by Sarina Bowen
“Oh,” I say, my blood pressure inexplicably elevated. Normally, I don’t give a crap about parking garages. And even though the sameness inside the airport made me feel crazy, the differentness outside is almost worse.
This place makes me feel off-balance, like the earth has shifted under my feet. I just want to go home where nobody will judge me.
Fuck you, Michigan. The whole mitten state can kiss my big gay ass.
Graham reaches out to squeeze my elbow. “Come on,” he says softly. “My mom’s car is on the first level.”
Unfortunately, Grand Rapids is a small enough town that it only takes Graham a half hour to drive me home, including hitting the drive-through at a Starbucks and then talking in the car for ten minutes together.
“Did you rent a car for Chicago? If you didn’t have time, I’ll do it.” I sip my cappuccino while holding Graham’s hand with my free one.
His thumb strokes my palm. “Yeah. Did it right away. Did you write your toast yet?”
“Not exactly. But how hard could it be? I’m going to tell a couple of funny snowboarding stories.” Shit. That sounds dumb. “My toast is going to suck. But I’ll make it short.”
“It won’t suck. Tell ’em how Skippy taught you to snowboard because he saw that the flatlander needed help.”
I’d forgotten about that. “Not bad, G. You want to write this thing? You’re the journalist. Please? I’ll make it worth your while.”
He snickers. “You sit with it a while longer. I’ll read it for you when you think it’s done.”
“All right.”
“Are you ready?” he asks me, and suddenly we’re talking about my folks’ place again.
“I guess.”
“Your dad’s been after you to visit a while now,” he points out. “He wouldn’t invite you here to make you miserable.”
I consider that. It’s true that Dad had wanted me to visit over the summer. But I hadn’t done it. Graham had come to Vermont for the summer instead.
Those were nice months. Since Gran had relocated to the main floor of the farmhouse, where it was easier for her to move around, Graham and I had the whole second floor to ourselves. We worked some daytime shifts at a farm stand nearby and spent our nights having very quiet sex on the twin beds we’d lassoed together to make a king-sized space.
Best summer ever.
But Dad had kept at me to come to Michigan. And this after several years where he’d seemed to forget I exist? Gran put him up to it, I think. That traitor.
So here I sit.
“I’ll survive it,” I grumble. Dropping my coffee cup into the holder, I reach for Graham.
In spite of our frightening history of car-kisses in Michigan, he doesn’t even check to see if anyone might be watching. He leans in, his cool eyes locked on mine. Then they flip shut as we connect properly for the first time in way too long. The first kiss is slow and loaded with too much tension. Parents. The holidays. Tuxes. A speech.
“Baby,” I whisper against his lips. I cup his face in one hand, and his smooth jaw is so achingly familiar that I begin to relax. I touch my tongue to the seam of his lips, and he opens on a sigh.
The next kiss is deep and slow for all the right reasons. The slide of his tongue against mine is everything I need. My fingers find their way onto his sturdy chest, and our teeth click as we try to make it linger.
But we’re in the cramped front seat of a Subaru, and I’m due at the parents’ place now. Reluctantly, I ease back, breaking the kiss with a groan of frustration. “That will have to tide me over.”
He grunts with unhappiness and sits back in his seat. Then he turns the key and starts the engine, and I try not to imagine that Graham is driving me toward my doom.
Chapter 3
Graham
Dropping Rikker off in front of his parents’ house feels awful.
“Want me to come in with you?” I offer. His mother hates my guts, but I don’t give a damn about that. I’ll go inside if he wants me there.
But he shakes his head. “I’ll call you later.”
I don’t get a kiss goodbye. He opens the door, shoulders his bag, and walks toward the house. The front door opens when he reaches it, and I see him disappear inside.
Feeling glum, I drive the few short blocks home.
My parents are in the kitchen, eating take-out burgers. “Sit!” my mother insists. “We brought you something for lunch.”
“Thanks,” I say, dropping into a chair and pulling the bag toward me.
“How is he?” my mom asks, dipping a french fry in ketchup.
“Unexcited. But fine, I guess.” I unwrap the sandwich and take a grateful bite.
“He’s welcome here anytime,” my father says. “Can’t believe they won’t join us for dinner tomorrow.”
“Or ever,” I grunt.
“How Christian of them,” my father says, the comment dripping with irony.
“They’re Christian, unless you’re gay,” I add, supplying Mrs. Rikker’s outlook on life.
My mother sighs. “Not everyone thinks like that.”
“I know.” The church my parents attend these days has a rainbow banner on the wall of the lobby.
They actually had to switch churches after I came out during my junior year of college. My mom had assumed their former congregation was more open-minded than the Rikkers’ church. But when my mother told her pastor about my struggle to accept myself, his reaction wasn’t positive enough for her.
She’s become my fiercest advocate. So, after almost thirty years in their congregation, my parents walked out the door, visiting a new church the following Sunday. And they’ve never looked back.
I felt bad about it at the time. But being out has been so much better than being in the closet. I finally understand that. I wish there hadn’t been any collateral damage, but we’re all adjusting well enough now.
Two years ago it wouldn’t have occurred to me that I could sit here at the kitchen table with my folks, eating burgers, having a casual conversation about my boyfriend’s asshat parents.
“I love you guys,” I say quietly. Saying things like that hasn’t always been my style. But Rikker has turned me into someone who can express himself, at least once in a while.
“Aw, Mikey,” my mother says, rubbing my arm. “Why do you look so blue?”
“I’m not,” I lie. “I have some good news, by the way. Just checked my school email account and found a job interview request.”
“Yessss!” My father pumps his fist. “Where is it?”
“Washington, D.C., for Sports Night TV.”
“This is great!” my mother cheers. “When will you meet them?”
“Next month.”
“Let’s go suit shopping tomorrow,” my mother suggests. “You need to look sharp.”
“All right. Thanks.”
Finding a post-college job has proven harder than I’d thought it would be. The process isn’t exactly an ego boost. I’ve sent a staggering number of resumes out, and received only a handful of calls from news outlets. If I don’t find something soon, I’ll have to take a job that’s not as interesting to me or graduate jobless.
Last year I was terrified to be gay. I got over that only to find myself terrified of being unemployed.
And if that isn’t scary enough, I can’t stand peering into the dark, hollow place in my soul that’s afraid of being separated from Rikker. What if he gets tired of waiting for me? Long distance will be a drag, and my boyfriend has a high sex drive.
Ugh. I’m going to spend the whole next semester worrying about this, I just know it. And before that, I’m going to spend the next three days worrying about Rikker and how he might be getting along with his bitchy mother.
After lunch I volunteer to help my dad clean out the garage. He’s overjoyed to have help with this chore, and I need something to keep my hands busy. I keep checking my phone, hoping for updates from Rikker. I’m uneasy about his stay with his parents. If they weren’t willi
ng to acknowledge our relationship, what does that mean for his time in their home? Are they going to lecture him? If they do, will he just sit there and take it? Or will he explode from frustration?
I’d left him on their doorstep, and I’m not sure I should have. Sure, Rik is an adult who can take care of himself. But hell if I don’t want to punch anyone who is mean to him.
These are my uneasy thoughts as I help my father sort his old tools and hang them on pegs above the workbench. When we’re finished, I take a hot shower and check my phone. Again.
There’s a new text message, only it isn’t from Rikker. It’s a group text including six of my hockey teammates from high school. MINI REUNION! it shouts. Founders Brewery, Tuesday, 5p. Who can make it?
I hesitate.
Since I spent last summer in Vermont, I haven’t seen my high school teammates for a long time—not since the summer before junior year. In other words, I haven’t seen them since before I began dating a dude, and before I came out to my family.
Before acknowledging my sexuality, I spent years drowning my frustrations in women and whiskey. All my high school friends knew that Michael Graham.
Now I’m done being a coward. Rikker convinced me that it feels better knowing which people are true friends. Coming out makes that all very clear. At Harkness I’ve been gratified (and in some cases stunned) to learn that most everyone accepts the real me. And the rejection of a few people who weren’t all that great to begin with hasn’t sunk me.
On the other hand, do I have the energy right now to put myself out there to all of those old friends?
After thinking about it for a few minutes, I respond with: I’m in. See you Tuesday.
Tuesday is still two days before I’m supposed to see Rikker again. Beer and hockey smack talk will get my mind off a few things. I’ll be climbing the walls in the meantime.
After dinner with my folks, I get into bed with the TV remote. But it’s just an excuse to keep one eye on my phone. Finally, at ten, I text Rik again, because I can’t help myself.
Graham: Dude. I’ve been checking my phone all day like a desperate loser. It’s not that I expect phone sex tonight. But just let me know you’re okay.
To my great relief, he begins to respond right away.
Rikker: Sorry! My dad took me to a Griffins game this afternoon, and I left my phone behind because I was trying to be a good son.
Graham: How was the game?
Rikker: Fine. It’s weird to watch an AHL game and wonder if I can get there.
Graham: You will! And how was the conversation?
Rikker: Fine. But I didn’t test my dad. We were both really fucking polite.
Graham: You didn’t point out the most lickable players, and rate them on a scale of 1-10?
Rikker: Why bother? You’re hotter than the whole team. Times ten.
Graham: Baby, you don’t have to butter me up. I’ll give you whatever you want. I’m free right this second. And I’m less than a mile away.
Rikker: Which is too far. But only for another couple days. My old room is smaller than I remember it.
Graham: Being there must be weird AF.
Rikker: Yup. My old hockey medals are hanging here. Mom must dust them. So it’s like a shrine to being 16.
Graham: How is it going with her?
Rikker: OK. Awkward. We’re all trying not to say the wrong thing.
Graham: Sounds like a blast.
Rikker: Pretty much. Mom made my favorite dinner—chicken parm. I’m taking that as a good sign?
Graham: Can I come and pick you up tomorrow afternoon? We could go to a movie. Or anywhere at all.
Rikker: Nothing would make me happier. But I’m going to play the good son and hang here. It’s only a few days, right? And maybe my mother will relax if I don’t rush for the exits.
Graham: Why does she deserve coddling, though? I want to just drive over there and make her look me in the eye.
Rikker: You are 100% right. But I’m doing this for my dad, because he’s trying to build a bridge over the crevasse. He made the effort, so I’m trying.
Graham: You’re a better man than I.
Rikker: I love you anyway. :)
Graham: Just for that, you get another blow job on Thursday night. DO YOU HEAR THAT, MRS R? I’M GOING TO SUCK ON YOUR SON’S PENIS. HE LIKES IT.
Rikker: LOL. You’ve come a long way, baby.
Graham: And yet here I sit alone.
Rikker: I’m all yours on Thursday.
Graham: I know. And I don’t want to give you guilt. Just miss you.
Rikker: Good night, cutie.
Graham: Night. :)
Chapter 4
Rikker
On my second day in Michigan, the hours go by at a crawl.
I accompany my mother to see the Christmas display at the sculpture garden. The sculpture garden! Kill me already. I’m the youngest person there by about forty years.
Afterward, my mother announces that she has to attend a meeting at church. Some women’s club thing. And my dad doesn’t get home from work for another hour and a half.
Home alone, I text Graham quickly, asking him what he’s up to.
He doesn’t answer for an hour, though, because he’s gone shopping with his mom and then downtown to meet his father for a late lunch. And when he finally replies, I can’t even bear to tell him that I’d meant to walk over to see him.
The missed opportunity grates on me, so it would probably drive him nuts.
Later, I sit through another stilted meal with my parents, my mother’s sister Janet, and her nearly mute husband. It gets awkward when Aunt Janet asks me The Question. “Have you met any nice girls at school that I should know about?”
The moment the question leaves her lips, my mother’s hand freezes on her water glass. The silence hangs between us, ready to choke us all, while my father stares at his scalloped potatoes. He seems to be holding his breath.
“Uh, I guess I haven’t,” I say, shoving another bite of pot roast in my mouth.
Then? I have the worst urge to laugh.
Why am I playing this role? I feel like I’m living inside one of the less successful SNL skits. My mother obviously doesn’t discuss my sexual orientation even with her closest sister. I’m that shameful in her eyes.
I’m this close to stopping our polite little meal by putting down my fork and announcing, “Actually, I have a boyfriend.”
But if I do that, a shouting match will be the likely result. And my visit with the parents will come to a quick end. Part of me craves the conflict. But it will only hurt my dad, and possibly me. The truth is that I can’t afford to rock the boat. I need to get through college. I need them to pay the part of my tuition that financial aid doesn’t cover.
In a year and a half I’ll be truly free.
Making nice is even harder than I’d expected it to be, though. And Graham was right when he said that my mom doesn’t deserve me.
Two more days, I promise myself. The silent deal we’ve struck, if I understand it correctly, is that they’ll pay for school and pretend to have a busy son on the East Coast as long as I help them pretend I’m not a disgrace.
It’s not the best deal ever. But neither is it the worst. Eighteen months from now I’ll have a Harkness degree and probably a good job, if not a spot on a minor league hockey team. And my parents won’t hold any sway over my life ever again.
One thing is certain, though—this will be my last Michigan visit. I can’t do this again.
Dad steers the dinnertime conversation to hockey, which is his way of finding a topic that flatters me. He’s trying to be diplomatic. I don’t really understand why. But he’s trying.
I clean my plate and hope that diplomacy is enough to get us through another forty-eight hours.
After my aunt and uncle leave, Dad talks me into watching some TV. There’s no hockey game on, sadly. But Dad puts on the last part of some nature series he’s been following. I watch a bunch of emperor penguin chicks
hatch. They are shockingly cute, with big eyes and a loud chirp.
It’s all fun and games until several mother penguins become trapped in this slippery little ice ravine. One of the mothers shuffles out one painstaking inch at a time, her chick on her feet, her beak an ice pick she employs for hours, until victory is reached.
But another penguin mom can’t figure it out, and she ends up abandoning her chick. She waddles away, leaving it to shiver and cry by itself.
They don’t actually show its dead body, but we all know that’s what’s coming. Why do people watch this shit? I want to kick the television. By the time I go to bed, I’m full-on depressed. And it doesn’t help that bedding down in my old bedroom is a lot like having an out-of-body experience. The light fixture is the same. The bedspread is the same. Blue corduroy.
Seven years.
The old, closeted me had walked out of here on a spring day, sixteen years old, heading for Graham’s house. I’d had the car keys, and an idea that I wanted to drive Graham over to a comic book shop in a dodgy section of Grand Rapids.
We didn’t make it into the shop that day, because I kissed him before we got out of the car. As we crossed the parking lot, they pounced. Fucking faggots. I got the beating of a lifetime, and Graham escaped.
I spent four days in the hospital. Or was it five? How weird that I can no longer remember. After my discharge, I’d come home for maybe twenty-four hours before my dad put me in the car and drove me to Gran’s house in Vermont.
My life changed then. I never looked back.
But now I’m forced to. Lying here in my old digs, I’m still angry. I’m mad at the assholes who kicked me until I passed out. I’m mad at my parents for freaking out about their gay kid. And I’m furious at myself for just accepting my banishment like I deserved it.
And for coming back here at all. Who needs this shit?
Deep breaths, I remind myself. This is stupid, but you can make it.
I pick up my phone and text Graham. Hey! You still up?