then moved abroad to pursue a better life than they could comprehend. Now it’s all tainted.”
He drops the rag on the floor and crawls into bed with me. Not in a predatory way, not in a sexual way. But in a way that shows me he’s there for me, curled up against my side and pressing his lips into my neck. His arm wraps around me, and I let it. I want to stay like this until I feel better. Until the pieces of me are whole again.
I’m out. It’s obviously not been easy, but my sexuality is my thing. It’s my life, and I should get to choose what “out” means and who gets to know. I take a look at my phone, and see two or three iMessages have popped up. Already.
None of them are bad. None of them are reminders that I’m going to hell or anything melodramatic. One is supportive, the others ask if it’s true. Most start with “I was just talking to Megan,” which means Skye was definitely telling the truth.
“Hey,” Pierce says. I watch him slowly come into focus. “Who cares what they think? You’re thousands of miles away.”
“One guy came out a couple years ago, when I was a freshman. Most people were great to him. Like, overly great.” I shake my head. “Telling him how brave he was for being gay—whatever that means—or showing their support by telling him how many queer people they knew. He became a novelty. A caricature of himself. He wasn’t the tennis star or the great actor. He was the gay kid.”
Pierce laughs, then grabs my hand quickly. “Sorry, that reminds me. When I told people, my mates suddenly started asking me for fashion tips. People are awful. They don’t think.”
I take a breath, and hold it. My lungs ache, but after a few seconds, the pressure eases.
It’s only been a couple of months since I graduated, but I can barely remember what it felt like to walk those halls again. To see the same teachers, the same students. Ducking my head into my locker to breathe when the crowds rushing to class were too loud, too chaotic.
“This was my thing to tell or not tell,” I say. “And I guess … well, I wanted to disappear. And she took that away from me.”
My list of friends has always been small, manageable. Until this month, the newest addition to my friends list was Skye, but that was years ago. I imagine Megan, Shane, and Skye’s names on a list, followed by Pierce, Sophie, Sang, Dani, and Ajay. But that name at the top, shining bright, just got a big X drawn straight through it.
“Now I’m the gay kid,” I whisper.
He plants a soft kiss on my hand. “What kid do you want to be? The oboe guy? The London one? I’ll call you whatever you want.”
A hint of a smile tugs at my lips. “Just call me Marty.”
TWENTY-FIVE
The next day is a blur. I’ve made it back to my apartment and given the edited—non-passing-out—version of what happened to Shane, but I haven’t gotten the courage to email Megan. I don’t even know if it’s my place to do this. It’s not exactly something you can google and find the proper way to respond when a friend goes off the deep end. But all of our good memories keep coming back to me. Late night Waffle House runs, gas station cappuccinos before school, and that one time we decided we were going to be really good at tennis, before we realized she couldn’t control her backhand and I couldn’t serve to save my life.
But there are bad memories too. She teased me relentlessly in middle school. Called me a fag (but she called everyone that) and told everyone my head was firmly up the teacher’s ass. Word for word, she said that. At twelve. I wonder what made me friends with her in the first place. Was it out of necessity? Did we actually work?
I’m still in bed—I’m always in bed—when I hear voices in the living room. It almost makes me want to go see who Shane invited over. Almost.
I’ve never been through a breakup, but I’d imagine this is what it feels like. Megan and I kind of worked. She brought me out of my shell. Our demise weighs heavily on my chest, but I’m not friendless. I’m not alone. I can ignore the emails from my acquaintances in Kentucky, and wait for it all