Riding with Brighton

by Haven Francis

  Riding with Brighton

  By Haven Francis

  In the small town of Spring Valley, molds weren’t made to be broken, and high school senior Jay Hall’s been living comfortably in his popular jock one since adolescence. If it weren’t for the colorful, outspoken, artistic anomaly Brighton Bello-Adler, he might have been willing to remain there. Unnaturally drawn to Brighton, Jay knows he needs something from him, but is he ready to find out what that something is?

  Temporarily ditching his old life, Jay climbs into Brighton’s Bronco and finds himself on a whirlwind road trip through parts of his small town he didn’t know existed. When the excursion takes an unexpected turn, Jay is cracked wide open, and the person who’s revealed does strange things to Brighton’s heart.

  But just when it appears they could be headed toward their own shared piece of paradise, the road takes a sharp right turn into Jay’s life—where the real trip is about to begin.

  In an unconventional love story that defies labels, two young men embark on a journey toward growing up, coming out, and finding their place in the world. It’s a trip that ranges from heartbreaking to uplifting, funny to sweet, but always unique and personal.

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  By Haven Francis

  Visit Dreamspinner Press

  Copyright

  For all the too kids.

  Prologue

  Jay

  WHEN I woke up Friday morning, I knew it was going to be the day I would finally change my life.

  Which, in retrospect, seems like a totally unattainable goal for the day. I mean, who can really change their life in a single day? Just to be clear, I’m talking about for the better. Fucking up your entire life in one day—that’s totally doable. Really, all it would take is 140 characters exposing your dirty black soul on Twitter. You wouldn’t even have to leave your bed.

  Realistically, fucking it up would have been the more likely outcome considering the exact changes I needed to make. Again, I’m only realizing this in retrospect, which I’m suddenly starting to despise. Why the delayed reaction, common sense? Seriously.

  In my defense, I was blinded by an epiphany. I shit you not. It’s the only explanation for the clarity that pushed out all the regular crap that usually occupies my brain.

  Has that ever happened to you? Have you ever opened your eyes and immediately cringed because suddenly the exact depth of suck-ass your life has reached is slapping you repeatedly in the face? Trust me, it sucks. I mean, you go to bed in a comfortable state of denial thinking life’s great. In my case my girlfriend had watched me hit the game-winning double, and afterward my teammates and I had knocked back a few beers before heading home to our McMansions in Folsom Hills. Life is dandy. You sleep like a damn baby—that’s how comfortable you are in your warm shit pile of a life.

  And then—ka, fucking, boom—you wake up and… oh hell no, how the hell did this happen? Someone bring me a fallout shelter because I need a safe place to escape from my life for the rest of eternity.

  But no fallout shelter comes, and eventually you’re forced to see that your entire life must be destroyed and then resurrected. And all you can think is Thank God this mayhem came in the form of an epiphany, because you’re definitely gonna need some divine powers to help you out.

  It was all a mess, but the thing that was really screwing with my head was why it all had to change. I mean, I knew why. Deep down I’d always known why, but I had managed to live in the safety of denial for years.

  Not anymore. The veil of delusion was lifted and suddenly, everything was blindingly clear.

  And what was clear to me that morning was that I had forfeited the life that should have been mine. In fact I had veered as far as I possibly could from my should-have-been life. The path I’d chosen was definitely not the one less traveled. I took the path that had been tromped over a million times. It was a sharp right turn, backward a good mile and a half, around corners, down hills, through a forest, and across the universe from where I’d really wanted to go.

  But suddenly I was forced to go there. The maze I would have to navigate in order to backtrack be damned.

  Once the shock and terror passed, I felt inspired. I was all-knowing and all-powerful and anything was possible. Reality could suck me, because I wasn’t taking its crap anymore.

  That Rambo bullshit lasted for a good hour. And then I walked into school.

  I could feel my confidence crack as soon as the big metal door closed behind me. But a crack wasn’t going to stop me from doing what had to be done because, dammit; I had an epiphany. I was working alongside higher powers, and it was now or never.

  But hell, I mean I couldn’t just change everything immediately. So I wrapped my arm around Sadie and walked to my literal circle of friends who were huddled in the middle of the commons like they were every morning. At first I looked at them with my brand-new superior eyes and thought, I’m better than this. I have more to offer the world than my exceptional athletic ability, good looks, and diligent study habits. I have nothing in common with these people. My should-have-been-life is so much better than this.

  While thinking these thoughts, I was midsentence—talking to Jones about the party he was having on Saturday—when Mack slapped me on the chest. He started insulting my performance from the night before, which was obviously bullshit because I always kill it on the field. I insulted him back. This was the banter we were comfortable in. Friendly digs were thrown around for a minute, and then he brought Sadie into it, telling me she needed to do a better job of “warming me up” before our next game. I didn’t defend my virginal girlfriend but instead told him I was always plenty warmed up (wink wink). Which probably should have been the first, or now that I’m thinking about it, at least the third (seriously retrospect, damn you) sign that my life was not, in fact, on the fast track to change. But really I didn’t see it until I began to turn my head back to Sadie.

  That’s when my world went into some weird stop-start motion of clarity:

  Jesus, all these guys are wearing the same damn outfits: basketball shoes, perfectly distressed jeans, and brand-name T-shirts under their letterman jackets.

  Holy shit, almost all of them have their arms wrapped around popular, beautiful cheerleaders.

  And, for fuck’s sake, they’re all talking about last night’s game or Jones’s party.

  It freaked me the hell out because—God, this is just too sad—they were clones. They could have all been the same damn person. It was eerie as hell. And at first it felt like more proof that I deserved better.

  But then, when I finally looked at Sadie, I saw my arm: my letterman-jacketed arm was wrapped around a popular, beautiful cheerleader, and it all hit me again without warning—because that’s how theses god-awful epiphanies work.

  I woke up that morning convinced I was different, that I deserved more. And yet, I put on the exact same jeans, T-shirt, and basketball shoes as all these guys. Then I automatically walked into that circle, wrapping an arm around Sadie a
nd dragging her with me because she was the piece that completed my jocktastic ensemble. And then I spewed out the exact same words all these guys were spewing out.

  And that’s what got me.

  I had nothing else to talk about. Sports, parties, and girls—that was pretty much the extent of my vocabulary. There wasn’t actually a unique and interesting person locked in some weird chamber inside of me trying to claw his way out. I was Jay Hall: quintessential popular jock asshole. Despite the fact that I knew there was one thing that separated me from these guys, it didn’t make me different from them. I had no right to even consider that I deserved to be anyone else.

  Mind. Blown.

  As the day went on, I couldn’t deny the fact that I was trapped, cocooned by a mass of kids living the exact same life as me. The roadblocks were clean-cut, attractive, and popular, and they were as deep as childhood and adolescence combined. And the road I was trying to go down was narrow, muddy, and filled with potholes anyway. So why did I even give a shit?

  By third period I had given up the dream. And I was feeling claustrophobic.

  When I woke up on Friday morning, I knew it was going to be the day I would finally change my life. I thought I’d had an epiphany. I thought I needed a divine, unexplainable act to finally give me the courage to do something.

  But in the end it wasn’t divinity at all.

  It was a simple piece of paper with a few numbers scratched on it. A piece of paper that ended up turning my life upside down and cracking me open in the process.

  On Friday morning if you had told me that a damn piece of paper would, within twenty-four hours, cause my entire world to implode, I would have told you to shove it up your ass. Paper schmaper, I was working with a goddamn epiphany.

  Chapter One

  Jay

  AMERICAN HISTORY is the only class I actually look forward to. Not because I give a crap about what happened leading up to my birth—which is just one more blow from the hard fist of reality that has decided to repeatedly sucker punch me today. I suddenly realize I’m completely self-involved. No, I don’t care about life pre-Jay; the reason I look forward to American history is because it’s the only class I have with Brighton Bello-Adler.

  I know what you’re thinking. I can’t be that self-involved because, clearly, I care about this Brighton kid. But, au contraire, mon frère. Brighton is simply the end goal here, the living example of everything I want to be but that (a big F you to the higher, deceiving, powers) I will never, ever be.

  Now, I’m dreading the moment he walks into the room because after the day I’ve had, the fact that he exists almost seems cruel. See, Jay—that’s what interesting looks like. There’s someone who actually has a life, and look… you’re nothing like him. Not even close. Ha, ha, ha, ha. The laughter’s totally sadistic and demeaning.

  I can’t believe when I woke up this morning I was considering that it was even a possibility.

  I mean, just his name is a hell of a lot more interesting than I’ll ever be. Brighton. You couldn’t pick a more perfect name for the kid. It’s like his parents knew he was gonna turn out to be the most magnetic and engrossing person that’s ever existed in this town. And for fuck’s sake, he’s got a hyphenated last name, which is unheard of in this small town, whose mentality is functioning off an early-fifties-model brain. So already, you just gotta assume that his family is way cooler than yours. And no, I’m not a stalker, but I am curious, so I know Bello is Spanish for beautiful and Adler is German for eagle. Which means his name means beautiful fucking eagle. And yeah, you can start picturing a great, majestic, free bird soaring through the sky on a perfect summer day while some anthem of hope plays in the background because that’s exactly what it feels like when the kid walks into a room.

  Which he’s doing right now, five minutes late as usual because, no, rules don’t apply to bright, beautiful eagles. That would be ridiculous.

  Ms. Case pauses, like she does every day, and waits for him to take his seat. “Sorry, Ms. C. I swear, I’m trying to get my ass here on time,” he tells her with an impish grin.

  She smiles and nods and doesn’t comment on his use of the word ass, even though every girl in the room giggled at it.

  Loudly, Brighton gets his history book pulled out of his torn up, Sharpie-markered, been-carried-around-since-seventh-grade backpack and throws it on his desk. As he’s leaned over facing me, scrounging around for the rest of his supplies, he looks up. “Hey, Jay,” he says with an easy smile. The kind that makes you smile back even though you’re in the middle of a mental breakdown.

  I cock an eyebrow at him and chew on the bottom of my pen to keep from laughing. “You think you’re gonna make it out of there alive?”

  He gives me a courtesy laugh. “With all the shit I got in here, you’d think a pen would be one of them. I don’t know when my backpack turned into a black hole.”

  I pull the pen away from my teeth and hold it out to him.

  “You sure?” he asks. “Looked like you were enjoying it.”

  “I actually prefer Bics.” I shrug, opening the pen and pencil pocket of my backpack—because, yes, I have one, and I use it as it was intended—and pull out a Bic, relieved that my attempt at wit has a punchline. I look at Brighton, already chewing on my new pen, and the look on his face is a mix of amusement and disbelief.

  And then I realize what I said.

  There’s something you should know about Brighton—he’s gay. And I just told him I preferred Bics. Which I now realize sounds a whole hell of a lot like dicks, and then I proceeded to stick the Bic in my mouth. Fuck.

  What am I supposed to say to that? I can’t think of anything that wouldn’t offend him—eww… dicks are so gross—so all I can really do is laugh.

  “You got a dirty mind, Jay.”

  “I obviously wasn’t thinking the same thing you were,” I assure him.

  “I think Freud would disagree. Sounds like an issue you’re gonna have to take up with your subconscious.”

  “Thanks, Doctor, but trust me, that’s not where any part of my mind was trying to go.”

  I look up to the front of the classroom when Ms. Case claps her hands. “Okay,” she says with a bright smile, “grab your partner and get to work.”

  I look over at Brighton, who has been my assigned partner since the beginning of the year. “Did you hear anything she said?”

  “No, I was distracted by your Bic.” He laughs, and before I have a chance to defend my actions, again, he’s got a hand on Missy Norwick’s shoulder.

  She turns around and smiles at him. It’s like the girls in this school can’t accept the fact that no matter how hard they try, it’s never gonna happen with him. I guess that’s not entirely their fault—the kid is a shameless flirt. “Hey, beautiful,” he says to her, and she immediately turns a shade of red. I roll my eyes.

  “Hey,” she croaks.

  “Jay and I were busy trying to find me a pen….”

  “Oh,” she says, immediately moving to her bag, “I have all kinds of pens.”

  “No, it’s okay, sweetie. Jay gave me his….” He pauses to inspect the pen. “Uni-ball? What the hell, Jay?” he asks with an amused smirk. “I mean, Jesus, how unfair is that? You get a Bic, and I get a damn uni-ball?” he pauses to laugh and stare at me, probably enjoying the discomfort on my face. He looks back at Missy and says, “The pen’s covered. But we missed the instructions.”

  “Oh, um… we’re supposed to be answering the questions on page forty-five.”

  “You’re a lifesaver.” He rubs her shoulder one more time before scooting his desk over to mine. “Page forty-five,” he tells me.

  “I caught that,” I mutter, staring at my book, which is already open.

  He props an arm on my desk and leans into me so he can get a look. “Jesus, are we ever gonna move past the Great Depression? I mean, seriously, it’s depressing, right?”

  I laugh at his corny joke despite myself. “Don’t worry, I got it. You can spare
yourself the agony. Wouldn’t want you getting sad.”

  “Naw, I’ll help you. What’s the first question?”

  I look down at my book. “List and explain at least three ways the collapse of the economy contributed to the increased mortality rate of children.”

  “Oh, hell no. Dead babies? Come on.” Brighton opens his notebook. “Hit me up at question two.”

  I snicker then go about writing down the answer, which Ms. Case covered in class yesterday. When I’m done, I glance over at Brighton, who’s sketching or, as he refers to it, “doodling” in his notebook. He generally chooses to doodle instead of take notes during class, and I’m generally more interested in what he’s drawing than what Ms. Case is saying. It’s a skill I don’t have, so it’s kind of fascinating to watch his seemingly random series of lines take form. It looks like he’s drawing some kind of snake woman with a couple of heads. “What’s that?”

  “A frenzied woman from whose lips the gods speak,” he says in a throaty, dramatic voice.

  “Huh?”

  He pauses to glance up at me and smile. “An oracle. Unlike this boring—despite the entertaining and phallic company—class, my art history class is pretty interesting.”

  I didn’t even know art history was a class option. But even so, I wouldn’t have taken it. That would be too weird. It might even be straight-up gay. But Brighton’s the kind of kid who does what he wants and doesn’t worry about what his friends think. Actually, all his friends are interesting, so any art is probably pedestrian in their world.

  But really, I guess I don’t actually know much about the kid besides the fact that he’s different from everyone else in this school, and at the same time has a level of confidence that borders on offensively cocky. And that talking to him is seriously the only interesting, unpredictable part of my day. Plus, he’s witty and overly nice to everyone, which are two things that are critically endangered, bordering on extinction, in this school. And because of that, everyone seems to want to be around him. Or, I guess, everyone but the people I hang out with. God, I really have to get a grip. I’m losing my mind.