by Elaine White
His heart started beating faster, as he thought of the implications. Reaching into his trouser pocket, where the paramedic had stashed his token for safe keeping, he extracted it and held it up to Fearghas.
“Hey! You found it,” he said, with a smile. He took it and his smile softened. “My granddad said he bought this the last time the carnival was in town, but never used it. Said he'd bought it on a whim, because my grandma said it was a good idea. She used her token and nothing happened, so he didn't bother using his.” Looking up, he met Sterling's gaze with a hint of warmth he hadn't seen there in so long. “Turns out, two years later, her wish came true. They found out they were pregnant with my dad. Which was kind of impossible, because they told my grandma she couldn't have kids. That's why she wished for it instead,” he revealed.
The story was kind of beautiful and reminded Sterling of his own talk with his granddad, who had used his token to get that important job promotion that gave him and his new wife and son a chance to move out of their apartment and into a real home.
Despite that, Fearghas said something that stuck with him.
Two years.
It took two years for his grandma's wish to come true. And his own granddad's wish came true after one week. So did that mean things were already happening that the machine couldn't predict and it was only a fluke that their wishes came true, or did it mean that the machine made things happen when people were ready for them to happen?
Fearghas flicked his immaculate coin and caught it again, with a shake of his head. “I promised my grandma that I'd use this for my own wish,” he mentioned, with a hint of sadness that made Sterling's heart ache.
He hadn't used his either.
“Well, you still have time to go back,” he said, though he was kind of basking in this moment. His wish, that hadn't even been made yet, was coming true. Fearghas saw him. Not that he seemed to recognise him, but he knew he existed, which was something. It was progress and Sterling liked hearing his voice, so happily sharing a secret with him.
“I guess I should. I mean, they're going to have to call your parents and it's a bit difficult to explain how your mum has a son she never knew about,” he admitted, with a chuckle.
Sterling nodded weakly. That was it settled; Fearghas had no clue who he was. “Use your token. Make it count,” he insisted, though he had no doubt that he'd probably use it to win the next tennis match or to get Deryn to go out with him.
With a nod, his crush took a step back and waved lightly. “I'm glad you're okay, man. You gave us all a scare,” he said, only to give another brief wave before turning and walking out.
Before he even reached the door, Sterling's heart was in his boots. It didn't sink. It plummeted there, carried like a lead weight to the soles of his feet. What hope was there of his wish coming true if Fearghas didn't even remember him?
Chapter 3
After six hours, Sterling was finally allowed to go home and sleep. There was no concussion, and he had all his memories except for how he ended up in the water, which they assumed was because he'd been hit on the head first. It sounded scary, but anything that meant he could go home and sleep was good.
He slept through nearly all of Saturday, waking only to eat because his Pops made sure he did. He stayed in his favourite chair reading, for most of Sunday, dozing on and off, letting his Pops fuss over him, while he rested in relative silence.
Waking up Monday morning, however, was far from good.
Every muscle ached, which one of the nicer paramedics had warned him might happen, on the drive to the hospital. It seemed his frantic attempt to reach air and the surface of the water would have pulled or strained his muscles because of the panic, possible lack of oxygen and a bunch of other factors.
Sterling had thought it would mean the kind of ache from a long session at the gym, where he liked to play tennis and run the treadmill to keep in shape. Or maybe that ache from sitting in a chair too long, standing up and his back cracking with the pressure. This was nothing like that.
As he rolled over in bed to reach his bedside clock, he wanted to scream. It felt like someone had strapped every muscle ending to the wall and each move he made pulled them tighter and tighter until they wanted to snap.
Finally grabbing the little green monster that was set to wake him at seven, Sterling brought it close to his face to try to read the time. The little glowing hands pointed to ten past something. Squinting even more, he pressed in so close that his nose touched the glass. Ten past...four!
With a sigh, he replaced the clock and struggled onto his back, his entire body protesting. No way was he going to get back to sleep now. Not in pain and not when he only had a few hours before he had to be up for school. He couldn't miss it, no matter how much he hurt, because he had an important test in Maths class and, if he missed it, he wouldn't be allowed to reset it. No way would he get a doctor's note in time, before school started, in order to officially get out of doing it today.
Grabbing his phone awkwardly off the bedside table, he switched it on and pulled up a game that would, hopefully, make him tired enough to go back to sleep for a while. Matching coloured gems and uncursing houses kept his concentration and got a little frustrating, when he played the same level over and over again, constantly making stupid mistakes. Being tired, he missed three good opportunities, until it was too late. The gems he'd spotted that could make a great five or L shaped match were nudged down by his stupid, impetuous move and no longer formed the match he wanted.
After six attempts at the same level, he ran out of lives and dropped his phone onto his lap with a sigh. He was about to pull up another game when his phone vibrated in his hand.
Curious, Sterling lifted it to a good eye level, backed out of the game and pulled down the notification window. Had an app updated itself or was that silent buzz really a message, at some time after five in the morning?
5.02 a.m.
+447940302854
I know you won't get this until you wake up, but I hope you're okay. If you need a lift to school, let me know. F.
F.
F.
That could only be...Fearghas. He had texted!
He knew Sterling's number!
Wait a minute. Reading the text again, he clapped a hand over his mouth to cover the squeal that erupted from him. Fearghas knew who he was. He knew, because he knew they went to the same school.
But–
No. Shaking his head, he let his hopes deflate and backed out of the message to think. There was no way Fearghas knew who he was, because he'd mentioned his mother. Sterling didn't have a mother. Well, he did, but he didn't know who she was.
He had no mother to arrive at the hospital and say, “I didn't give birth to this kid, so he can't be my son.” Which was what Fearghas had said, afraid he'd be caught out for lying about being Sterling's brother. His dads, as cool as they were, would probably have gone along with it, if they'd shown up. They'd probably have gone all gushy and embarrassing, doing that fake flamboyant thing they did whenever they were around people who presumed too much.
How he, a geeky boy, kind of femme in a way, had come from two of the butchest, manliest gay men he knew was beyond him. But he was part of them, at least by half. His dad, Shelton, had been the one to donate his sperm to the surrogate mother, while his Pops, Parrish, was the one who had stayed at home to raise him his whole life. Though Sterling was close to both men, his Pops was the one who knew everything about him; his crush on Fearghas, his worries, his dreams. He gave his dad, Shelton, the good stuff. The good grades, the jokes and the happy smiles.
As a lawyer, it was important to never load concern or more drama onto his dad's shoulders. That was conserved for his Pops, who often spent whole days ruminating over an issue so that they could discuss it when he got home from school.
For this kind of problem, he was pretty sure his Pops would say 'go for it'. After all, Fearghas was the first one to initiate contact and he had offered to see Sterling again,
so what did he have to lose? If Fearghas was just being friendly or felt sorry for him, it wouldn't matter. Nothing would have changed, except that he might actually get to have some kind of relationship with him other than avoidance or blissful ignorance.
Lifting his phone again, he opened the message and text back.
What are you doing up at this time?
The reply came almost instantly. Tennis practice starts at five.
Are you busy now? he checked, glancing at the clock on the top right of his screen. It was only five or ten minutes since that first text, so was he going to interrupt his lesson?
No. Instructor is late.
Unable to help his curiosity, Sterling bit his bottom lip and replied, Doesn't getting up this early kill you? How do you get through school?
Lol. Lots and lots of caffeine.
Rolling his eyes, he figured that explained why Fearghas always showed up at school with a takeaway coffee cup in his hand. Still, just thinking about playing an intense, professional style match or practicing for such a thing that early in the morning made his head spin. Sterling was aching after a friendly match against a stranger in the gym.
So, about that lift... he began, not sure whether to accept or not. Do you even know who I am? Where I live?
Of course!
That didn't tell him anything. And that would be? he pressed.
Sterling Durand. 15 River Grove.
He could almost sense the frustrated sigh, the roll of the eyes that said he was an idiot for even questioning Fearghas about it. But he had to. And he explained why. You mentioned my mother, at the hospital.
It wasn't exactly an accusation, but it needed to be explained.
So?
These short, to the point replies were beginning to annoy Sterling. He punched back the reason in growing frustration. So, I don't have a mother. I have two dads, he explained, though that should have been obvious or at least something he remembered, if Fearghas really knew who he was.
When the silence dragged on, with no reply, half of him thought that Fearghas' instructor had finally arrived, but the other half wondered if he was just biding his time, trying to think of an excuse.
Okay, fine. The words came through just a second too late to be within a reasonable time. There's an 'if lost' keyring on your keys. It had your name and address on it. I didn't remember you from Adam, until I saw your name, he confessed.
What a douchebag! Why couldn't he just say that?
Why didn't you just say so? he shot back, getting madder and madder. This dream guy that he'd gaggled over like a lovesick school girl for years didn't remember him at all. No recognition of his face or anything. It was just his name, and he could guess why. Let me guess, you remember being in Scouts and little lost Sterling Durand being outed as a femme, gayboy?
He hated those words, but that was exactly what he'd been called back then. His Pops said there was nothing wrong with the term gayboy if used by another gay man or when divided into the more appropriate gay boy, a boy who was gay. But his dad hated it with a passion and, Sterling figured that with his genes, he'd inherited that hatred too. Most likely because it had been thrown at him by every guy his own age that he'd trusted like a brother, as an insult and a label that would never unstick.
Sterling the little gayboy. Sterling the femmeboy.
All because he wore nail vanish that wasn't black and Goth; because he liked colour and to show his personality through expressive, fashionista ways. Because he wasn't 'normal'. Well, 'normal' was overrated.
When he didn't get a reply after five minutes, he turned back to his game, knowing that he'd have gained one life in the time it took to text with Fearghas. If he ever texted back, it would interrupt the game to let him know.
Finally, after a few more tense minutes, halfway through his level his phone buzzed. He glanced at the message with disinterest.
Yeah. Sorry. I don't actually remember you, except for your name. For that reason.
That wasn't a surprise, in the least.
He backed up to his game, finished the level, then shut off his phone and threw it across the room. He didn't know why he was angry; he'd always known that Fearghas had no idea he existed, but to hear it so brutally laid out for him was worse than knowing it without having any proof. Ignorance really had been bliss.
Now it was time to wake up and face reality.
Fearghas was a douche. He was no better than the other homophobic kids in Scouts, who all thought that somehow being associated with a gay guy would reflect badly on them.
They'd turned their back on him. Fearghas included. So why did Sterling keep holding onto the impossible dream of him?
Chapter 4
By the time his alarm went off, Sterling was surprised to find that he'd actually slept a little. But he still hurt, so getting out of bed, into the shower, dressed and down the stairs was exhausting. He stopped in the kitchen and sank very slowly onto the seat already pushed out from the table. He winced as he sat, his back and leg muscles screaming at him.
“Well, sport, how are you feeling?” his Pops asked with a smile. He poured two cups of coffee and approached the table, setting them down in the middle.
“Sore. Everywhere,” he confessed, grabbing his favourite cup to take a quick sip. It was piping hot, but with lots of milk, just how he liked it. Sterling curled his hands around it and let out a sigh. “I spoke to Fearghas this morning,” he revealed, watching his Pops closely for his reaction.
After raising an eyebrow, he turned away to grab two plates that he placed on the table. Pancakes with berries and syrup. Sterling almost drooled just looking at it. Instead, he grabbed his knife and fork, waited for his Pops to sit across from him and tucked in. He moaned aloud as the taste hit the back of his tongue.
His Pops smiled and gestured for him to go on.
Taking a deep breath, he told his Pops all about how Fearghas saved him and how it was all so weird. He spoke of the exchange of coins that didn't make sense, the way Fearghas had lied so he could see him at the hospital, even how he'd had his mobile number and texted him early in the morning.
“So, you got mad and refused to text him back or accept his ride to school?” he said, basically summing up the end of their text conversation in one go.
Sterling frowned and shrugged, while taking the last bite of his pancake. “I'm not overreacting, Pops. We sit together in every class, we've known each other since we were kids and we were best friends in Scouts. Or, at least, I thought we were. If he can't remember me, then why should I be nice to him?” he argued, pretty sure that he was in the right here.
“Perhaps because we raised you to treat others with the respect you want them to give you,” his Pops replied, his tone full of judgement and disapproval. “You are always going to face opposition, Sterling, but if you overreact like this to every slight, you'll end up dead or in jail. You are no better a human being, or worse, than any other person on this planet.”
As he opened his mouth to object, because he'd never thought that, his Pops held his hand up. “You treated this boy like a criminal. All he did was offer you a ride to school. It was nice and considerate. You made it more about you than it should have been. A yes or no would have sufficed,” he argued, making it quite clear that he wasn't going to accept any more excuses. “I want you to apologise to this boy, today. Report back at dinner,” he demanded.
Sterling slumped in his seat and sipped the last of his coffee reluctantly. His Pops wasn't someone he wanted to argue with. He might be a house-husband but he was far from a pushover; tall, with muscles in all the places that The Rock would be proud of, he was a force to be reckoned with. Add in his sharp mind, psychology degree and a lifetime of watching over Sterling, and there was no way he'd ever win this argument.
It was best to shut up and do as he was told. Hopefully, Fearghas would be as big a douche today and he could report back that he'd put a permanent end to their interactions because of it.
Somehow, th
ough, he had a feeling that was unlikely.
Getting off the bus was painful, in more ways than one. His Pops had refused to drive him to school, because he'd already turned down Fearghas' offer. It was some sort of lesson on civility, which he really didn't want to think about.
Worse still, Fearghas was waiting for him at the bus stop. Leaning against a cute little yellow Mini that would have been far more comfortable than the bus.
“Lesson learned, Pops,” he grumbled to himself. Then he headed straight for Fearghas, who flashed a quick but hesitant smile.
“I'm sorry,” they said, at the same time.
Well, that blew his Fearghas-was-a-douche argument out the window.
Holding up his hand, Sterling made sure to get there first. “I'm sorry I got mad. I had no right. You were being nice and offered me a lift that I really wish I'd accepted. I just–” He really didn't know how to finish that, because his Pops would be furious if he gave a lame ass excuse or passed it off as something stupid.
“You've had your fill of being Sterling the gay kid from Scouts?” Fearghas asked, with a sheepish smile. “Yeah, I kind of figured. That's why I wanted to apologize to you. I just didn't recognise you, until I saw your name. You used to be–”
This time is was Fearghas' turn to stop and search for words. He made a bit of a face and looked away, as though he didn't intend to finish, so Sterling sighed.
“Maybe we could forgive each other by you driving me home from school?” he suggested, as a halfway point. It wasn't fair to ask for forgiveness for what he'd done and not offer it to Fearghas in return. They'd both been idiots about it.
“Yeah, sure.” He seemed much happier with that, for some reason Sterling couldn't fathom. “You, um, need a hand with your bag or anything?” he asked, actually looking like he wanted to help and – was it possible? – hang out a little longer.