“You better stay away from him,” Dustin warns me.
“You better delete that picture,” Bryson says. “Or else.”
“What, you’re going to hit me, too?”
“If you do something to deserve it, I will.”
“This is bullshit,” Dustin says as he climbs into his car. His tires screech as he pulls out of the parking lot.
Even after he’s gone, we both stand and stare at where Dustin once was. Bryson sighs. “I’m sorry.”
I turn to look at him. “No, I am.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Bryson says.
“You should go,” I say. This is not at all how I imagined our first day as a couple going. “We need to get that picture deleted.”
Bryson nods. “Are you okay, though?” He leans toward me to examine my lip. “That needs to be treated.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
Bryson takes my hand in his and looks at my fist. It’s bruised from the punch. He brings it to his lips and kisses it. “I’m sorry.”
“You said that already.” I sigh. “This isn’t your fault. This is on Dustin.”
Bryson nods. “You should go home.” He walks me to my car and helps me climb in. “I’ll head over to Dustin’s house now.”
“Good luck,” I say.
Bryson waves and walks over to his Jeep. He honks a goodbye, and I watch as he drives out of the parking lot. I pull down the sun visor and check myself in the mirror. My lip is busted, and already there’s a bruise just under my eye. It’s clear that I’ve been in a fight. I groan. This is definitely not going to sit well with Mom and Dad.
I sigh and start the car. Some things are simply unavoidable. It isn’t like I can’t go home just to avoid the third degree that I know will be waiting for me. As I drive home, the encounter with Dustin echoes in my mind. A part of me is worried about the picture, but the bigger part is angry that such a photo could be used to hurt us. On any given day I can open up my Instagram and see pictures of couples kissing, and yet because it’s two boys, it’s something to be worried about.
I hate how unfair all this is.
Fifteen minutes later, I pull into our driveway and I’m angrier than I’ve ever been. I pause briefly at the door to collect myself before entering. I stop to take off my shoes and return Dad’s car keys. I head to the kitchen for a bottle of water and find Mom at the fridge.
Mom’s eyes widen when they land on me. “What happened to you?” she asks. She studies my face and then my hands. “Were you in a fight?”
“It’s nothing,” I lie.
“Kai Sheridan, you’d better tell me exactly what happened.” Mom reaches out to touch my cheek. I flinch at the tenderness. “You’ve changed ever since you started hanging out with this Bryson boy,” Mom says. Her voice is too loud. “Why are you trying to be so cool all of a sudden?”
I’m not, I want to say. I’m just trying to live as me. This isn’t Bryson’s fault. This isn’t my fault. It’s society and its homophobia. In the end I don’t say any of that. Instead, I make an excuse. “I’m tired, Mom. I just want to shower and sleep. We’ll talk later.” I meet her eyes. “Please.”
She nods and says, “Okay, I’m trusting you. We’ll talk later, then.”
I head to the fridge and grab a bottle of water. As I walk up to my bedroom, I think that maybe I should tell Mom what happened. Maybe I should come out to her. The thought is fleeting. I don’t want to be forced to come out to my parents. I want to do it in my own time, at my own pace.
I want to tell them I’m gay when I’m ready.
And I’m not ready tonight.
24
I stay under the shower until the water runs cold.
After climbing out, I wrap a towel around my waist and move to the bathroom mirror. It’s steamed over, so I wipe it. My bruised reflection stares back at me. It feels worse than it looks, and a part of me is thankful for that. At least I won’t have to walk around with marks on my body—just my face.
I sigh. I’m too emotionally drained to deal with this—any of it. I want nothing more than to jump into bed and dream about Bryson. But in life, we simply don’t always get what we want.
I dry myself off and get dressed in track pants and a T-shirt—my usual pajamas. I throw the towel in the laundry and head for my bedroom.
I startle at the sight of Mom standing there. “What are you doing here?”
I don’t notice what she’s holding at first. She turns then, and that’s when I see the strip of photos that I hid in my desk. Anger blooms in my chest over Mom invading my privacy and going through my things, but it’s soon swallowed up by fear. It’s the type of fear that seeps down deep into your bones and wraps around your heart.
“What is this?” Mom asks. Her voice sounds hollow. It’s like she’s trying to make sense of something that she can’t really understand.
“Let me explain,” I say. My voice is a whisper. My eyes don’t leave the photos she holds. Since we took them on Thursday I’ve memorized every detail of them. “Please.”
Mom scrunches the photo strip in her hand. I start to make a move to stop her, but I fight the urge. The photos can’t be what’s important right now.
I open my mouth to deliver my monologue—the one I’ve been carefully crafting for years—but end up blurting out, “I’m gay, Mom.”
This isn’t at all how I imagined it. I’m not ready now. But maybe coming out is one of those things you can never truly be ready for because you can never truly know how anyone is going to react.
Mom stumbles back as if I’ve pushed her. She stares at me, tears in her eyes. It’s almost like she’s looking at a stranger. I break then. Tears spring to my own eyes. This is the moment I’ve been dreading my whole life. This is when everything changes.
“Impossible,” she says.
That one word destroys me more than a thousand would. My knees give out and I sag. If not for the wall at my back, I’d be on the floor—a puppet with my strings cut.
Mom studies me like I’m some riddle she needs to solve. She reaches for the gold cross that dangles on her necklace. I can’t see this. I can’t watch her pray for me because I’m wrong, because I’m sinning.
I don’t want to see any of it. I can’t. I grab my phone from my nightstand and turn. Dad’s standing at my bedroom door. He reaches for me as I pass him. He places his hand on my shoulder. It’s all he can offer me.
And it isn’t enough.
I need words and actions to make me know that I’m still loved, that I’m accepted—to know that nothing has changed. I’m still the son that they’ve raised and loved for the last seventeen years. I’m the same person that they laughed with, that they hugged and kissed, that they cared for when I was sick.
I’m still the same son that an hour ago they were so proud of.
The only thing that’s different is they finally know that I like boys. It’s a small piece of me, and yet it is all they can see now. It is all they can focus on.
He lets me go and I stumble toward the stairs in a daze. Behind me I hear Mom sobbing. I wipe my tears from my cheeks as I race down the stairs. I leave the house and head outside into the chilly night.
I walk away from the driveway, and that is when it all hits me, crashes into me like a tsunami of emotion. Totally unavoidable.
I can’t hold any of it back.
I rip at my seams and everything spills out: all my sadness, all my anger, all my fear.
I cry.
Alone.
* * *
• • •
Sometime later, when I’ve stitched myself back into the shape of a boy, I pull my phone out and send a message to the three musketeers group chat. No one answers, so I dial Donny’s number. It rings and rings. I try Priya and get the same response.
Of course they�
�re busy. It’s Saturday night. Not everyone’s night is a personal disaster. I check my phone again and find there are messages from Yazz and a missed call from Dad. My phone rings and I stare at Dad’s photo on the caller ID. It’s a family photo of us. In it we’re all happy. The sight brings tears to my eyes again. Home is not where I want to be right now.
I start to walk. I’m not sure where I’m going. Eventually I sit down on the curb. No one notices. I’m all alone.
My phone vibrates with a text from Bryson.
I’m sorry about what happened today. I’m worried about you. Are you okay?
Through blurred vision I type: Can you come get me?
His response is instant. My phone lights up with a call.
“Kai? What’s wrong?”
“I need you,” I say. My voice sounds as hollow and empty as I feel.
“Where are you?”
“Oak Avenue. It’s the next street over from my house.”
“I’ll be right there.”
It doesn’t take long for Bryson to arrive. He doesn’t even bother to turn off the Jeep when he climbs out. “Kai, what’s going on?”
Tears spring to my eyes again and I struggle to blink them back. Bryson takes in my state. He studies my clothes, then my tear-streaked cheeks. From the look on his face, Bryson’s figured it out. He knows, or at least he has a pretty good guess as to why I’m out here on the street alone.
Bryson doesn’t say anything, though. Instead, he simply closes the space between us. He envelops me in a hug. He pats my back to soothe me. Even though my eyes are closed, the tears continue to fall. I cry in Bryson’s arms, and it is enough.
As my world burns down around me.
This, right here, is enough.
25
Morning comes without permission. The world keeps spinning. The sun will keep rising, no matter what, and a new day will begin. Always.
I sit up and blink the world into focus. Bit by bit Bryson’s bedroom comes to me. Morning sunlight streams in through the window above his desk. I reach for my phone and find numerous messages from Yazz, Priya, and Donny.
I open up Yazz’s chat first.
Kai are you ok?
Where are you?
Kai?
Tell me?
And then a series of question marks. Too many to count.
I’m fine, Yazz, I text. I just needed space. If anyone asks tell them I’m all right.
Yazz replies a minute later. Come home when you’re ready. I love you.
I love you too.
The three musketeers group chat is filled with much the same.
I’m fine, I text them. I’m at Bryson’s now.
Yazz told us what happened. Are you okay? Priya texts back.
I’m dealing. It’s a lie. I’m simply ignoring the emptiness that I feel. Every time I close my eyes I see the look on Mom’s face.
Sorry we missed your call, Donny texts. We’re here if you need us.
Thanks. I’ll talk later.
I don’t have the energy for any more than that. I turn off my phone and throw it back onto the bedside table. The door to Bryson’s bedroom opens and he steps in. His hair is wet and he’s shirtless. There’s a towel thrown over his shoulder.
“You’re awake?” Bryson takes a seat on the edge of the bed, and his expression is serious. “What happened, Kai?”
We’ve delayed the conversation for as long as possible. Last night all I did was cry. I wasn’t able to tell him anything. Bryson comforted me and brought me here. I know that I have to explain what happened. But still, I hesitate.
“It’s okay,” Bryson says. “You don’t have to tell me right now. Whenever you’re ready to is fine.” He smiles. It’s small but no less genuine. Bryson stands and moves to hang up his towel. “And if you never want to talk about it, that’s fine, too. But just know that I’m here for you. For whatever.”
The sincerity of his words is a fist to the heart. I climb from the bed and close the space between us. I wrap my arms around him. My cheek rests against the smooth skin of his chest. I hear his heartbeat pounding. An echo of my own.
Bryson hugs me back. Warm and solid. We stand like that in silence for a while. Then it all comes pouring out of me. I tell him everything that happened last night. By the end, I’m in tears, but it’s okay. He’s holding me tighter, if that’s at all possible.
Bryson pushes me back slightly so that he can look at my face. “First I think you need a nice long shower, and then I’ll take a look at those bruises. I’ve learned a thing or two playing sports. After that we’ll deal with whatever else.” He leans down so that our foreheads are touching. “Together.”
And then I am blinking back tears for an entirely different reason.
* * *
• • •
I emerge from the bathroom ten minutes later. Bryson sits on the bed waiting for me.
As I approach, Bryson holds up a tube of ointment.
“I swear by this stuff,” Bryson says. “After matches, I end up with a few bruises sometimes.”
“And who said soccer was a gentleman’s game?” I tease.
“No one,” Bryson says. “That’s cricket.”
“Oh.”
Bryson laughs as I sit down next to him. He’s still laughing as he touches his finger to the first bruise—the one under my eye. I’m relieved that it hasn’t turned black, but it’s no less painful.
I flinch.
And then Bryson isn’t laughing anymore. Instead, he leans forward and blows on it.
I shiver. I’m not sure how or why, but it does make it feel better. He moves to use the ointment on my lip, too. Suddenly I’m aware of how intimate this is. Us, alone in his room. His finger pauses, near my lip, as though he’s asking permission. I subtly shift forward, giving it.
The ointment stings, but his touch is gentle. Bryson leans forward and, at first, I think he’s going to blow on the bruise again, but then I feel his lips on mine.
Just as quickly he pulls back.
“All done.”
“You’re such a tease.”
“I’m a what?”
Bryson tackles me on the bed. He’s careful not to hurt me.
Swiftly, he pins my hands above my head. Bryson brings his face closer and hovers there. I strain toward him, but Bryson lifts his head, making the space between us grow.
“This is teasing.”
We’re both smiling and so lost in what we’re doing that we don’t hear someone enter the room.
“Hey, Bry…,” a female voice starts, but tapers out at the sight of us. Bryson and I turn to find who I assume is Bryson’s sister standing there. “What’s going on here?” Her eyes are wide as she studies us, but then her face breaks into a grin. “Tell me everything.”
Bryson and I try to untangle ourselves as fast as we can, which only causes him to fall off the bed. I stand and Bryson quickly scampers to his feet. Belatedly, I realize that he’s still shirtless.
Crystal takes a seat and sits cross-legged, analyzing us. The smile has not left her face.
“Uh, Crystal, this is Kai. Kai, this is Crystal.” Unlike Bryson, Crystal has flaming-red hair and green eyes.
“Charmed,” Crystal says. Her arm is in a cast, but she offers me a small waggle of her fingers in greeting. “I’m so very charmed to meet you.”
“Uh…” I look from her to Bryson and then back at her. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”
“What do you need?” Bryson asks. It’s the most embarrassed I’ve ever seen him. I’m pretty sure he’s blushing as much as I am.
“That’s not important,” Crystal says. She readjusts her injured arm. “What is, is this scene before me. One”—she holds up a finger on her other hand—“we have two boys, one shirtless and the other very flustered. T
wo, they were just minutes ago rolling around on a bed.” She holds up a third and final finger. “And three, my baby brother is incredibly embarrassed right now, so there must be something going on.”
It’s clear from Crystal’s face that she’s enjoying this—a bit too much, if you ask me. Bryson must agree, because he exhales, casts me a glance, and then smirks. It’s the smirk that tells me we’re in danger.
He reaches for my hand then and interlocks our fingers. At first I’m too shocked to react, but then I try to pull free. Bryson isn’t having any of it. He doesn’t let go.
Bryson raises our hands for Crystal to see.
“Kai is my boyfriend.” He says it so casually that I gasp. I wait for the fallout to follow, but Crystal laughs. She tries to clap but the cast stops her.
“I’m impressed.” Crystal makes a show of uncrossing her legs and stands. “He’s cute,” she says, looking at me. The lightheartedness disappears. “Kai, did your parents do this to you?”
That she even needs to ask such a question breaks my heart.
Gay or straight, everyone has heard the horrors that some kids endure when they come out. It isn’t just warmth and acceptance for everyone. Sometimes it’s a real goddamn nightmare. It’s the reason the closet exists. And why it will keep existing.
“No,” I say. “I got in a fight.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” Bryson runs a hand through his hair. “I was there. Don’t tell Mom.”
“You might have to. Mom called to say she’s almost home. Her flight arrived early, so she’ll be home for brunch. It’s why I came here in the first place.” Crystal sighs. “I came with nothing but leave with so much.” She smiles and then leaves.
And that’s it.
Bryson has just announced our relationship to his sister, and yet it all ends not with a bang but with a fizzle.
I finally remember to breathe.
“What just happened?” I ask. We’re standing, holding hands, staring at the spot where Crystal just stood.
Date Me, Bryson Keller Page 17
