half the time, which is not bad for someone who just turned seventy a few weeks ago.
Mom takes my rolling suitcase from me as I greet them. Mom’s family is spread throughout Europe, but Dad’s side never left Avery. Long as the census goes back, really.
The four of us exchange oddly formal pleasantries, like they didn’t drive an hour and a half just to pop up and say one last goodbye, and I feel way too many emotions churning in my stomach along with the ice cream. It doesn’t feel great.
“We really should let you go,” Mom says, after a lull in the conversation. “Looks like everything’s still on time. We’ll follow your flight on that tracker. Once you get your SIM card set back up, just send us a text so we know you’re okay.”
“Three months,” Dad says. “That’s not so long.”
I’m lying to you.
“I made sure Pastor Todd added you to the prayer chain at church,” Mom says.
Even if I get a good gig, after finding a place to live and rehearsals and performances, there’s no way I’ll be able to come back.
“Not long at all,” my grandma says. “Take lots of pictures for your nana, and send me a postcard if you have a chance.”
I force a smile and walk toward airport security. I’m making my big escape, and everyone I love is watching me do it, completely unaware. My parents were shitty to me before, I know that, but is this any better?
What am I doing? What have I done?
They’ll never forgive me for this.
TWO
The Eagle has landed.
I’ve just gotten off the plane, and I feel like I’ve been walking for a half mile just to get to customs. My eyelids are heavy. Sticky, almost. It may feel like a dream world, but nothing’s too different yet.
I take a step into the customs area, and I let all the other passengers rush around me and split into two lines. On the left, Europeans. On the right, Americans. Well, that’s what it looks like, at least. I roll my shoulders. Stretch my arms.
Good morning, Heathrow Airport.
I reach into my shoulder bag to grab my passport, but stop when I see a pale green envelope. Marty Pierce is written on the front, in too-perfect cursive to be Megan’s handwriting. She and Skye gave it to me at my posh bon voyage party—or what Megan and I dubbed the My Mom Still Uses Pinterest party—and forbade me to open it until I landed in London.
Don’t get me wrong; the party was definitely cute. The invites were red, white, and blue. Not our stars, but their stripes. Dozens of our church friends were there along with extended family I hadn’t seen since Easter. Mom set up a fancy tea station that I didn’t touch because tea is disgusting, but I did eat the pastries and biscuits. By “biscuits,” I mean cookies. And though every detail was polished and fit perfectly with whatever aesthetic she’d found online, my mom bought one tacky thing, just because she knew I’d love it.
A large cake. Big Ben in the night sky, with four children flying around the side. Three in pajamas, and one in bright green tights. Admittedly, I had a weird obsession with Peter Pan as a kid. Like, I dressed up as him for every Halloween I can remember. We’re not too different, he and I. I’m half a year from being an adult, but as I’m obviously gay and completely unable to grow a beard, I still identify with Mr. Pan.
Being a gay kid with sometimes shitty parents isn’t easy. Their red voting record contradicts every “I love you” that comes out of their mouths. The money they spend at Chick-Fil-A used to go right to the organizations that want to make sure I never marry. To make sure I can never be truly happy. On the flip side, it felt like the cake was a peace offering, a subtle nod that “I know who you are.”
This thought causes more thoughts about lying and how long it’ll be until I see my parents, which … brings out all the tension in my body, then the guilt for feeling sorry for people who don’t deserve it.
But I can’t think about that. I won’t. I’m always reading into the little things, but the big things never change.
Love is complicated.
I take in my surroundings. White walls, red rope to keep us lined up properly. (Properly! Sounding like a Brit already.) I’m technically in England,