by Jude Sierra
Absolutely. Wanna meet at the fort after breakfast? Ten?
Andrew sighs. Milo it’s Saturday, that’s torture.
You’ll survive. Plus Ted wants to have that movie/game marathon later, so we should hang out before that.
Oh crap, I forgot, Andrew texts. He’s getting sleepy. Now that he has Milo’s assurance that everything will be fine, all the adrenaline has seeped away, leaving him a wrung out mess. All right, ten it is. Bring food, I’ll bring drinks.
Aye aye cap’n.
°
Phone still in hand, Milo wakes up at six from a deep, dreamless sleep, he’d fallen into like a stone. He surfaces grateful for the calm, forgetful dark of such rest.
Milo untwists his shirt from his torso, kicks off his too hot covers, then plugs his phone in. When the text screen pops up with the history of their texts from the night before, he groans. What’s he going to do? What is he going to say? He needs to find a way to assure Andrew—who is probably freaking the fuck out—while finding a way to navigate this situation. He doesn’t want to think of it as letting him down gently, but the truth is that’s what it amounts to. Assuming Andrew wants—well, he shouldn’t assume that. He can’t assume anything, other than that it happened and it seems neither of them saw it coming.
“Milo, you’d better be up,” his father’s voice comes through the door, making Milo jolt. He looks at the clock: six-thirty. Fuck, he’s running late.
“I am; I’m almost ready,” he calls. His swim bag is already packed, so all he has to do is throw on the loose basketball shorts and a gray T-shirt he set out the night before.
His mother has breakfast out for them, complete with fresh-squeezed orange juice. She’ll have been up for a while now, because his father expects the usual picture-perfect breakfast. The juice is what kills Milo. He’s tried telling her he doesn’t care where it comes from, that he’d rather she have some minutes to herself.
“I don’t mind, honey,” she always assures him. “I like taking care of my men.”
Milo hates being put in the same category as his father and hopes she knows that he’s a different person, that he’ll never be the man his father is. But he understands—in this house, only one energy, one presence, one person orders their lives. She might as well be blind to Milo most days. He understands the nature of survival, the single-minded faith and grit it takes to keep moving each day. Compassion for her grows from the knowledge that there’s an end date for his sentence, whereas hers bears no such promise.
College. Two years and he’ll be off and away, and she never will, not as long as she won’t leave his father. And Shelby Graham will never leave. His father has trained her so well to think she can’t survive without him. She’s said it gently and indirectly so often: “I have no skills but taking care of my boys. It’s where I do my best.” The words sink into him; they sit with him whenever he fantasizes about leaving, whenever he imagines himself getting away, because he knows that means leaving her behind. Survival that means abandoning someone is the guiltiest fantasy of all.
“Come on, Milo, time to go.” James stands, shaking Milo from his thoughts. He folds his newspaper and tucks it under his plate for Shelby to clear. His father is in a good mood today, which is more unnerving than his anger or punishments. Good moods tempt Milo to hope; they tease out lapses in vigilance; they always, at some point, end badly.
“What are we doing today?” Milo asks, buckling himself into his father’s car. James hands over a folded sheet of paper. He’s been researching swim sets, trying to find a way to tailor them to Milo’s skill beyond what their coach can do. His father is of the opinion that Coach Dave is too small-town to know how to foster Milo’s talent. He’s been pushing Milo to consider swimming competitively in college. It’s exhausting, now that his father has him training seven days a week, but worth it. He doesn’t see himself swimming competitively in his future, but he loves swimming just the same.
Time in the water is one of the things that keep Milo sane. He only has to stare at the blue line along the bottom of the pool, count his breaths and let the white noise of the pool fill his ears. Sure, the peace is interrupted by his father’s shouts, but for the most part, swimming is all his own, and when he’s in the water, Milo feels without borders. Occasionally those shouts are encouragement or praise. When he swims, he gets the best of his father.
His dad is in a good enough mood that today is one for positive words. It grosses Milo out sometimes, how much he feeds on the rare praise—how much he craves it, even knowing how easily that desire can be used as a weapon against him, knowing how quickly the tides can shift and what was praise can become damnation. He’ll never measure up, but the dream he had as a boy—if he was good enough, his father might love him and this would all be over—lingers, no matter how hard he tries to shake it out.
Once in the pool, the clean, cold slice of water furling away from his body as he strokes makes him feel as if he’s shedding old skin. The gurgle and shush of water with the metronome beat of his heart and tempered breathing set the background for some good thinking. Today, Milo gets a chance to mull over the kiss without distractions. Last night he was emotional, broken down, and Andrew has never been able to see him stay in pain. They were caught up in the moment, right? Milo’s own reaction—how nice it had been—is something to contemplate later, if ever, because it brings up shades of something he’s been ignoring for a while. Right now, for the next fifty-six minutes and fifteen seconds, all he has to do is swim and think of a plan to fix whatever needs fixing between him and Andrew.
It takes forty-seven minutes before he hones in on the truth that he has only one solution: They can pretend it never happened, and he can assure Andrew that nothing has to change. Because it can’t.
°
By the time Milo is finished, he feels like a limp rag. It’s only nine, so he has enough time to pull together a brunch—early lunch for him, breakfast for Andrew—and to gather himself together for the rest of the day Ted has planned for them. His body has been changing as he’s begun working harder in the pool and added resistance training; his mother took him to Boston for new clothes, a reward doled out by his father: longer pants because of his growth spurt, but mostly new shirts as he’s grown too broad for what he had. The reward was his father affirming that he knows best, and Milo is a tool of that proof, but at least he had a rare lunch with his mom.
Milo picks a green and gray plaid button down and worn jeans. He throws on a thick sweater and the scarf Andrew gave him for his last birthday. God only knows how late Andrew will be. Ten is early for him, and if Milo knows Andrew at all, he’ll be fussing for a good half hour trying to figure out what to wear.
In the pit of his stomach is an ice cold fear that Andrew might want more, or be hoping for—for a relationship. Or something. Milo hates the thought of hurting Andrew, but being with him like that—it’s not something he could ever do. Even if he did feel like that toward him, it would be reckless to risk what they have, when he knows he’d eventually hurt Andrew somehow.
°
In the light of day, Andrew still has no idea what he’s supposed to say or how he’s supposed to act. He takes special care with how he looks—neither an obviously over the top attempt to impress, nor so sloppy he’ll look like as if he’s trying to act as if he doesn’t care. As a result, he’s fifteen minutes late.
“As usual,” Milo says as his head pops out of the fort, “last one to the party.”
“Beauty sleep and all that,” Andrew says, their usual exchange going off without a hitch. It’s what they do: banter, understand each other’s flaws.
Milo disappears into the fort. Is his smile strained? It’s hard to tell, because Andrew is too nervous to get a good read on him.
Inside, Milo has food set out: sandwiches and fruit and a bag of cookies.
“Wow, you really went all out.” Andrew shuffles things around to make room for himself.
“Dad insisted I get up early for mo
rning practice,” Milo says, already tearing into one sandwich. “So I had more time than I thought.”
“Fuck, Milo it’s the weekend!”
“Yeah well, he thinks I could improve my times by a few seconds in the next month if I ‘really commit.’”
Andrew’s jaw drops. “Are you kidding? Milo, you practice like two hours a day.”
“‘Half-assed attempts,’” Milo quotes, his mouth full of what looks like a bite of tuna fish. Andrew hates tuna. Milo swallows and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and pushes over Andrew’s peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Sure, it’s the favored sandwich of eight-year-olds, but that’s because it’s delicious and eight-year-olds are geniuses. Milo has three sandwiches set out for himself; he always eats at least twice as many as Andrew does, making up calories he burns swimming.
“He’s going to tire you into an early grave.” Andrew hands Milo a napkin and a Coke and gives an eye roll. Milo’s eyes are dark-ringed.
“Might not be so bad,” Milo jokes. “I’d finally get a break.”
“Milo,” Andrew says softly. “Don’t—”
“Oh, it’s okay,” Milo interrupts. “Don’t worry. I’m just tired. I’m sure Ted’s gonna pick at least one awful movie. I’ll catch a nap.”
Silence falls over them, pushing in through the window and door. It’s ridiculously cold to be out today, and it’s dumb for them to be here. Milo is exhausted, Andrew is unsure, and the spaces between them feel wrong. As if this isn’t the right time to talk about this. Maybe it never will be. He hopes that’s the case.
“Listen…”
“So…”
“Look, I don’t want things to be weird,” Andrew says when it’s obvious Milo isn’t going to speak.
“They don’t have to be.” Despite the silence that’s fallen, Milo’s voice is so soft it’s almost lost.
“I just…I don’t know what came over me. We—we can do the thing where it’s erased.” Andrew makes the familiar gesture, pretending to swipe away writing on a board. He does this often when Milo’s stuck on something his father has said to him, or when people throw insults at school.
“Andrew,” Milo says softly.
“No, no,” Andrew says, rushing and not looking at him and blushing. “As long as everything is really okay, can we call that a lapse in judgment?” He stresses the end. Milo doesn’t say anything, and Andrew refuses to look up.
“If that’s what you want,” Milo says after what seems like ten million years.
“Promise we’re still friends?”
“Come on, asshole.” Milo punches his shoulder lightly. “Of course.”
chapter four
One day, out of the blue, Milo says, “Let’s go up to P-town.”
Andrew’s head pops up from where he’s been writing with his notebook on the floor. “Why P-town? Pity-the-Lonely-Gay night?”
Milo gives him a look, one of those looks Andrew can’t read. It’s one of Milo’s few ticks Andrew still hasn’t cracked.
“For fun,” Milo says as if Andrew’s being the densest person on the planet. “I’m sick of this place.” Face set in a frown, he kicks at Andrew’s table.
“You had me at fun.” Andrew pulls himself off the floor, ungainly and awkward from lying in an uncomfortable position. Milo’s shoulders have been set for trouble since he came over. Andrew asked what was up and only got one of those cold blue looks that mean Milo’s trying to bank something big and ugly. Sitting around Andrew’s house doing nothing isn’t going to burn that off. “When is this happening?”
“No time like the present?”
“I’m not showered, Milo! Are we asking other people to go? Isn’t it too late? What’s gotten into you? This is all wrong; I do the stupid things, you plan the details. You’ll—”
“Shhh, don’t ruin the romance,” Milo says and smiles when Andrew laughs helplessly, remembering that night at the diner when they were all slap-happy and dumb. Milo throws a pencil at him to get him moving. “I told my dad I had study group with Ted and got the coveted permission to stay over at his house. See? Plan.” Milo sticks his tongue out and crosses his arms.
Milo’s not really “allowed” to stay at Andrew’s any more. He’s been strongly discouraged from coming over or associating with him at all. Selfishly, Andrew appreciates that this is one of the few things Milo rebels against, although he’s sure he suffers for it sometimes.
“Go shower.” Milo flips through Andrew’s clothes. “I’ll find you something hot to wear.”
“God, you’d almost think you turned eighteen and became about fifty percent gay,” Andrew kids.
Milo’s hands pause.
“Har har.”
°
“I didn’t mean to offend you.” Andrew lingers by the door, so Milo makes a show of rolling his eyes and smiling.
“Go shower already,” he says, still flipping through Andrew’s shirts as if he’s really searching. Milo knows every shirt Andrew owns, and which look best on him. Unless Andrew has any other secrets hidden in here, flipping through shirts is serving only to calm Milo’s nerves. Tonight he wants to tell Andrew one of the secrets he’s been keeping, and while he knows it’s right, it’s still scary as hell.
“What about you?” Andrew collects underwear and an undershirt. “Are you going dressed in that?”
Milo looks down. He’s wearing a sort of ratty polo shirt and faded jeans. “No, I brought something. But I showered today. It’s a thing people do.”
“You’re such an asshole,” Andrews says, laughing and scrunching up his nose. “You know I’m a night showerer.”
“Go, go.” Milo pushes Andrew. Impatience twitches through him. He needs something new; he needs some fun, he needs to get away from himself and this oppressive town.
Besides, tonight is the night. He’s ninety percent sure he’s almost convinced that tonight he’s going to come out. Milo’s wondered how long he can keep this a secret from Andrew; their time in Santuit is almost at an end, and he could walk away without ever having to come out. He doesn’t have any desire to tell anyone else. He can’t rock any of the boats he’s trying to balance. In a few months, he’ll be out of here. He got his acceptance letter from the University of Southern California and he’s fully prepared to finally learn how to be him, and free and not scared any more, the minute he walks off the plane. Andrew isn’t wrong about Milo’s nature—Milo plans everything he can, because everything builds the scaffold to that ever-closer escape hatch.
That doesn’t mean he doesn’t occasionally want to be surprising, or that he doesn’t need to burn out the itching in his skin that comes from holding everything ugly coiled so tightly in his body. He has many secrets, many barbs digging into him from all sides, and only one safe space where he can lessen the torture a little.
Milo wants Andrew to know because Andrew will always be a part of him, even when he’s across the country starting a new life. Milo was the first person Andrew came out to five years ago, and the trust he demonstrated was a dear gift—to know Andrew in a way no one else ever had. Milo wants to give this to Andrew, too. While Milo tries not to think about it and succeeds most of the time, he worries that Andrew might still have feelings for him. Despite their agreement to erase that one day over a year and a half ago—that one brilliant, stunning kiss—from their lives, its shape lingers inside the lines of Milo’s lips, a burning what if that frightens as much as beguiles. Sometimes he catches a glimpse of Andrew—the way his hair is butter-colored in the sunlight or how his limbs take on a fleeting grace that hints at the potential of Andrew’s future body—it can be anything—and yearns, wondering if Andrew’s lips taste like unanswered questions too.
Neither of them has ever pressured the other to think through what happened, because they’ve operated with the tacit understanding that Milo is straight. The truth is that he’s not unsure; there’s no maybe. He has passed the phase of denial he coasted on for years, and he’s traveled that road without ever hinting t
o Andrew, because it was Andrew’s kiss that truly began to erode the lies Milo had been telling himself. It woke him up, made it impossible for Milo to continue to ignore his own physical desire. Andrew’s kiss popped that numb little bubble, and in its wake fantasies of desire and love and sex all sharpened, until ignoring the truth became impossible.
He wants to share this with his best friend, but knows he’s walking a tightrope—on all sides he risks hurting Andrew. Somehow he has to fit in a smooth, non-hurtful or self-centered, “I’m gay, but hey, not for you,” sort of vibe. It’s not that he doesn’t think Andrew is attractive: he is really very much attractive. Not pretty, or classically good looking. But there’s something slinky and sensual to his movements, a delicate openness to his face when he’s at rest and something light and playful, most of the time.
Milo loves Andrew, too—maybe too much, and definitely in ways he doesn’t understand. Andrew is his ballast, and the thought of entertaining longing or desire for more seems like a spark too reckless. One wrong breath and Milo will have burned everything down.
°
“This is what you picked?” Andrew frowns at the outfit laid out on the bed.
“What?” Milo pulls on his own shirt. “Those jeans look really good on you.” Andrew flits a look at him, assesses Milo’s own outfit.
“Wow, that shirt is tight,” he says, swallows and turns away. Milo’s always been a bigger guy, naturally built like an athlete. But his muscles… fuck. “Have you stepped up training or something?”
Milo tugs at his shirt. “Yeah. New system I read about online, tailored for swimmers. Seems to be working.”
“Tell me about it,” Andrew whispers under his breath.
“Is it too tight?”
“Depends on how you feel about being hit on tonight,” Andrew jokes. He’s absorbed in his reflection, fiddling with his hair in the mirror. “Ugh, I can never get this to do what I want it to do under stress.”
