Curious

by Seth King

  But tonight a sense of urgency weighs on me like I’ve never felt before. Because I don’t want Beau and I to exist only in the multiverse. I don’t want us to be some beautiful but missed possibility that I dream about fifty years from now in my deathbed. I want our love to exist in real life. I want to love him in this universe. And I’m starting to realize I can’t let him go until I chase that chance with everything in me.

  Some people describe falling in love as being like finding a new favorite book, but falling in love with your best friend is like realizing your favorite book was on your shelf all along – you’d just shoved it there one day and forgotten about it. Before, my love for him lived hidden inside a million different little moments of ‘friendship’ – the time I got enraged upon seeing him on a date and left the theater for no reason at all, the time he broke his finger and I found myself on pins and needles for hours, worried sick about him. My love for him was there, it was just latent, waiting for the moment that would see it pounce out of the darkness and stake its claim.

  And now, wrapped in light and thunderously announcing its own arrival via my heartbeat, my love is here. It is everywhere, actually. Now I’ve just got to find a way to carry it into the future, to make our love real in this life, instead of it being just another beautiful possibility buried in my own personal pile of what-ifs…

  ~

  An hour before the reception’s closing time, the guests are starting to stumble out of the gate and trickle home. My dude, who’s gone off to pee, appears at the fountain looking curiously empty-eyed. I can’t tell if he’s sad or shocked or emotionally moved or…what?

  “What’s going on?” I ask him. “That was a long pee. I thought we were leaving. Where were you?”

  “Nowhere,” he says, and there’s some weird kind of smile in his eyes. Then I realize it: he’s wasted.

  “Were you drinking alone?” I ask, and he burps and wipes his face.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Why?”

  Finally he faces me. “Because I…I’m scared, Nate. Lane saw us. Twice.”

  “What?”

  “He just told me, after I left the bathroom. He saw us holding each other in the car, too, and you never told me. That’s why I just took a bunch of shots.”

  First I waver a little. Then I dig a heel into the ground and roll my eyes. “Oh, great, we’re back there?” I ask, trying to seem calm. “Awesome. Just awesome.”

  He looks away, indignant. “It is awesome. Sex is awesome. So are Southern bigots.”

  I come closer. “Beau,” I say. “What is this?”

  “She called me a sissy,” he said, his eyes screaming.

  “What? Who did?”

  “My mom, one of the last times I ever saw her, she called me a ‘sissy’ for not being able to hit a baseball in a certain way. That is one of the last memories I have of her, of her pushing me down and insulting me. I was staying with my dad all the next week, so I hadn’t even seen her alive much before I found her. That’s what I’ve had to live with all this time. That’s why I pull away sometimes when I get close to people…but trust me, Natie, I like you so much. I like you so much it terrifies me…I just don’t want to be a letdown…like I was to my mom…”

  I try to respond, but just then, the worst person in the world appears – Lane, that deep-fried Pillsbury Doughboy himself. Again. He’s waddling past in his khakis and his navy blazer, tumbler full of whiskey in hand as he talks shit into his phone, as always. At first I am positive he is not going to notice us – and then he does. Of course.

  He stops mid-sentence.

  “Hey, what are you two lovebirds doing?” he asks, hanging up the phone. “I guess all the chatter is true. Get back to the wedding, this isn’t a date night for y’all.”

  “We’ll be there soon,” says Beau is low, cool voice. Lane steps forward, smiling with a grin that is so slimy, so gross, I just want to kick him right then and there.

  “What’s that?” he asks in a condescending baby voice. “Aw, so it’s not just a rumor – you two really are shackin’ up! My eyes weren’t deceiving me! So tell me, which one is catchin’ and which is pitchin’?”

  I halfway think Beau is going to grab me and walk away. I want him to just leave Lane to his own misery – because truthfully, that would be the best choice. He is trash, he is beneath us, and we don’t need this in our lives.

  Instead, Beau wipes his cheek and stands a little taller. “Actually, we switch off. We find it works better that way. And I like how it feels, too.”

  All the color leaves Lane’s blotchy, ruddy face. In fact, he seems to shrink about three inches. If I weren’t so nervous, I’d laugh.

  “…What?” he asks, thrown. “I was just kidding – are you guys really – are you…”

  “I guess it’s up for you to decide,” Beau smirks. “Unless the alcohol has already eaten all your brain cells, that is.”

  “Whatever,” Lane says in a lower voice as he turns away. “Couple’a fags.”

  “Say that louder,” I say after him, and Beau looks over at me with horrified eyes. Now I am the one mouthing off, but I can’t help it – because people like this need to be fought. Nobody will ever be able to go back and stand up to Beau’s mom and tell her how wrong she was, but here is a new chance – and it could be the thing that solidifies this thing between us.

  But…shit, I’m also scared. Sure, Lane is a big, dumb oaf, but he’s probably two hundred pounds of big dumb oaf – nobody ever messes with him, because he throws his weight around and fights dirty. There’s no telling which way he’d go in a fight. But I don’t care. I am murderous right now.

  “I said, you’re fags,” he finally spits. “Not that I care, but you are. And regardless, whether you’re diddling each other or not, you’re still…soft. Always were.”

  My mouth opens. For some reason I don’t think of myself then – I think of every single gay kid out there who’s been under siege by someone like Lane, all the kids who were smaller and weaker and less brash than the pieces of shit who were taunting them.

  “Lane, why are you such a fucking piece of shit?” I suddenly hear myself say. “Who poured piss in your Cheerios and made you so miserable? Say that Beau and I did suck each other all day – what in the fucking world would it have to do with you? How would it affect you or your dumb little life in any fucking way whatsoever?”

  He doubles back, but then his eyes narrow. “You don’t know who you’re talking to.”

  “Oh, yeah, yeah, lemme guess,” I say as I roll my eyes. “You’re gonna tell me how rich and important you are, and how your shit smells like garden roses and…”

  “No,” he says flatly. “I was going to mention that my dad left my mom for a dude.”

  “Lane, you…what?”

  “Our interior designer, Lance,” he says inscrutably. “My dad left her for broke, and she’s been struggling ever since. All because he wanted to go live with his boyfriend.”

  Well, I think to myself, this explains why he’s such a miserable ape…

  “Listen…sorry,” I say soon. “And it sucks that they split up, but it has nothing to do with us, and what you think is going on here.”

  I see him look us up and down – is it worth it? he’s wondering. Should he risk it, or should he walk away?

  “I have no problem with it,” he says, his face more red than usual. “Whatever it is. Just keep it private – nobody wants to see that shit. It’s just not natural. Keep it to yourself.”

  He turns to leave, and a revolution boils in my blood unlike anything I have ever felt before. The other day I saw an article about whether we should “punch Nazis” – basically, a Nazi-connected group was growing in prominence, and people were debating whether we should “respect” their free speech, or try to take them down since they were, you know…well, Nazis. But all at once I know there is no “respecting” bigotry – people like Lane want me to go away, hide, erase myself from the world. And for what? I kno
w he’s not a Nazi, but it still applies here. Am I going to let him put me in danger with his words and his attitude? Or am I…not?

  “Say it again,” I hear myself growl, pounding towards him. “I don’t care who your dad is. Say that one more fucking time.”

  He turns around and smiles at me as condescendingly as he can. “Damn, Sykes, you’re dramatic tonight, aren’t you? Fine, I’ll say it again – keep it away from me, whatever it is. I just don’t want to see that faggot-y shit.”

  A burst of pure energy surges from the bottom of my left ankle, up through my torso, and explodes into my arm. Then it powers me to ball my fist, retreat one side of my body to draw leverage, and then – as Lane watches with disbelieving eyes – let my arm fly.

  And then I do it.

  I punch a bigot in the face.

  Beau Lindemann

  “Shit, Nathan!”

  I run up and grab him by the shoulders as Lane lurches backward and falls to the ground. Sure, I love every minute of it, but you can’t just punch people, either. When I turn Nathan to me, he’s dazed and blank in the face, and I shake him a little. “Nate! You okay? What was that?”

  “I…I think I just punched a Nazi,” he says, still dazed.

  “You…what? Nate, he’s not a Nazi…”

  But he doesn’t care – he’s still staring right through me. Lane, on the other hand, backs up against the wall and stares up at us.

  “Freaks!” he says. “Losers. You’ll regret this. My great-uncle’s the best lawyer in Columbia!”

  Suddenly something hits me – Lane is pissed, and he’s just given us a perfect ransom to hold in exchange for our secret, too. He would be humiliated if everyone found out about his dad – there’s no reason to be embarrassed, but clearly he would be. And of course, I would never actually “out” someone to the public – but then again, Lane doesn’t know that.

  “You fell onto the deck on a fishing excursion from the resort,” I tell Lane as I walk over and lean in, “and you hit your head, and that’s why you’ll have a black eye in the morning.”

  “What?”

  “This never happened. Tell anyone about it,” I whisper into his ear, “and everyone at this wedding will know about your dad – and that’s a bigot’s worst nightmare, isn’t it?”

  He pauses, stares, and pouts. And with that, he finally scurries off. I turn back to Nathan and wrap an arm over his shoulder.

  “Jesus. Your knuckle is already huge. Let’s get you home, okay, big guy?”

  “Um,” he asks, finally coming back to me, mentally speaking. “Did I just…did I just fight someone?”

  “I mean…kind of,” I laugh. “It was pretty awesome, actually. I just think you’re a little psychotic for punching a little dipshit who would like nothing more than to send you to jail for assault – and tell everyone in the world about us, too. But we’ll have to wait and see about all that…”

  His shoulders fall. “Oh. I guess I didn’t think about that. Sorry. Something just came over me – I can’t even describe it. And shit, he’s gonna tell people eventually, isn’t he?”

  “Probably,” I nod. “Not now, because I threatened him, but eventually – yeah, he probably will.”

  “What’re we gonna do, then?”

  I rub his shoulder just like I did the other day in front of the mirror – but this time, I don’t want to let go. “I mean…deal with it, I guess? God, you really sobered me up just then. I feel fine now. Maybe you should start a fight every time I get drunk…”

  He still looks tense, and for a while we just walk alone in the darkness. Then he looks over and smiles. “Oh well. Let’s head back for the bus, yeah?”

  “You read my mind. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Oh, and what were you going to tell me earlier?”

  I swallow hard. “Um…”

  “Um, what?”

  “I’ll tell you on the bus. Let’s just get some privacy first.”

  Nathan Sykes

  I follow Beau into the air-conditioned charter bus. Most of the guests either left early, too drunk to continue, or are still dancing. So we’re largely alone as we take seats.

  I rest my head against his seat, lulled into peacefulness by the hum of the idling engine. I can’t believe how long today felt – it was one of the longest days of my life, actually. And soon I am drifting, drifting, drifting…

  “Hey,” Beau says soon, and it seems like he’s nervous for some reason. “Do you remember the promise we made to each other when were in – like, probably the sixth grade?”

  “The one in the tree?” I ask, and he nods.

  “Yeah,” he says. “I fell out of that tree, and you said you’d never leave me. You said you’d stay with me in the ambulance, and you did. ‘You sing, I sing,’ remember?”

  “Of course. It was your birthday. I felt terrible you were going to miss your own party, and so I started to sing the birthday song, and your dad told me to shut up. But then you joined me, and I told you that every time you ever sing in the future, I’ll sing, too. ‘You sing, I sing.’ I’ll never forget it. God, such a crazy memory. Why do you ask?”

  “Because I…I do want to keep that promise,” he says. “Just…as your friend.”

  And my world shifts on its axis. “What?”

  “Yeah. That’s what I had to tell you. I just had to…be alone for it.”

  My head is spinning now, but I struggle to stay calm. “But I – I thought we were moving forward…I thought we were, well, more than friends now…”

  He pauses. Takes a breath. And says this:

  “Yeah. But I can’t do this.”

  I lean back and do a double-take. “You…what?”

  He looks away again. “I’m sorry. But this place isn’t real. Key West isn’t Charleston. I’ve decided this isn’t going to work out in the real world.”

  I try to swallow, but I can’t. My posture sways like my spine has disappeared. My stomach shrinks, then plummets. “Not…real? What? What do you even mean?”

  “It’s just not worth it,” Beau says casually. “I was thinking, and maybe I want to get back with Megan, my ex. It would be so easy, you know? Not…complicated, like this.”

  My forehead becomes wet with sweat. My pulse races. It still doesn’t make any sense. “Are you…are you serious?”

  “Sure I am. I don’t even really think we should talk when we get back to Charleston.”

  I feel like I’m dying. I can’t process it, can’t understand it, can’t accept it. I guess there’s nothing like the glancing blow of love to remind you of how breakable you really are, right?

  And then just like that, he gets up to leave.

  “Wait,” I say. “Wait. You’re really going?”

  “I am. This is how it has to be. I’ll call an Uber.”

  “But I…you’re my best friend, and…”

  “I’m sorry, Nate. I don’t know what else to say.”

  I can’t even form words. “Can I…can I kiss you on the cheek? Can I kiss you goodbye?”

  Reluctantly, he leans forward, as if I am just an afterthought. I wrap my arms around him, trying to bottle his scent, trying to make this moment last forever…I can’t believe this is goodbye…but then again, I can…

  Everything has led to this. All of it, since the very first moment, was a mistake.

  And just like that, it is over. All of it. We drive back home separately, and upon our return to Charleston it’s like Key West never happened at all. He doesn’t call. He doesn’t even text. And soon…just as I dreaded, normality returns.

  I try to settle back into my life, but there is no life to settle into. Weeks become months, and then Christmas comes, cold and lonely. Losing my best friend – as well as the person I loved – has dealt an unfixable blow to my life, it seems. I am learning more and more than I am not me anymore. All the memories I made with him by my side – they’re not real anymore, because where did the other half of them go? The hardest moment happens every single day,
again and again – the hardest moment is when I think of one of our inside jokes, or see something that would be of interest of him, and then take out my phone and must remember, all over again, that he’s not there anymore. He’s there, of course; out in the world getting on with his life without me. He’s just not there for me. He cut the cord. It’s done. Ashes to ashes. Dust becomes dust. And that is the ultimate tragedy, that he is indeed out there, just not when it comes to me. Sometimes I think I’d rather he’d have died. At least I’d have a ghost to mourn – but how can I mourn someone who still breathes?

  It’s almost been a year when I get the letter in my family’s mailbox. For the first few times, lately I’d recently started feeling alive again – once I found myself humming to a song as I walked, and another time I laughed at something. I actually laughed! My life is still nowhere close to normal, though, and my distress only grows as I read the letter, written in his sloppy handwriting:

  Natie,

  I’ve tried to write this letter over and over again, and every time I do, I stop. But this time I will finish. You need to know a few things, Nate.