He’d emailed last spring that he’d bought a house not far from where he worked in the post office sorting center. The street in front of us curved its way up a hill—or maybe it was a bluff. On one side was the steep sheer rock edges I was used to on the mountain roads in Boone County. But on the other side, there were houses, driveways, yards. The street stopped curving and we went almost straight up, then down a side street made up of frost heaves, cobblestones and patches of asphalt before Uncle Owen pulled into a driveway.
Two stories, a porch and everything.
Nice, I signed after I got out of the car. Congratulations.
He smiled, and we went up the front steps. A strange woman greeted us at the door. I stepped back.
She rolled her eyes at Uncle Owen and spoke along with her signs. “He didn’t tell you, did he?”
He signed Tell now. My girlfriend—He finger spelled too fast for me to follow. All I got was that her name started with a C.
“Christine,” she told me. “It’s very nice to meet you, Wyatt.”
What was it with surprise guests at the holidays? Though since children and more people didn’t suddenly pour out of the house, I figured I was still a leg up on twenty Monroes, especially if they were all as chatty as Ethan.
“Nice to meet you too.” I hope.
“Come in and relax.” She tapped Uncle Owen’s arm and signed again while she spoke, “Your trip was nine hours?”
I nodded. Nothing like the local bus on a holiday to turn three hours into nine.
“You take him up, I’ll get dinner out.” To me she added in voice alone, “It’s just frozen pizza, I’m sorry, Wyatt.”
“That’s fine. Thank you.”
Upstairs, Uncle Owen showed me a bedroom with a double bed and the bathroom with towels stacked on a stand behind the toilet. There was a closed door I guessed was his room, his and Christine’s.
A sudden panic had me asking, We eat here tomorrow?
He looked at me curiously and nodded.
That was only half of the panic. Who?
He smiled. Family.
I was pretty sure he didn’t mean Mom was coming. How many?
He pointed to me, down where we’d left Christine and then to himself and added, Three.
I sighed in relief.
He furrowed his brow. What?
Good, I answered. Then because facial expressions counted for a lot in sign, I managed a smile. I like us. I included Christine in the gesture.
He squeezed my shoulder and went back downstairs.
I tossed the duffle and my backpack on the bed and pulled out my phone. Four texts from Ethan.
That had me shaking my head and smiling at the same time.
Text one: Are you there yet?
Some college group had buses hired for a discount trip to Philadelphia where Ethan’s parents were picking him up. He’d been able to sell my ticket a few hours after posting it. I spared a thought for whatever poor bastard had bought it, sitting next to Ethan the whole way.
Two: Text when you get there.
Three: Got an email from the Calc TA. A-on my makeup quiz. Motivation counts. Accompanied by a tongue out, winking emoji.
Four: Already wish break was over.
I typed an answer. Got here fine. Good job on the quiz. My uncle has a girlfriend. Seems nice. Miss you too. Then I backspaced out everything after quiz and substituted Text you later.
Ethan’s answer was immediate. Ok.
The frozen pizza wasn’t bad, and there was also salad and some store bought cupcakes. I carried my paper plate toward the kitchen garbage and offered to help clean up.
Christine waved her hand around the kitchen. “Nothing to clean. Now tomorrow I won’t turn you down. Do you have any special culinary talents?”
Despite her having been a surprise, it was hard not to like her.
“I load a mean dishwasher,” I said, then explained about my job in the kitchen.
“I’ve never cooked a Thanksgiving dinner,” she confessed, “so it’s all hands on deck tomorrow.” She opened the fridge and stared in at the overstuffed shelves.
“I’ve never been to one,” I told her. “So no judgment here.”
She straightened and pushed the door shut.
I thought of Ethan and his stupid bone-deep conviction that things would be okay. “We can all figure it out together,” I offered, but I shrugged when I said it.
“Thank you, Wyatt. I like that idea.”
My phone had been on vibrate, right in my pocket, so I should have known if I got a text. As we had coffee in the living room, I checked it anyway. Nothing new from Ethan. While Uncle Owen and Christine explained how they’d met and asked about my classes, I tried to decide if Ethan’s sudden willingness to wait to talk was a good or a bad thing.
When I stretched out on the bed later, I couldn’t believe how tired I was, like I’d just done a full ten hours in the kitchen, when I’d actually been sitting on my ass doing nothing most of the day.
I shot Ethan a text. Hey. How’s it going?
His answer wasn’t the kind of immediate that would happen if he’d been staring at his phone, but it came back quick enough. Good. Hi. How are things with your uncle?
Now would be the time to tell him about Christine and the house, but my eyes were doing that blinking thing that meant sleep was right around the corner. It’s good, I sent instead.
I miss you.
Nothing subtle about it that time, like his previous wish break was over. But then subtle and Ethan were two very distinct, never-overlapping sets.
It felt like a long time ago because of the bus ride, but it had only been a few hours. I texted, You saw me this morning.
Ethan all warm and sleepy, trying to talk me into another round before his makeup quiz. “I’ll just skip breakfast,” he’d said, but I’d been afraid he’d be late.
And last night. Ethan added another emoji wink. This time without the tongue sticking out.
I didn’t need it to remember where his tongue had been. Heat flashed down, pooling in my balls. I think I was supposed to say something back, maybe something about that being hot, but I didn’t have any more experience sexting than I did any other boyfriend activity. I defaulted to my usual choice of not saying anything rather than getting it wrong.
After a minute, he texted, Mom and Dad were sorry you couldn’t make it. But they understood when I explained about your uncle.
Maybe it was the sleep fog that confused me. He’d just shown up, without his freak boyfriend in tow, no warning? You didn’t tell them before?
No.
For all that he liked to talk, he needed to work on his communication skills. Why not?
It was easier.
WTF does that mean? I almost sent the whole thing in caps.
He took a long time to answer.
* * *
I jerked out of sleep. The tight, cold knot in my stomach was from something I forgot to do, didn’t do, was going to get in trouble for.
I wiped drool off my mouth and connected with the phone under my cheek. Oh. Maybe Ethan hadn’t taken a long time to answer.
I thumbed it open wondering if people who defused bombs felt this much anxiety when they got a peek at the wiring. Six messages. Not too bad. Of course, it only took one to say I’m sick of you always acting like we’re a train wreck waiting to happen. Later, Ethan.
It was one fifty-three. I’d come upstairs at eleven, but I don’t know when I’d fallen asleep.
I tapped the messages.
Well, I didn’t tell them that we’d changed the plan in case it didn’t stay changed. I figured if something fell through with your uncle, then I wouldn’t have to tell them plans changed again. It was easier to wait. They weren’t mad
or anything. They still want to meet you.
I had to admit it made sense. Though, I wasn’t sure what I thought of Ethan assuming my uncle would flake out and revoke my invitation.
I wondered how long he’d waited before sending the next message.
Does that make sense?
Or the next.
Wyatt?
Are you pissed?
I’m sorry.
Wyatt?
I could picture his eyes going all pleading and guilt gave me another quick gut punch. Thank God, I’d been able to upgrade to unlimited texts.
I rubbed my face and sent, Sorry. I fell asleep. I’m not pissed.
Ok. The answer came back fast enough that I knew he hadn’t been asleep.
I hunched down under the blankets, pulling the new smelling comforter all the way over my head. Sorry. Should have said I was tired.
Ok.
What did a good boyfriend say when you’d done something this boneheaded? I wished he was here. I couldn’t read his face in a text.
Your answer made sense, I tried.
Thanks.
Ethan, three hundred miles away, on his double bed, lying awake for hours because he thought I was mad at him when I was only stupid enough to start a conversation when I was half asleep. I knew he wasn’t smiling and that hurt to think about.
I owe you a blow job, I sent.
You so do. This time he added a smiley.
Chapter 5
When I got dressed in the morning, I realized I didn’t need to wear my hoodie, though I’d brought the one Ethan had given me, the one with the school colors. No one here was going to ask about my eyes or my hair. It was a weight off, a freedom I didn’t get much of at school, except when I was alone with Ethan, but I also kept shifting my shoulders like I was trying to shrug the shield of a hood back in place.
I was only too happy to have an assigned station in this kitchen. It put me closer to the incredible smell of the turkey roasting in the oven. I was at one end of the island, peeling, chopping and mixing to Christine’s orders. Uncle Owen washed the endlessly renewing pile of dishes we generated. Christine’s attention kept going back and forth between her tablet and the turkey in the oven. In one corner, a silent TV showed the parade with captions on. The rhythm of us working together was so different from the banging rush in the Butler Center kitchen, but it wasn’t because of the quiet. We were all here by choice and that made even peeling potatoes less of a chore.
Ethan sent me pictures of the traditional high school football game in progress. The crowds, which I was glad to be far away from. The scoreboard, lopsided results at half time, but I didn’t even know which side I was supposed to care about. After another picture, this one of the band artfully framed through some bronze leaves, I reminded him that I didn’t have unlimited data, but I hoped the sharing meant he’d forgiven me.
Christine banged the oven door shut, hard enough to make vibrations because Uncle Owen turned to look at her.
“Shit,” she signed and spoke, “I forgot pie.”
I hadn’t known the sign for pie, and I filed it away.
She darted around Uncle Owen and pulled a box of pie crusts out of the fridge.
Uncle Owen offered to go buy one.
She checked the clock. “Too late. Stores are closed.”
I’d seen them dump industrial cans of filling into pie shells in the kitchens at work. It didn’t seem that complicated. I didn’t know the signs for can or filling, but I spelled it out to keep Uncle Owen in the loop.
She produced a can of apple and pumpkin. The apple stuff looked good to go, but the pumpkin can was labeled puree, not filling. Christine and Uncle Owen looked at the recipe on the back of the can over my shoulder. She pointed at the evaporated milk and shook her head. She signed idiot, hitting herself in the head far harder than necessary. Uncle Owen grabbed her hand, and I turned back to study the can while there was some consoling kissing.
It was obvious to even me that Christine had put a lot into getting this dinner right. I didn’t care about the food, it was just nice to be someplace where people seemed glad to have me. I wanted to help. As Christine started scrolling on her tablet, I texted Ethan. Does your mom make pies?
A few minutes later, I had my phone jammed against my good ear while Mrs. Monroe tried to make herself heard over the background noise of screaming football fans. She was as nice as Ethan had said and seemed happy to be talking to me. I reported the various dairy contents from the fridge and she yelled out a recipe to me. I signed it to Uncle Owen holding the phone with a shoulder.
“Thank you, Mrs. Monroe. That sounds great. We really appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome, Wyatt. Sorry we didn’t get to meet you.” There was some mumbling, and then muffled yells, and then she was back. “Perhaps soon. Here’s Ethan.”
“Hang on,” Ethan told me right away. The crowd noise faded a little, so that when he spoke again he wasn’t yelling. “So other than pie emergencies, how’s it going?”
I really wished I had my hood on now, talking to my boyfriend while standing in my uncle’s kitchen. He could lip read, and I’m sure he was great at figuring out people’s expressions.
“It’s good,” I said, remembering not to yell just in time. Now was an excellent time to mention Christine. “My uncle’s girlfriend is really nice.”
“Well, my mom was thrilled to be Pie 911. She loves that kind of stuff. You already scored points. Unlike our team.”
Ethan on the phone was the same as Ethan in person. I didn’t really have anything to add, and if I didn’t talk, there’d be less to give away to my audience. He was giving me a funny play-by-play of the game so far when he interrupted himself. “I cannot fucking believe it. Seriously.”
His tone was serious. Low and hard. Very unEthanlike. This was not about football.
I walked toward the dining room. “What?”
“Blake is here, talking to my parents. Asshole.” He snapped the word off.
A handsome asshole with home field advantage. I tried not to think about that.
“I gotta go. I’ll call you later,” Ethan said as the crowd noises got louder again.
“Okay.”
“Uh—Wyatt?”
I hunched. “Yeah?”
“I still really miss you.”
“Uh, me too.”
After Ethan disconnected the call, I shoved my phone back in my pocket and went back into the kitchen. The apple filling was in a pie shell and Christine was using an electric mixer to beat together eggs and half and half according to Ethan’s mom’s recipe.
Uncle Owen smiled at me as he signed Who?
I didn’t want to lie about it. I hadn’t seen anything in the house that would make me think Uncle Owen hated gay people. I didn’t think he would throw me out. But if he didn’t cosign the loans for next year’s tuition, how could I pay for school? Shame and fear combined into an acidic burn in my throat. How did people do it? And Ethan had been telling the world he was gay since he was thirteen.
I swallowed the acid and signed, Friend. And friend’s mom.
One thing good thing about ASL was that pronouns for he and she were the same. No need to lie there. But boyfriend and girlfriend, those were definitely not the same.
* * *
I might not have had much to base the comparison on, but our Thanksgiving dinner was really good. I told Christine a bunch of times. The pies were both better than the stuff we served in Butler. Christine said I should thank my friend’s mom again for her. She said my friend with a wink.
The lie sitting there turned that extra piece of pie into a congealing lump of pumpkin and nutmeg. I sipped more coffee.
Uncle Owen tapped the table and when I looked at him, he signed, How much you know Mom’s f
amily?
Only you, I told him.
He had to slow down and finger spell some parts, but what I got from him was that part of why I’d never known Mom’s family was that she’d taken off with my father, who they didn’t like, and cut ties with them. My grandmother had had a heart attack before I was school age, but apparently I had a grandfather and a step-grandmother who lived in Canada.
Uncle Owen said he would put me in touch with my grandfather if I wanted to talk to him.
As if I didn’t have enough to digest. Did I really want to meet some guy who had never cared enough to try to get in touch with me? I don’t know. Need to think. Other than shrugging, that was always my best answer.
I pressed the rounded end of my fork handle into the tablecloth. There was a cornucopia pattern on it and the curve of metal fit perfectly over the side of one of the small squashes spilling out. I traced the rest of the squash and moved on to the grapes.
I could tell Christine and Uncle Owen were exchanging looks, but not signing while I made indentation designs.
Uncle Owen put his hand over mine for an instant, and I looked up. When he’d been explaining about his family, his face had been intent, but now his thick brows smushed together low over his eyes, lines deep around a flat mouth.
Difficult to say to you, he began. I’ve been angry with your mother for many reasons. Hurt my mother and father. Hurt me. Running.
I could see that. I’d once asked my mom if I had a grandmother. She told me she was dead. It hadn’t been a lie, but she’d never told me anything else.
Christine got up and moved to the chair across from me, closer to Uncle Owen.
He went on, I think she hurt you, hiding you.
Hiding me how? When he’d come to see me that first time in juvie, he’d told me he’d recently gotten back in touch with my mom and wanted to meet me.
She never told me and family when you were born. Never knew you were alive.
Boyfriend Material Page 4
