter, complete with cutlery, napkins, butter, and maple syrup. I turn so my back is facing him, blocking his sight of the pan. I woke up with a plan, and if he sees it before it’s ready, I might chicken out. The creamy mix sizzles as I move the spatula through it, molding it into the letter G. The letters I and M are already stacked on a plate by the stove, and once the G has browned just enough, I scoop it up and drop it on top of them.

  An A and Y later, I place the plate on the counter in front of Parker and anxiously hold my breath. He reads it out loud.

  “‘I’m gay,’” he says, then smiles. “Aww, I am gay! Yay! Gaycakes!”

  He pops open the maple syrup and pours it over my coming-out message. I furrow my brow, realizing he thinks it’s about him. I wipe my hands on my apron and take in a deep breath.

  “Yes,” I say. “You are. And so am I.”

  He tilts his head to the side, his mouth full of the fluffy G pancake. “Come again?”

  This is getting frustrating. I pinch the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger.

  “P,” I say with a sigh. “I’ve literally spelled it out for you.”

  He looks down at the plate, then back at me, and his eyes narrow. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  “Ugh!” I groan. “I’m gay!”

  My heart feels like it’s lodged in my throat. I said it. I can’t possibly make it any clearer.

  Parker gently places his knife and fork on the plate. Then he swallows the bite of pancake, picks up the napkin, and dabs his mouth with it. Finally, he looks at me, and it’s like I can see this new information turning over in his mind.

  The corner of his mouth lifts into a half smile, and he nods. “Yeah, makes sense.”

  My jaw drops. “Wait. What?”

  How am I the more shocked one in this conversation?

  Parker pushes the plate to the side and reaches over the counter for my hands. “Bex, I shared a room with you from the ages seven to eighteen; I know you better than anyone. So, yeah, it’s not like the thought hasn’t crossed my mind once, twice, or three thousand times.”