by Cass Lennox
And in the morning, they woke up, looked at each other, and couldn’t stop smiling. It was like a scene out of a rom com or something. Brock honestly thought this was it: they loved each other, they were together, he could finally be with Gigi Rosenberg the way he’d always dreamed of, and everything was going to be okay.
They stumbled into the kitchen, hair askew and yawning every few minutes. Brock busied himself with making eggs and toast while Gigi brewed coffee and checked his phone. Brock plated up and was trying to get Gi to put his phone down so they could talk over breakfast when Gigi gasped at something on his screen.
“What?” he asked.
Gigi grinned at him. “My sister got engaged!”
That was exciting. Brock’s memories of Sophie Rosenberg were of a loud, sporty girl who’d beaten up a few of Gigi’s bullies before blasting out of Maney to university. She sounded cool, and she and Gigi got along super well, which was great to see. Brock was an only child, and while he generally thought that was a good thing, he’d occasionally wished for a brother or sister to just . . . share things with. To have someone on his side, who knew him in that deep, all-encompassing way only siblings seemed to have.
“Congratulations,” he said.
Gigi shrugged. “She’s a lawyer who’s been dating another lawyer. I kind of expected it to happen. He’s a cool guy though.”
“They live in Toronto, right?”
Gigi nodded. “Yeah. We can meet her and Alan soon, if you want.”
Brock liked the sound of that. Meeting his boyfriend’s sister. That sort of made them family, right? Kind of? “Sure.”
His boyfriend (who loved him) looked up with his devilish grey eyes and smiled. “You wanna be my plus-one to the wedding?”
Hell yeah. Absolutely yes.
Three hours later and Gigi was sick to death of the Trans-Canada Highway. Trees and rocks and occasional water and construction and then more fucking trees, rinse and repeat. Yech. Okay, they were changing colours and dropping leaves and it was very pretty and nice, but Gigi was over it. Like, he could look at that in a painting or whatever.
He’d pulled over by an interesting bit of water surrounded by dead leaves—and more trees—so they could stretch their legs and swap drivers. That was how he found himself staring at autumn colours—not normally something he did—while pretending not to watch Brock pace restlessly around the edge of the pit stop area.
Brock hadn’t spoken since Gigi had told him to shut up. He’d settled into the passenger seat, brow furrowed, and watched an actual movie (Gigi had been kidding about that, Jesus), then stared out the window. Gigi had been so tempted to break the silence, but he didn’t know what to say.
He hadn’t meant to snap at the guy. It had just come out of him, lightning-quick, like his reads on stage. The mental reflex helped with his dancing and performing too; he could improvise like a pro and think on his feet. But even though Gigi was right about this—and he was so right about this trip and Brock’s shitty attitude toward it—he didn’t need to be spiteful at the same time. His boyfriend wasn’t a heckler or a critic.
Well, not generally.
This trip sucked balls, and they weren’t even near Maney yet. Like, compare this awkward ride of nerves and sulky boyfriend with their road trip down to Syracuse last year: now that had been a blast. They’d talked the whole way, stopping only for food and impromptu car sex, had cozied up in a hotel and had more sex, then explored Syracuse. Repeat on the way home.
See, that was what road trips with boyfriends should be like. None of this passive-aggressive silent shit.
Brock walked up to him and stood quietly, his jaw tight and arms at his sides. As Gigi watched, Brock’s hands twitched nervously, then his arms crossed in front of his chest.
His expansive chest. Which Gigi knew barely had a hair on it, lucky bastard. Gigi had to wax for every LaMore performance, yet there was Brock, his masculine boyfriend with a hairless wonder of a chest. Utterly wasted on the guy.
Not wasted on Gigi though.
“Keep practising that brooding pout,” Gigi said. “I think you’ve almost got it.”
Brock scowled. “Can I have the keys, please?”
Gigi handed them over. “You ready to go?”
“No.”
Brock jammed hands and keys into his pockets and turned away, walking toward the rail at the edge of the pit stop. Gigi pushed away from the car and followed him. Beyond the rail were the pond and trees, and Brock came to a stop just as Gigi drew level with him. He saw the distant look on Brock’s face and figured he wasn’t actually admiring this mosquito-infested spot of mud.
“I was just thinking about Syracuse,” Gigi said.
Brock made a noncommittal noise.
“That trip was more fun than this one.”
Brock snorted. “No shit.”
“But this could still be fun.” Gigi bumped his shoulder. “My crazy sister is getting hitched. You’re going to meet the Rosenberg clan.”
For some reason Brock went pale.
“My parents are awesome, and so’re my aunt and two uncles. There’s another aunt, but she’s super conservative and homophobic, so she wasn’t invited. My cousins are great, and their kids are really sweet. It’ll be a packed house.” Gigi could picture them all now, sleeping on cots and in sleeping bags and sharing rooms in his parents’ large fake Victorian homestead-style house. It would be cramped, but for two or three days it would be fun. He’d insisted on Brock staying with him anyway, of course. Even if sex in his room didn’t seem a likely prospect right now. “And it’s a wedding! All the hooch you could want.”
Brock eyed him, and Gigi smiled at him. Brock didn’t smile back.
Aw, jeez. Time to bite the bullet. “I’m sorry I said I wanted to break up with you. Or implied it.”
“Are you really that unhappy?”
Gigi glanced out at the pond. It was a greeny-brown colour and reflected the trees on the other side. Ugh. “No. Yes? I don’t know. Things changed. You changed.”
“I changed how?”
Gigi couldn’t put his finger on it, so he just shrugged. “Dunno. You’re just not there as much.”
Brock scowled. “How about you figure it out before telling me I’m a failure?”
The hell? “I didn’t say that. All I said was that this—” he gestured between them “—isn’t working. We’re both unhappy.” The lines on Brock’s face deepened. “So how about you stop putting words in my mouth and step up.”
Brock winced.
Damn it. This wasn’t how Gigi had envisioned this little moment happening.
“Look. Look.” They still had at least two hours of driving to go. He had to make things okay. Well, okay-ish. “We can figure this out when we get back to Toronto. I’m not down for fighting every time we look at each other.” He put a hand on Brock’s arm. “Can we get through this weekend without bitching at each other? Please?”
Brock jaw tightened. “Sure. We can do that. I like your sister, so no, I’m not going to let our drama ruin her wedding.” Brock rolled his shoulders. “For the record, that would be easier if I wasn’t even going.” He turned away. “Let’s move.”
Just like that, huh? Well, it was better than nothing. As Gigi followed him back to the car, he wondered if there was any way Brock could be more of a baby about all of this.
He found out when Brock refused to speak a full sentence to him all the way up to Sudbury. Just grunts and one-word responses. Well, sooorry. Gigi ended up putting in his earbuds, turning on the Book of Mormon soundtrack, and thinking over that little moment in the pit stop. The entire freaking day, actually.
What had changed between them? Had Brock changed? Not in the basics, Gigi noted with a wistful glance at Brock’s lap. Physique aside, Brock was still the sweet, intense guy he’d always been.
Only, that sweetness and intensity had been a lot more exciting at the beginning of everything. He’d literally gone down on his knees for Gigi. He’d embarrass
ed himself on camera by asking for boy advice. He’d bought flowers and showy meals out and fancy lubes—the really expensive ones that were totally worth the money.
Gigi knew him better now, and considering how quiet and moody he could be, it was kind of amazing Brock had even pulled off all that stuff in the beginning. The guy was freaking stoic. He was like one of the damn trees they kept passing by, silent and solid, deep roots and changing leaves. This kind of relationship stuff wasn’t something people talked much about—maybe because it didn’t happen to other people? Gigi wasn’t sure. How did people talk about realizing that there were all these depths to a person, that they were sometimes a surprise waiting to happen? Especially when said person seemed incapable of talking about them himself? Was incapable of talking about anything, actually . . .
Like this weekend, for example—Brock was totally not okay, but was he saying anything? Like hell. What was a boyfriend to do with that?
He sat back and flickered another glance at Brock.
In a way, things had been easier at the beginning. Where had all that passion gone? Where were the declarations delivered on bended knee now? They hadn’t even gone clubbing in the last three months, for fuck’s sake. Brock hadn’t let Gigi suck him off in public since Syracuse. Now they bounced between each other’s home and work and the occasional bar, and it was boring. The sex was good, but somehow it wasn’t the same. Seriously. No one mentioned this part of relationshipping.
His phone vibrated in his pocket, and Gigi pulled it out.
Mom: Where are you guys now?
Gigi: Past Sudbury. Half an hour away.
Mom: Great! You’re on time for dinner.
Gigi: Later than anticipated, but yeah.
Mom: We’re looking forward to seeing you and Brock!
At least someone was excited about this weekend.
Gigi’s estimate turned out to be slightly off: forty-five minutes later, it was dusk, and the car headlights lit up a sign saying WELCOME TO MANEY, ONTARIO beside the dark exit ramp off the highway.
Oooh, wow, okay—here they were. Just like that. That was definitely the familiar rectangle of green and white, suspended in a twilight of forest and badly lit road ahead of them. Gigi’s stomach roiled, and he crossed his arms over his chest, hunching over slightly to stop his stomach from actually flipping out of his mouth. Not that it seemed likely, but weirder things happened to people’s bodies all the freaking time. Gigi had seen Emergency Room and Trauma.
The car was slowing down. The Maney sign loomed larger, then sped past. Gigi looked over at Brock, who stared straight ahead, absolutely stiff. Sweat glittered at his hairline, and his knuckles stood out on the steering wheel.
Oh no. Poor guy. Gigi leaned over and pressed one hand on Brock’s thigh. “Breathe, baby.”
Brock exhaled sharply. “Fuck.” A pause. “I’m going to throw up.”
“Me too.”
To Gigi’s surprise, Brock unclenched one hand from the steering wheel and picked up Gigi’s hand from his thigh, giving it a squeeze. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Aw. He did care. Maybe they’d get through this.
They passed the first few houses, and Brock abruptly wrenched the car to the side, stopped it, stumbled out the driver’s door onto his hands and knees, and actually threw up.
Okay then. Gigi had spoken too soon.
He got out and walked over to where Brock crouched, careful to avoid any splatter. Yech. “You weren’t kidding.”
“I hate you for bringing me here,” Brock rasped.
“You were the one driving that last half of the route.”
Brock heaved again.
Oh man, his baby was not well. “I’ll drive us to my house.”
“I can do it.” Deep, rough breaths. “I remember the way.”
Brock knew the way to Gigi’s old home? That was . . . unexpected.
Ugh, no it’s not. He’d been gone too long. Knowing where Gigi had lived meant nothing. Everyone knew where everyone else lived; it was a small town. Back in school, he’d known where Brock had lived—and where everyone in theatre group had lived, where nearly everyone in his year had lived, the teachers, the librarians, the freaking book club moms that his mom liked to hang out with . . .
Brock’s colour was a bit better, but there was still a tinge of ready to chuck his guts out.
“You don’t look like you can stand up, let alone drive,” Gigi said.
Brock flipped him the finger. “I’ll be fine in a minute.”
Yeah, that was promising. Gigi glanced around them. This was the very outskirts of town, where there were large gaps between houses and the forest fell away before suburbia. Brock had chosen a nice grassy spot near some trees and between two houses that appeared abandoned. The forest, now quite dark as the sun left the sky, provided the backdrop of the gap, and Gigi realized as he stared into it that he knew this spot: he’d been dared to run around the Maney perimeter when he was eight. A stupid dare from other kids, to test their boundaries and bravery. Maney was small, but it was definitely large enough for the town border to be out of bounds to the under-tens. He’d made it here, scratched his initials into a tree, then run back with a stick to prove he’d been there, which made no sense now but had at the time. Instead of finding his friends, he’d found his pissed-off dad.
Brock sat down, breathing heavily. Gigi turned, found a spot upwind of the puke, and squatted next to Brock.
“You feeling better?” he asked.
Brock closed his eyes. “No. Now I feel angry, gross, and embarrassed.”
Please, like anyone cared. Gigi grinned and stroked his shoulder. “Little bit of puke never hurt anyone.”
Brock closed his eyes and turned into the touch, shifting towards him. Gigi kept stroking his shoulder, loving the feel of the tight muscle through his shirt. Brock’s shoulders and arms were possibly Gigi’s favourite part of his body, after his dick and smile. The first time they’d stumbled into Gigi’s bed, he’d practically torn Brock’s shirt off in order to molest those shoulders.
That first time. Brock gazing hungrily in the dark club. Clutching each other in the taxi on the way home. Fucking like there was no tomorrow. Where was that? Why had it gone? Now there was all this anger and confusion.
And puke.
Brock’s forehead hit Gigi’s chest. “I’m sorry.” His words were muffled by Gigi’s sweater.
Gigi moved his hand from Brock’s shoulder into his hair, stroking it. “Don’t apologize.”
“I can’t believe I actually threw up.”
“I can’t believe I haven’t.”
Brock snorted. “Right. You were the one who actually had the horrific childhood here.”
“Yeah, because seeing all that homophobia didn’t affect you either, boyfriend.” Which it totally had, just not in the exact same way. Not that Gigi planned on reliving any sort of homegrown homophobia, but it seemed kind of inevitable here.
“How are you so calm?”
Gigi lightly scratched Brock’s scalp, making him shudder beneath him. “I’m looking after you, dummy.”
Brock snorted again but burrowed his head into the curve of Gigi’s neck.
They stayed like that for a few moments more, letting the quiet and cold of the dusk seep into their bones. Brock was a warm spot against his chest. It was nice to have him lean on Gigi like this.
Gigi didn’t think he’d ever seen Brock throw up before. He’d seen him in bed with the flu, but only briefly because Brock hadn’t wanted him catching what he had and had ordered him away until he was better. Like, seriously wouldn’t-let-Gigi-into-his-house kind of away. A week later, he was back to full health and it was like he’d never been sick.
“You ready to move?” Gigi asked him eventually.
Brock sighed. “Nope, but I’m cold.”
With stiff legs, they stood up and went back to the car, Gigi sitting on the driver’s side now. He told Brock to text their imminent arrival to his mom and started rolling
forward.
As they drove, the surroundings became more urban and familiar, better-lit, and populated. They passed the gas station, unchanged since the sixties, and saw the houses abruptly close ranks on the streets and beat back the forest. He drove onto the main street, also bizarrely unchanged, though a few stores had replaced the ones he remembered.
Brock huffed. “Oh my God, there’s a vegan bakery here.”
“Someone in Maney knows what veganism is?”
“And a café. A fancy one.” Brock pointed. “Fair-trade organic coffee.”
Well, thank fuck for that; Gigi wouldn’t be reliant on his parents’ store-brand instant to wake up.
He paused at a stoplight. There was very little traffic out. Friday night: everyone would be at Pinky’s bar on the other side of town; the twenty-four-hour diner near Pinky’s; Warner’s, the only nice bar in town; or the “club” that was really a bar with a dancefloor, the one that kept changing ownership and name and had a closing time of midnight.
The town looked pretty much as he remembered it, but somehow smaller and more worn. The stores on Main seemed to be sagging, and as the light changed and he drove past the post office at the end of Main, he wondered if it had always been that squat and old.
Ditto for the public library, which was a few blocks away from the centre of town. And the Metro, its small (and only) competitor Lee’s Independent Grocers, the salon, Scotiabank, the animal hospital . . . the school.
The silence in the car took on a special quality as they drove past their high school. Gigi might’ve made a cutting remark about it, but honestly, the energy just wasn’t there. Not for that place.
A few blocks later, he pulled into the driveway of his childhood home. Despite not having been home in years, it looked exactly the same. The porch light was on, and as he parked, he saw curtains in the dining room windows twitch.
“Home sweet home.” Gigi glanced at Brock.
