anything more than conversation.
I’d like to, but what about your
dad? He’s probably expecting
me back any minute now.
“He can’t know how long it
took for the ambulance, or
getting Niagara home. Besides,
he and Zelda are probably . . . tied up.”
Both of them? He grins at
my puzzled look. That was
a little bondage humor and,
yes, I realize it’s not a pretty
picture, so try to unsee it.
But if you think we can get
away with it, I’d like to keep
you company for a while.
He follows me to the door, so close
behind I feel his breath, warm
through my hair to the skin of my neck,
sparking delicious little shivers.
What’s going on? Is this me?
Dad turned down the heat
before we left, and the air inside
is almost as cold as outside.
I dial up the thermostat, kick off
my shoes, ask Gabe to do the same.
“My dad insists. Says it’s the only
way to keep the floor clean enough
not to vacuum. Just so you know,
I vacuum anyway.” I gesture toward
the living room. “Go sit and try to stay
warm. Want something to drink?”
He shrugs. Sure. Whatever
you’re having is fine, except
I don’t drink soda. It’s poison.
Rules Out
Jack Daniel’s and Coke, I guess, not
that I should be drinking with Gabe.
So why is that exactly what I want
to do? I go check out Dad’s alcohol
stash. He’s got a big bottle of some
generic rum, maybe two-thirds full.
I think I can get away with swiping
a little. Hot drinks, that’s what we’ll
have. I microwave two mugs of water,
add single shots (okay, big single
shots) of cheap liquor, taste. Yech!
Add sugar. Taste. Much better, if still
not great. Dash of cinnamon, dab
of butter. Hot buttered rums, and
I’m sticking to that. I carry them into
the other room, where Gabe has
planted himself on the sofa. Luckily
he chose the not-sagging end.
I offer a mug. “You can only have one,
since you have to drive eventually.
You’re not into prohibition, are you?”
I don’t imbibe very often, but we’ve
got something to celebrate today,
don’t we? Plus, it’s still cold in here.
I’m Thinking
His reference to a celebration
was about Hillary, though we still
have no clue what’s up with her.
“I wish I knew how she’s doing.
You probably have a better idea
about that than I do, though.”
Not really. He sips his drink.
Mmm. Not bad. You do this often?
“Do what? Make drinks?”
Not just make them, but invite
guys in to share them with you
when you’re sure your dad’s away.
I almost snort out the liquid
in my mouth. “Dude, you are, in
fact, the very first guy I’ve invited
into this house, or any place
we’ve lived. Are you kidding me?”
I must sound as hurt as I feel,
because he apologizes ASAP.
Oh God. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean
to offend you. Holy crap. Twice
in one day! It was supposed to be
a joke. Obviously I’m not as funny
as I think I am. Forgive me?
He’s so sincere, what can I do but
say, “Of course I do, and I’m sorry,
too. Apparently I never developed
a viable sense of humor. My dad
thinks he’s funny, but only
when he’s drunk. So maybe
I should just drink more.”
I do, and the hot crawl down
my throat feels pretty damn
great. In fact, it opens my mouth.
“Listen, Gabe, and if this is TMI,
just tell me to shut up, okay?
Between moving so much and
Dad overprotecting me, until
we came to Sonora I’ve never
had friends, so I was also denied
any kind of deeper connection.
Inviting a guy—or a girl, for
that matter—to share drinks,
or weed, or a kiss, or more, has
never even been a consideration
until now, and it’s all so new I
have no clue how to deal with it.
I have zero experience. Truth is,
I’m operating totally on instinct.”
And Now I Need More to Drink
I think I just bombed it. You don’t say
stuff like that to a guy, especially one
you’re sort of semi trying to impress.
But as I start to offer another apology,
he smiles. For someone claiming to be
a relationship virgin, you’re amazingly
self-possessed. Don’t get me wrong, that’s
a good thing, and relying on your instinct
is the best possible thing you can do.
I probably don’t want to know this,
but I’ve got nothing, really, to lose: “What
about you? Are you a player or a stayer?”
Player or stayer. I see what you did there.
I got around a little in high school. Then,
in my senior year, I became pretty serious
with this girl named Meredith. She was
a horsewoman, by the way, which is how
I know anything about them. My dad worked
construction, and my mom’s a receptionist.
Pony rides were the closest I ever came
to horses before I met Merry, who was
an equestrian through and through.
She might’ve loved me, but not nearly
as much as . . . wait. Does this bother you?
“What? Hearing about your girlfriend?
Not even. I don’t read romance,
but I don’t mind a good romantic story.”
Even one that ends without a happily
ever after? At my nod, he continues,
It wasn’t her fault we broke up. Not really.
When Dad died, it was such a shock.
I mean he left for work like every other
day. Except that day he didn’t come home.
He fell from the roof of a three-story house,
and hit his head completely wrong. It was
quick, they said, not enough time to feel pain.
I’m glad Dad didn’t feel pain, but Mom and
I did. I couldn’t process what happened at
first, and when I finally did, I melted down.
Merry tried to help, but all that did was make
me push her away. I got so sick of hearing shit
like “things happen for a reason” and “it was
God’s will,” and she repeated them too many
times until finally I told her to get the fuck
out of my life. I probably didn’t mean it,
but that’s exactly what she did, and to tell
you the truth I was so engaged in my Pityville
vacation I didn’t even notice she’d gone.
By the Time
He did notice, and tried to make
amends, she’d decided trying to
work things out would be too
labor-intensive
. Besides, she was
tired of seeing him miserable.
I don’t blame her. She’s intrinsically
happy, and right then all that good
cheer totally pissed me off.
When someone you love dies,
it’s easy fold up into yourself.
“I’ve never lost anyone, not like
that, anyway, but I understand
climbing into your own head
and hanging out there for a while.
It’s a great defense mechanism.
I’m really sorry about your dad.
I was thinking earlier that if
something happened to mine
I’d have no idea what to do or
where I could go. I’d be an orphan.”
Gabe inches a little closer. I’d let
you move in with me, although
at the moment that would mean
moving in with Aunt Zelda, not
that it’s such a bad place to live.
Rapid-Fire Q & A Begins
Q: How long will you be at Zelda’s?
A: I’m not exactly sure, but at least
until my mom gets out of the hospital.
Q: Hospital?
A: Yeah. Mom had kind of a breakdown.
I wanted to stay and take care of her,
or at least watch the house, but she said
she’d be uncomfortable with me all alone.
Q: When will she be released?
A: I don’t know. She’s been there almost
a month. I guess until she feels strong
again, or until the insurance runs out.
Q: Then what? Are you going home?
A: That’s my plan. I’d always thought
I’d get to college, but I’m afraid Mom will
need me. Dad left her okay financially,
but she’ll require emotional support.
Q: How far from Sonora is Stockton?
A: Not so far. A little over an hour if you
don’t speed. Why? Will you miss me?
I Admit I Would
Though the funny thing
is, knowing he’ll probably
not stay around actually
relieves some pressure.
Whatever our connection,
I can play this game my way,
and not have to pretend
I’m anyone except who I am.
Which turns out to be
a good thing, because now
it’s Gabe’s turn to ask questions,
including one I’ve never
had to answer out loud.
Something you said interested
me. When you were talking
about inviting people to share
a drink or a kiss, you included
girls in the comment. Are you
into women or did my dirty
little mind make that up?
I try to form the proper
sentences, but swallow
the first words that surface.
Forming cohesive thoughts
around my frequent musings
isn’t something I’m practiced
at. Honesty. Let’s start there.
“I wish I was one hundred
percent sure about who
or what I’m ‘into,’ as you put
it. As I mentioned, I’ve never
actually tried either boys or
girls, but truthfully, I seem
to be attracted to both.
I’ve got an excellent friend
who happens to be a lesbian,
and our relationship is very
close to love at this point,
but whether or not that will
become sexual, I don’t know.”
I see. So then, what about
guys? Or, I suppose more
accurately, what about me?
“Jeez, are you always
so blunt? Okay, well,
to return the favor,
you’re the first guy
of my approximate age
who I’ve ever had fun
just being around. I don’t
think I’m allowed to confess
anything more because
the game isn’t played
that way, is it?”
Those Exceptional Eyes
Lock mine. I couldn’t look
away if I wanted to, but
right this moment I don’t.
I don’t like games.
He puts his drink on the table,
removes mine from my grasp,
and places it just touching his.
And I don’t require confessions.
He reaches for my hand.
His skin is warm and rough
in the way of someone who
labors for a living. It’s not
unpleasant. Now he lifts
my fingers to his lips, kisses
the tips individually. One. By.
One. The intimate gesture
makes my heart tremble and lifts
goose bumps. I never thought
my first real kiss would be
with a boy, but this boy says,
And I don’t care if you love someone
else. I really want to kiss you. Okay?
My Head
Doesn’t ask
for permission
to nod. It bobs
all on its own.
Gabe turns his hands
heel-to-heel, palms
facing upward, cups
my jaws and lifts,
tilting my mouth
toward his. Unlike
his hands, his lips
are soft when they
cover mine, and if
I had any doubt
about my ability
to kiss, he erases
it immediately.
It’s instinctive.
It’s gentle at first.
Its intensity grows.
The flutter in my chest
swells into a quake,
one I don’t want to quell.
But now he pulls away.
Wow. Not bad for an amateur.
I Kissed a Boy
And I liked it. A lot. Wonder
if I’ll like kissing a girl as much.
“I thought it would be trickier.
Maybe you’re just a good teacher.”
Maybe you’ve got a high kissing IQ?
Anyway, I wouldn’t mind doing it
again. But I think I’d better go before
your father comes looking for me
with a shotgun or something. Hey.
Wait. Does your dad own a gun?
I laugh, happy he has no plans
to pressure me for anything beyond
kissing. I know I’m not ready for more.
“Not that I’m aware of, and I think
I’d know about it if he did.” Thank
God. Dad isn’t a very good drunk.
I’d hate to see him go off half-cocked
with a deadly weapon in hand.
Well, I’m leaving anyway, so I guess
we’re probably safe. A kiss good-bye?
My Second Kiss
Is a subtle echo of the first—quiet,
caring, and a promise of something
more to come, if I extend the invitation.
But I won’t do that right now.
After Gabe leaves, I sit for a while
in contemplation, seeking the meaning
of what just happened between us,
its relevance to my quest for identity.
Is it really possible to lean both ways?
If it is, and I do, that must make me bi,
but is multi-gendered attraction
an actual, viable thing?
I’ve heard people say that’s bull,
that those who claim to be bisexual
are nothing more than nymphos
indulging un
encumbered greed.
Maybe I’m greedy, borderline
gluttonous. Or maybe I’m just
curious to know if I have a preference.
One thing’s certain: I’m confused.
The Worst Thing
Is I can’t talk to Monica about this.
Any other subject, she’d be my go-
to confessor. But she wouldn’t
understand and the last thing I
want is to make her crumble.
Funny, but I’ve always thought
she was the tough one, and she is
on the surface. But just beneath
the crust is a layer of liquid goo,
one that’s hard to tap into.
It’s where she buries her pride
when she must, which is usually
around her family. At school
she’s fine claiming her unique
personal vision, and I covet
the bold self-acceptance
she presents to our classmates.
I just wish she were strong enough
to shed her hetero mask at home.
Sometimes when I consider stuff
like that, I wonder if I’m thinking
about my best friend. Or myself.
Either Way
I know I’ve got to call Monica,
who I haven’t talked to since
yesterday. I need to hear the rasp
of her voice—rich and warm
and fringed with accent.
But when she picks up, she’s
anything but her usual soft-
spoken self. Oh, hey, where
have you been? Did you hear
about Hillary? She fell off
her horse and cracked her
head on a rock or something.
“Wait. What? Slow down,
hermana. How do you know
what happened to Hillary?”
Seriously? It’s on the news.
They said if some local kids
hadn’t found her, she probably
would have “succumbed to
the elements.” That means died.
“Holy shit. I didn’t realize
she was hurt that bad. Good
thing Gabe knew some basic
first aid from his lifeguard days.”
She pauses long enough
for my words to sink in. Gabe?
Zelda’s nephew? What does he
have to do with this? Hey . . .
You mean you and Gabe were
the ones who found Hillary?
“Yeah. He was bringing me
home from Zelda’s ’cause Dad
wanted to stay for an after-dinner
boink. This horse came trotting
up the street so we stopped her