Return to Sender

by Ashlyn Kane

Emerson tilted his head back, trying to get a proper view of the alarm clock. Was it only two? That meant that it had only been ninety minutes since he had left Karl’s, and not yet three hours since he had told Karl he could…. Emerson let his thoughts drift away from that line of thinking.

  “Emerson!” Zack poked his shoulder, hard.

  “What?” Emerson hadn’t meant to sound that whiny.

  “What’s going on, Emma?”

  He took another swig from his bottle of Jack. “You’d be so proud of me,” he told Zack. “I went and found myself a boy whose name wasn’t Jonah Cherneski and who wanted to fuck me.”

  Zack sighed, his warm breath tickling the side of Emerson’s face. “Em, what did you do?”

  “What you keep saying I should do. I found another boy to fuck me.”

  This was met with silence. Emerson took another drink.

  “Emerson.” Zack’s voice sounded so disappointed that Emerson raised his bottle again, only the mouth never reached his lips as Zack snatched the bottle from his hand.

  “You’ve had enough,” Zack told him, sounding like Emerson’s dad.

  A hollow feeling filled his stomach. “No, I haven’t!”

  “Yes, you have.” His voice was firm. Then Zack put the bottle an arm’s length away from him, on his other side. Emerson eyed the bottle, peering across Zack’s chest, but decided, ultimately, that it was just too far away.

  “Emerson, tell me you didn’t.”

  “Didn’t what?” Even through the drunken haze, Emerson knew he sounded like a child.

  “Tell me you didn’t let some stranger—”

  “Pop my cherry?” The words tore out of Emerson with a vengeance, as sharp and quick as any weapon. “He was tall and pretty and nice, so yes, when he asked if he could, I let him. I told him to- to put his cock up my ass.” Suddenly Emerson’s eyes felt itchy. “I let him… I told him to fuck me because I….” A sob kept him from finishing his sentence.

  “Oh Emma,” Zack murmured sympathetically. He snaked an arm around Emerson’s shoulders and pressed his cheek to the top of his head.

  “It hurt.” The words spilled out of Emerson on the tail end of another sob, much to his surprise. “It still hurts.”

  Zack let out another sigh. “Emma….”

  “It was awful, Zack,” Emerson said. The tears wouldn’t stop falling. They just kept coming, and Emerson could hardly talk for the all the sobs.

  “Shit, you do get yourself into it, don’t you?” Zack rubbed one hand up and down Emerson’s arm and didn’t complain when Emerson turned his face into Zack’s neck and cried onto his shoulder.

  §

  WRITTEN on the back of a flyer for an in-faculty music soirée, never mailed:

  Jonah,

  Went out again last night to another party; drank too much. Have hangover from hell and Zack is being mean and glaring at me.

  Ugh, can’t remember anything about yesterday, but did get your letter, you God-damned son of a lying bitch and why do you do this shit to me—

  §

  ONE week later:

  Jonah,

  I don’t think I want to know anything more about Gavin. What you’ve told me and hinted at is enough to scar me for life. Despite that, thank him for the camera.

  Wow. A weekend away? I didn’t realize you and Xie were that serious. Congrats, I guess? (Zack, Greg, and Hayley are all sluts who refuse to give me proper experience on how to deal with my friends dating for longer than five hours. So… sorry I don’t know the right thing to say.)

  Went to a party last weekend and had too much to drink, as evidenced by embarrassing make-out session mid-dance floor with a classmate I barely talked to before that night. Zack was an evil bastard the next day. He had no sympathy for my hangover. Anyway, I was so busy recovering and then trying to get all my homework done that I didn’t have time for you and your letters until this weekend.

  I really should go, though—I don’t have that much free time today. Natalie’s minding the shop, but Dad’s not working weekends again yet, so they’re still my responsibility, and I’ve got some homework and reading to get done.

  Emerson

  Chapter 8

  Emerson,

  It’s alright, I know you’re busy. Hell, after all the shit I’ve pulled, I’m probably lucky that you still talk to me at all.

  It wasn’t a weekend “away” per se. Unless you mean away from Gavin, of course. You should stay far away from him. I am pretty sure there aren’t any airborne STIs, but you can never be too careful. If the government was going to weaponize that shit, Gavin would be their go-to guy.

  I just gave myself goose bumps.

  It’s not really a “congratulations” thing. It’s—what’s the opposite of complicated? That’s what it is. It started out romantic, but now we’re just kind of mutually pathetic and horny. (Is that too much information? It’s probably too much information.) Anyway, it turns out we’re not actually that compatible, romantically, but Xie is a good friend. I guess that isn’t going to help you learn what to say if you ever meet anyone in a functional relationship. Sorry.

  You need to be more careful, Emerson. Who knows what could happen at these college parties you’re going to? I’d hate for you to get hurt. Then who would I send Roberta’s filthy jokes to?

  Jonah

  §

  WRITTEN on the back of an internal map of the campus library:

  Jonah,

  Uhh, yeah, still a no on the meeting Gavin—ever—front.

  You have a friends-with-benefits arrangement with someone? What happened to the dork who ran away? Sometimes I wonder if I’ll recognize you when you come home.

  I was fine. I know how to take care of myself—yes, Jonah, even at a college party. I didn’t have that much to drink, just enough to make me think that dancing would be a good idea.

  Dirty jokes? Geez, you’re as bad as Hayley. The other day she started a conversation with, “So last night, the guy I picked up was eating me out like he was a fucking vacuum. I mean, like, seriously, sucking on my clit.” Then she started giving me advice for oral sex. I’m pretty sure the whole conversation was about making me blush. She says it’s amusing. Frankly, I just think she’s evil. What else is a guy suppose to do when a woman starts talking about last night’s oral sex?

  Well, I’ve got to wrap this letter up. I’m meeting up with a classmate for coffee and studying, and it’s time for me to hightail it across campus, but I want to mail this first.

  Emerson

  §

  Hey Em,

  Even dorks grow up, I guess. You ever hear that saying, “you can never go home again”? Everything changes, Em. That’s the only thing that ever stays the same.

  I didn’t mean to imply that you don’t know how to take care of yourself. I meant to say I don’t think you do enough of it. There’s a difference.

  Hey, free sex advice is always good. Most guys would be taking notes, dude, at least if they could divert enough blood from their boner. From what you’ve told me about Hayley, guys would probably kill just to be a fly on that wall.

  I finally got out a short story just for you. Sorry about the bad photocopy; the machine at work needs a tune-up.

  Jonah

  §

  WRITTEN on a lined sheet torn from a notebook:

  Jonah,

  I really can take care of myself just fine. And I do, too, do enough of it.

  Free sex advice from Hayley is, and always will be, sex advice from Hayley. There is no way that that will ever stop being wrong and upsetting. It’s Hayley. That’s like… getting sex advice from Natalie. So, there is no boner when Hayley talks about sex.

  Wow. Jonah, your story is amazing. I can’t get over it. I’ve read it about five times already. I had no idea that anyone could give a park bench so much personality, but you did. It’s very different from what you used to write; I guess it must come from all those new experiences you’ve been having. Did you come up with the idea sitting on
a park bench, wondering who else was there before you?

  Yesterday I was taking a short cut across campus when I had to stop to take this picture for you. Your work was good inspiration.

  Emerson

  P.S. I’ve never believed that stupid saying about how you can never go home again. It was coined by someone who couldn’t have been loved very much.

  §

  On the back of page two of Jonah’s resume:

  Emerson,

  If you say so.

  I’ll have you know you have killed any and all boners, present and future, forever by mentioning Natalie and sex in the same sentence. Thanks a lot, asshole. Ugh.

  I wrote the whole thing sitting on a park bench, actually. My ass was completely numb when I got up, but it was worth it. The picture is perfect—it looks so lonely, you can just imagine it absorbing bits and pieces of the people it shelters over the years to keep itself company. I was in kind of a maudlin mood when I wrote it. Yes, it even happens to me sometimes. It just seems that no matter where you go, what you do, someone was always there before you. Someone beat you to it, someone faster, better.

  Xie has finally finagled a date with the boy she’s been in love with since eighth grade, and who might actually love her back. I hope he does. She deserves it.

  Jonah

  §

  EMERSON found Hang Out on U of T’s website for clubs and societies. It was the only informal LGBT group without another agenda. Unlike the ones that wanted to promote social or political change, this group was all about meeting others who understood what you were going through. He read on their website that they met for coffee once a week, so Emerson made note of the time and place, and the following week he got ready to go.

  And now here he was, standing outside of a coffee shop, arms crossed and staring at the door. All he had to do was go through those doors, and he’d be meeting others just like him.

  Now: to step through the door.

  Emerson was bound and determined to walk through that door, because he had made a promise to himself. After waking up to discover that he had fallen into bed with someone while drunk yet again, this time as the direct fallout of Jonah’s latest letter, Emerson had made his decision. He was tired of being lovesick and hung up on Jonah. He was tired of feeling depressed and angry. He was tired of pining after Jonah, of getting his hopes up one letter and having them dashed the next. Emerson couldn’t take the yo-yoing emotions anymore.

  So Emerson had made himself a promise: he was going to get out of the house, he was going to meet new people, and he was going to get the fuck over his stupid unrequited love.

  Someone walked up behind Emerson, and they clipped shoulders as he passed. He gave an apology but kept walking to the door.

  See, it was easy, Emerson thought. That guy had gone in, and so could he.

  He pulled open the door and walked to the counter. After ordering his coffee and dumping in an appropriate amount of sugar, Emerson hesitated, looking around the shop. The place was fairly lively, but Emerson was pretty sure that the group he was looking for was located in the far right corner. There was a large group of laughing and talking students, not terribly unusual for a coffee shop so close to the college, but this group looked a little different. There were a larger number of girls with short hair and piercings and boys wearing bright colors and effeminate clothes. There were also several very nondescript, average-looking students.

  “Hi.”

  Emerson jumped and turned to see the guy who had bumped into him standing at his side.

  “Thinking about joining us?”

  “What?” Emerson stared at him, trying to look like a man who didn’t have homosexual thoughts and who wasn’t thinking about joining an LGBT club.

  “Was wondering if you were just going to stand here all day or if you were thinking about actually sitting down and joining us.”

  “Us?”

  “Yeah. Hang Out.” Emerson jerked to hear the name, and the guy just grinned in response. “We don’t bite—we’re actually real friendly.” He gave Emerson a wink, and it was then that Emerson noticed that this man was really quite attractive. He was tall, with dark features, warm brown eyes, and curly black hair. Emerson swallowed.

  “I’ve never….”

  “Been to any sort of LGBT meeting? That’s okay; we’re all a little shy the first time. I’m Alex.” He held out his hand for Emerson to shake.

  “Emerson.”

  “I know.” Emerson blinked in surprise. “You showed up at my photography club meeting last week. I… noticed you.”

  “Oh.” Emerson blushed at the knowledge of being noticed and at not being able to remember the other man.

  “So… you going to come and join us?”

  “Um, yeah. I’d like that,” Emerson managed to force out of his dry throat, and he followed Alex over to the group in the corner.

  Emerson had never felt so comfortable or happy with a group of strangers before in his life. They had been warm and welcoming and had had this knowing air about them that had been nice instead of awkward. It had also been a bit of a revelation when he found himself hearing so many jokes and casual comments about being gay. Emerson had never met so many people who were so comfortable about it.

  By the time Alex walked him back to his car, Emerson was high on adrenaline. He felt the hot rush of success and the pleased buzz of having met potential new friends.

  And then, of course, there was Alex. Alex, who had flirted with Emerson over coffee and who had lingered with him before offering to walk Emerson back to his car. He had accepted, enjoying the feeling of interest and mild arousal curling in his belly. It had been too long since Emerson had felt that while sober and with someone who wasn’t Jonah Cherneski.

  “So, Emerson… I was kind of hoping that you and I could maybe go out again, grab another cup of coffee or maybe go to dinner?” Alex gave him a shy smile.

  Emerson found himself smiling back. “Yeah. Yes.”

  “Okay, then.” Alex’s grin was wide. “So, Friday at six? Do you like Thai food?”

  “Thai sounds good.”

  “Great. Meet me at Titaya’s? They have a great banana roll with coconut ice cream for dessert. I’ll even share a bite or two,” he added with what might have been a suggestive smile.

  Emerson blushed. “Maybe I want my own banana roll,” he said, not quite believing his own nerve.

  Alex laughed, obviously delighted. “Suit yourself. I’ll see you Friday, Emerson.”

  Emerson watched him leave, a pleased smile spreading inexorably across his face.

  §

  WRITTEN on the back of a flyer for the Texas Photography Club:

  Jonah,

  Writing fiction while sitting in the park? Wow, how very… romantic poet of you. Next you’ll be telling me how you wrote poems about your walks in the woods.

  I’m sorry to hear about Xie. Someone will come along for you too.

  So as you can see, they have a photography club at U of T, so a couple of weeks ago I decided to check it out. I figured, what with all the free time I have these days not minding the shop, I could totally join a club. You’d be proud. I went on my own and everything.

  The meetings so far have been good. We took a walk around Austin last week looking for subjects. It was good to share the experience with people just as obsessed as I am. I don’t think I’ve ever spent so much time talking about camera lenses and light angles before. Several of us went for coffee afterward, and we didn’t break up until late. We almost spent more time at the coffee shop than we did on the outing. Paid off for me though: I ended up with a date. Three, actually. I saw Alex twice in the last week, and we’re going to meet up again tonight.

  Actually, I should go—I need to shower and change now if I want to mail this before my date.

  Emerson

  §

  WRITTEN on a blank sheet of computer paper stapled to a quarterly arts magazine and a check for $500:

  Emerson,


  I forged your signature for the rights to the photo. The contest called for a short story with accompanying photograph. Attached is your cut of second place. Congrats! (Please don’t be mad.)

  I’m not sorry about Xie. She deserves to be happy as much as anyone. I know there’s someone out there for me. I’m not worried yet; we’re still young.

  The photography club sounds pretty cool. Alex must be pretty cool, too, if he’s already got to the third date. I’m happy for you, Em.

  Jonah

  §

  WRITTEN the same day he read Jonah’s last letter:

  Jonah,

  You just sent me $500. Any anger I might have had about forging my signature totally went away at that. I don’t know what to do with all this extra money!

  I’m guessing the “he” wasn’t a typo. So, you know? Zack keeps telling me I’m too much of a queer for people not to guess—I guess he’s right. I wanted to tell you, but I was kind of terrified—it’s not like there’s a successful and popular PFLAG chapter in Hudson Bend. I haven’t told anyone else yet except for Hayley, Zack, and Greg.

  Emerson

  §

  Em,

  Save it. Someday you’re going to need a better camera.

  I don’t make typos when I’m hand-writing, Emerson. I figured it out in twelfth grade when you started spending more time with Justin. I’m out here, but you’re the only one back home who knows. Well, I think Natalie suspects, but she’s sneaky like that. Watch out for that one. Anyway, I don’t want to tell my parents on the phone or, worse, in a letter. They deserve to hear it in person. I just don’t know when that will be.

  I actually got another part-time job at one of the local hotels here for the ski season, but it’s not posh or anything. I’m just the maintenance guy. Anyway, if it takes me longer to reply than usual, you’ll know why.