by Phil Stamper
As I’m shuffled through the airport, I get bombarded by airport shopping. We go from point A to point B in a snake pattern through the shops, carefully placed so you’re forced to see as much merchandise as possible. Toblerones out the ass. Do I look like I need a perfume sample? And why would I want a sample shot of honey bourbon at ten thirty in the morning? I can see the exit, but I can’t get to it, and I don’t need to make a list because that alone will make me lose my shit if people don’t stop rushing by.
Imagine being in a corn maze back in the States. It’s like that, but you’re sneezing because of perfume, not hay. It’s wild. But as I walk through the green passageway, declaring that I have nothing to declare to customs, my confused fury melts into confused …
Feelings. There are definitely feelings here.
Some guy’s holding a sign that reads Pierce. My last name. There’s a smiley face after it. It takes me a second to process this information because I’m a little too busy looking at his face, but by the time I do, he’s running around the rope and stanchion (which I don’t think you’re allowed to do) and coming toward me.
“Marty!”
“You’re not my cousin,” I say. I’ve got to assume he knows this, but forming words is hard for … well, a few reasons right now. But he greets me with such instant familiarity that I ask, “Have we met?”
Which is the most ridiculous thing to say to this perfect creature. I’d have remembered us meeting. Trust me.
“Ha, no. We haven’t met, and you’re right—I’m not your cousin Shane. But I’m a friend of his!”
He’s got a great face, a perfect-yet-too-flawed-to-be-on-the-cover-of-GQ face with a faded scar above his right eye, patchy stubble, and one dimple that just won’t quit. Under the fluorescent lights, I see the slightest bit of pink brushing his otherwise light tan cheeks.
It’s like he just looks at me and I know I’m having my sexual awakening. (Not really; that crown goes to Ryan Reynolds in The Proposal. I had an early start.) But I can actually see his pecs through his sweater, and that’s a lot? I pull down my T-shirt. It’s a little short, and I’ve got zero abs there. I consider grabbing my hoodie to further cover up my flabby stomach, but it’s a little warm in here. And … I’m staring and not saying anything. Shit.
“Sorry. Um, zoning out. I didn’t get an ounce of sleep on that red-eye.”
I actually slept okay, but the spontaneous lie that leaves my mouth sounds better than “A combination of jetlag and infatuation has made me fall madly, immediately in love with you, random dude, because you smiled at me once. Yes, we can all see the red flags from here.”
I don’t even know his name.
“I’m Marty. Who are … and, um, sorry, why are you here?” I stretch out my hand to meet his. Mine’s sweaty, which shouldn’t be a surprise at this point, and his is dry and smooth.
“Right, a real introduction. Hi, Marty Pierce,” he says by way of introduction, then points at the sign he’s holding. “I’m Pierce, oddly enough. And a certain world-renowned stage production phoned Shane this morning about an audition. So he sent me instead.”
Silence creeps between us as I process what he said. My cousin finally got an audition? A real audition? A pang of jealousy hits me, and I curse myself for it. Shane’s been balancing a near-full-time job at a local bookshop with applications and rehearsals since he graduated in May.
But it’s what we decided to do together. We even joked about ending up in the same orchestra. The unease of doing this alone hits me, which fits in well with the unease I have about being so selfish about this.
“Les Mis,” he continues. “If that wasn’t clear.”
I nod, remembering the extensive application process it took to get him there. My chest starts to untangle when I think about how excited he must have been to finally get a call. The call.
“I hope that’s okay?” Pierce strikes me as someone who doesn’t enjoy silence.
“Yeah, of course. That’s amazing! I hope he gets it.”
“He deserves it,” Pierce says with a laugh. “Don’t tell him I said this, but I’m extremely jealous. I was in orchestra with him in secondary, and now I go to Knightsbridge Academy of Music just down the street from his place.”
“Oh, you go to the academy?” Meeting another musician calms me down a bit. It’s like we’ve already got this shared experience, even if we’ve never been in the same room. “What do you play?”
“Trumpet.” He looks away as he says it, then changes the topic. “You ready to go? Shane planned on hiring a minicab, but I was hoping we could take the tube? The subway, that is. And I could show you the academy—for when you describe the place to your parents. They still think you’re attending, right?”
“Oh. We’re going to take the train?”
That wasn’t in the plan.
I’m carrying a lot of shit, and I’m going to get left behind.
If I get lost, I will not be able to find my way without a working cell.
I want to appear to be chill and breezy, so I can’t not be okay with this.
We didn’t even take the tube the last time we were here. I knew I’d have to do it at some point, but not now. Not here.
I shrug, trying not to let the panic creep into my muscles. “Um, yeah. Smart! I guess a cab would be more expensive, anyway.”
“Ah, plus! You’ll get to take the Piccadilly line toward Cockfosters. Americans usually find that name hilarious.”
He has to raise his voice at the end of that sentence because of my snickering. The sudden laughter kind of shakes me out of my spiral, just enough that I can get a grip on the situation.
I am doing this for me, I remind myself. I need to be uncomfortable. I need to try new things. And if I can just get past the burning feeling in my core, I might even enjoy this.
Maybe.
“Let me help you with your bags,” Pierce says. The gesture, while a little much, causes a smile to creep across my face. He leads the way, almost triumphantly, as he carries my bags. He is a trumpet, from the volume of his voice to how he commands attention in a space like this.
Suddenly, we’re standing at a coffee bar, and the smell of freshly ground espresso hits my nose.
“Quick diversion. Want some tea?” Pierce asks, then narrows his gaze. “Or, let me guess, the American wants coffee? Hot chocolate? A mocha?” He pronounces it mock-uh, which brings another smile to my face, despite the fact that he’s mock-ing me.
He makes a gagging sound, and I laugh, even though my mouth waters at the thought of chocolate in any form. “Just coffee is fine. With milk and sugar if you don’t mind. Here, let me get this.” I reach into my pocket and pull out a few bills. Dead American presidents look back at me. “And … I just realized this is basically Monopoly money here. Can I Venmo you? Or I can go to a currency exchange. Or—”
He places his free hand on my shoulder and looks me in the eyes.
“No worries. It’s my treat.” He laughs. “Well, technically, it’s Shane’s treat. He may have given us money for the cab.”
He winks, and my cheeks heat up. There’s something about his smile. The fact he’s holding my bag. The way he can poke fun at me but not make my defenses tighten up. It makes all the lies that got me here feel worth it for the first time, and it reminds me of the unusual path my life is taking. I feel older than I was before. Which, okay, sure, technically is true—I understand how the passage of time works—but there’s something tugging at the corners of my brain, at my emotions. It’s something like infatuation, sure, but as I watch Pierce rock on the balls of his feet, bringing a whole new intensity to something as mundane as ordering coffee, it’s also totally different. Something like home.
Pierce hands me a steaming Americano and guides us toward the tube. He flashes a soft smile at me, the kind of smile that’s brimming with possibility. With hope of what’s to come.
“Welcome home, Marty.”
Now that’s how you welcome someone to your country.
/>
12 MONTHS AGO
DIARY ENTRY 8
I’m going to rewrite this entire journal. It’s a shitty piece of shitty homework for shitty teachers at this shitty school and shitty town full of shitty people. Am I missing anyone? Basically, it’s all shit.
But, fictional reader, you’d know that if you read my other entries.
Shane is the only one here who gives me hope. Maybe Aunt Leah too. Now that we’re leaving for Ireland to see my extended family—days earlier than expected—I think my aunt really understood me for once.
A few years ago, me and Shane decided we would both come out to our parents on the same day. There were tears all around, in both families. Shane’s? Beautiful, artistic tears. Like when Jennifer Garner tells her son “You get to exhale now” in Love, Simon.
Mine took a different path. Different tears. Hotter, heavier ones, weighed down with the last strands of hope I had. And I’ve been grappling with this fire in my stomach ever since.
As no one will read this, I might as well give out some more details about the whole coming out extravaganza. Shit hit the fan, and I barely left my bedroom for days. I took my entire family’s numbers out of my phone, Shane and Aunt Leah included. I deleted my social media accounts, fell off the grid completely. But … it turns out taking someone’s number out doesn’t really stop them from reaching out to you, and we live in 2020, where you’re ALWAYS on the grid.
Shane didn’t take the hint. And neither did his mom. They spent weeks clawing their way back into my life. They even got my mom to come back to Europe for the first time since she was a kid, and bring us all! She and Dad inched further and further outside their comfort zones. And … now it’s all pretty much destroyed.
Again.
THREE
“How’d you meet Shane, again?” I ask Pierce as an escalator takes us deep into the underground.
He scoffs. “I’m honestly a bit offended he hasn’t mentioned me. Truly, I’ve known him as long as you have. Though I guess we weren’t close mates until a few years ago.”
“My best friend and I are like that,” I say. “We’ve known each other since we were, like, ten. But god, I hated her for ages.”
“Nothing so dramatic for us. I …” He hesitates. “I came out a few years before Shane did, and I think he worried people would catch on if he hung out with the only other queer guy in school.”
A chill runs through my body, just from the confirmation that Pierce likes dudes. Even with the eye contact and apparent interest, the connection we had, how was I supposed to know? It’s like how Megan used to joke that she always “knew” I was gay. Mom and Dad, too, always “knew” I was gay. But, fuck, if they really knew I was gay, why’d they leave me in queer isolation for a full-ass decade?
We stand on the train platform, and though there are dozens of people brushing past me and Pierce, we’re still able to lock eyes for one brief moment. One smirk, and he’s driven some emotion straight into my heart. I don’t know what this connection is, but it sure as hell isn’t anything I’m used to. We step into the train car and take our seats.
Let me count the ways in which I am overwhelmed.
I have just traveled—no, relocated—to a different country. Over an entire ocean.
I am very aware of the amount of money in my bank account. I always knew it wasn’t much, but for some reason, I didn’t think about the conversion rate until I stopped to get some cash out of an ATM here, and let’s just say the American dollar isn’t doing so great.
I am squeezed into a tiny-ass seat, rubbing upper arms with one of the most attractive men in the whole country. I’m exaggerating. Kind of.
I’m nearly silent, but Pierce talks and talks. I only get the gist of it, because instead of focusing on that dream-world accent—lazy A’s shoot from his mouth in a reservedly bouncy cadence—I’m focusing on his lips. His thin beard. Or how I can see his sculpted arms even though he’s just rolled up the sleeves of his sweater. Or how his arm hair is totally touching my arm hair.
“It’s a shame you’re not actually going to Knightsbridge. The summer program has been pretty interesting so far, but it’s preparing me for officially starting uni there in September. I tried out for every trumpet solo, even though first-years rarely land one. And guess what? I didn’t make it. They made me play third trumpet, which was just a huge step down. We’re auditioning again next week, but I don’t think I’ll move up any. The lecturers here definitely have their favorites. But …”
I expect his words about the academy to hurt more. In any other version of last year’s audition, I would have made it too, and I’d be right here bitching about solos or placements alongside him. But spending the last nine months revising my plan has actually done me some good.
I let him drone on about the school. It’s time for me to focus. I look around the train car and try to get my bearings. I’m on the Piccadilly line, I know that. After studying the big train map, I can locate the line. The blue one. They all have names: the Northern line is black, the Central line is red, the Bakerloo line is brown. I’ve never seen a subway map with so many colors (colours?) before.
“I know Shane’s really excited to introduce you to our friend group,” Pierce cuts in. “You’ll get on with the lot, I’m sure. Dani and Rio are probably our closest friends—they’re both in the program too. Well, for now, at least. There’s a lot of drama between Rio and another clarinet. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them dropped out. Of all the audition pieces in the world, they picked the same solo, and they both nailed it in totally different ways. Right now, they’re sharing principal clarinet duties. Which … is not how that works. So there’s been tension.”
“Do people drop out a lot? The tuition is not cheap.”
A more serious look comes over his face. “It happens. It’s already happened, for a couple who just didn’t like the program, or the people. I’ve heard of people dropping out for better reasons, though! Like they booked a great gig, or something.”
“I can’t imagine giving it all up,” I say. “When I commit to something, I will complete it. To my own detriment, even.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “I wish I could say the same thing. Maybe I’m not as disciplined as you.”
“I wouldn’t call it discipline.”
He pauses, and looks at me. My cheeks feel hot, and I know I’m supposed to say something, but I wish he’d go back to his monologue. There’s comfort in that. I did that enough with Megan. Always the passenger.
“So, you talk a lot.” I wince. Why did I say that?
“I do, when I’m nervous.” He doesn’t stop looking at me. “And I get a little nervous meeting new people, don’t you?”
“I think that’s why I’m not talking.”
He laughs, and I join in.
“Anyway,” he starts, “I’m excited to hear you play. There aren’t any oboes at Knightsbridge. And the ones in our school orchestra were all off-key and annoying—or maybe that’s just how they’re supposed to sound?”
I roll my eyes at the oboe slander, but he nudges me with his elbow. “It’s a joke, Marty. I’ve been working up this oboe and trumpet duet for my end-of-term recital with my friend Dani, but she plays it on the flute, and it’s not the same.”
A chuckle leaves my lips. I can play both instruments—the flute was my first way back in middle school—and I know the differences well. They’re two woodwind instruments, both in the key of C, but their similarities don’t go far beyond their key signature.
“If you’re half as good as Shane says you are, I might have to enlist your help.”
“Sure,” I say. It’s hard to tell if it’s genuine, or if it’s just one of those polite offers. But I can picture it, briefly—me on stage at the academy. It’d be nothing like my botched audition.
A jolt in the train car brings me back to the present. I’ve been on subways before. The metro in DC is easy; there aren’t nearly as many stops. Though there aren’t nearly as many tr
ains, so you end up waiting on the platform for two years just to get downtown. New York is fast, like this, but it’s dark and dirty—you need to take an acid bath just to get the bacteria off you. I wouldn’t say I love the tube, but it has its benefits. (But seriously, why don’t people make more sexual jokes referring to tubes? It seems so obvious.)
“But anyway, I think you’ll have a good time here.”
“I … think I will too,” I say. If everyone’s as welcoming as you.
Though he probably knows little about me, he’s already treating me like an old friend. And for once, I feel myself opening up to this unknown situation.
A brief silence settles between us. It could be awkward, but the train’s wheels rattle and the car squeaks, and no one else in the train car is talking, either. I welcome the silence in the stress of the morning, but my leg bounces against his, restless.
Near the doors, a woman stands guard over her behemoth of a suitcase. I think I recognize her from the flight. As the train pulls up to the next stop—Baron’s Court; possibly the fanciest named station, in my opinion—her suitcase rolls away, crashing into three or four people. The woman apologizes, giggles (meanwhile, I’m so embarrassed for her I could die), and a businessman in a well-tailored suit flashes a strained smile, but doesn’t offer to guide the suitcase back to its owner. The moment she turns, the guy scowls and shakes out his newspaper.
“That’s British generosity for you,” Pierce says. “Note the fake smile, the passive-aggressive demeanor. It’s an art form.”
“Hopefully I’ll have time to practice this art,” I say. “Though my parents would probably say I have the passive-aggressive thing down. Megan would too. Okay, maybe I will fit in here.”
“You’re seriously going to love this country. You plan to travel any?”
I think back to the money in my bank account, and my palms start to sweat again. Or maybe they never stopped. “No way. I mean, this is travel enough. For me.”
