by Cass Lennox
Brock lay asleep, breathing softly, one arm flung above his head and miles of skin stretched out across Gigi’s sheets. He’d shoved the duvet down to his waist in his sleep. Gigi traced the broad lines of his face, the sweep of his neck and shoulder, the hard curves of his biceps and armpit where it joined his torso, silvery with scars, and—
Hold the fucking phone.
Scars? He leaned forward and looked closer. Brock’s underarm and a small area along his side were dense with scars. Gigi swallowed. They looked like razor and knife scars laid on top of thicker ones, wheals where ones hadn’t healed well, and thick pearly masses where they had. There were hundreds of them, all localized within strict bounded areas that would be hidden under shirts. The edges of the areas were feathery with slices, and he followed one with horror as the pearly skin ran down the length of his underarm from his armpit to his elbow.
Gigi shifted up so he could examine the rest of the arm flung above Brock’s head. Clear, unscarred skin from elbow to palm.
His head reeled. Brock had hurt himself like this? When? Why? And why under his armpit and sides and not in the usual places people cut themselves? The careful, deliberate violence of the scars didn’t match up at all with the steady, sweet man he’d fucked last night. What had happened?
Then Brock stirred and opened his eyes. “M’ello,” he murmured.
Shit. Adorable. Gigi’s heart ached. “Morning, you.”
“Timizzit?”
Gigi made himself check. “Seven thirty.”
“Zirly.” Brock closed his eyes and burrowed into the pillow. His arm, however, snaked around Gigi’s waist and pulled him closer.
Gigi didn’t know what to do. He’d seen those scars on other people, but not on someone like Brock. Not someone who’d chased Gigi for a week, who’d gotten on his knees for Gigi, who shared the history they did. Should he mention them? Would Brock care?
“Some of us have places to be,” Gigi said.
“Mm-hmm.” Brock burrowed in and kissed him, morning breath and all.
Gigi closed his eyes and sank into that kiss. Giving into Brock felt so good. When Gigi had been seventeen, he’d dreamed of doing this with Brock. Not just sex, but waking up together. Cuddling. Freaking cuddling. Reality was so much better than his awkward little teenage fantasies.
Not that it meant anything. Much. Gigi had lost all his cherries as soon as he could after moving to Toronto, along with eighty pounds and any delusions about boyfriends being good things. Judging from how Brock had gone down on him, it had been a long time since Brock’d been a virgin too. Honestly? Good. Awesome. They knew sex. They could be chill about this.
But last night had been different. And this morning was different. Chill wasn’t the right word anymore, because this boy had chased him and had scars in secret places.
If they were important, Brock would’ve mentioned them, right? He seemed totally at ease being naked in front of Gigi.
Gigi’s chest hurt, so he ended the kiss. “I have to get up.”
Brock opened his eyes and a slow smile spread across his face. “You sure?” His hand moved down Gigi’s back to his ass, fingers rubbing the divots Gigi knew were there and teasing the top of his crack.
So cute. So cute. But . . . scars. Gigi was in over his head.
Therefore, he hadn’t asked. And he’d kept not asking, even when he noticed other faded scars along Brock’s back—not as thick as his sides, but wide and painful looking. It was actually a few weeks later before Gigi finally drummed up the courage to ask Brock about them. Brock had paused in peeling off his shirt to stare at the ones on his sides in surprise.
“Oh.” His face had gone carefully calm. “They’re nothing.”
“Nothing? Nothing? You sure about that, boyfriend?”
“Yeah.”
Gigi reached out and deliberately pressed one finger against the worst part of the slashes, where the skin was scar tissue and totally white. “Did you have an emo phase I wasn’t aware of?”
Brock laughed. “Nope.” He flung his shirt aside and reached for Gigi’s. “Black hair doesn’t suit me.”
Gigi had scoffed, then been distracted by getting naked with the man who was definitely his boyfriend by then. Too distracted to follow up about the scars.
The third time had been in Syracuse, when they had been lying in bed, drowsy and sexed out. Gigi had turned to him and asked, “So, you ever going to tell me about these scars?”
Brock had yawned. “Nope. It’s in the past.”
And Gigi had been used to them by then, so he’d dropped it.
Only now, here, with his boyfriend having disappeared somewhere in Maney, he was wondering if maybe that had been a bad idea. If maybe those scars and Brock’s “not nice” parents were somehow connected.
Or maybe he was overthinking things. If family stuff had been that bad, or was still that bad, Brock would’ve told him, right? That was the kind of shit people in serious relationships told each other. So if Brock hadn’t told him, it wasn’t anything like that. He’d even said so.
Maybe this running-away-with-the-car thing was just another stage of Brock Being Pissed At Gigi.
But Gigi wasn’t sure about that anymore.
Goddamn it.
Whatever. What the hell could he do about it now? Maybe he should remember why he was here and who he was really here for. He needed to shower, shave, brush his teeth, and make sure he looked as ready for a goddamn straight-boy bachelor party as he could with what clothes he had. And maybe he wasn’t straight, maybe his boyfriend was losing his mind, and maybe this bachelor party was going to be the next circle of hell, but Gigi would be damned if he wasn’t going to look like a true queen throughout it all.
Before he did all that, though, he sent Brock a text. Partly because he wanted Brock to know this wasn’t over, and partly because he wanted Brock to know he could come back. There was an unsettled feeling lodged in Gigi’s gut now, and a girl knew when to trust that feeling.
Brock had driven to the parking lot for the national park segment of the forest that edged the north side of town. Why this place, he had no idea. It was quiet, at least. Not many cars around. No one to see him being there, in town. Not that it mattered anymore.
He sat in the car, staring at the tree line. The colours were turning, and he knew the forest would smell of autumn—crisp and woody, mulch and dry leaves. Around this time of year, that smell seeped into the town and lingered. Autumn in Maney didn’t smell like autumn in Toronto, and it was honestly amazing to breathe in the air here. So clear.
Like anyone else who’d grown up in this town, he knew if he took the main path from the parking lot into the forest, he’d soon find a three-way fork in the road. The main route led left to the lake where people skated in winter, swam in the summer, and canoed most of the year. A second route led to a quarry about five kilometres in, and the third route meandered prettily until it intersected with a hiking route that circled the town. There were masses of unofficial tracks crisscrossing all those main routes, leading to clearings and funny-shaped trees and gorgeous views over the town. He knew because he’d walked most of them, trekking with his dad and then for school trips and campouts with friends, then alone because he had thoughts he couldn’t share with anyone else and it was better than being home.
The forest looked as he remembered it, but somehow different. That was something he’d forgotten about nature, how the same exact forest could look different each and every day. Whether it was because it had physically changed, aging with every day, or because he had changed, he couldn’t say.
His cell dinged an incoming message. It had to be Gigi. He braced himself and opened it: Omg I cannot believe you ran out like that. Come back, okay? I’m sorry. My mom wants you to help her with lunch. You’re so in my orienteering group later.
Naomi had overheard them and said something to Brock as he’d left, but he hadn’t stopped to listen. Clearly she’d spoken to Gi. No mention of meeting Brock’s parent
s, but Gi wouldn’t let that drop for long.
His parents.
His fucking parents.
Brock put the phone down and leaned forward to rest his chin on the steering wheel, eyes on the oranges and reds of the forest. If he wanted to be poetic, the forest looked like it was on fire. Like, a nice kind of fire, the kind that soothed and warmed. Simple and safe.
Why the hell couldn’t other things be that simple?
His parents weren’t happy with him. Brock hadn’t expected them to be, but reality was visceral in a way imagination could never match up to. The town grapevine had pulled through after all. His mom had sounded disappointed, and his dad had wanted to know why the hell Brock hadn’t called them in so long. So far, so standard, but the worst part was his dad informing him he was to report in and “explain himself.”
Jesus. Brock hated that phrase. It had been a long time since he’d heard it.
His dad had said he’d come by and pick him up, but Brock knew better. No, he was going to take the car and have an exit strategy. Because he had somewhere else to go now.
The eggs Grandma had made him for breakfast sat heavy in his stomach, and he shifted his weight in the seat. The day was laid out for him: go back to the Rosenberg place and try to look Naomi in the eye while helping with lunch; go to his parents’ place and . . . well, confront them and probably come out; meet the bachelors here in this very car park for orienteering and pretending that he’d always been out; take a quick shower and change for dinner and drinks; then get through dinner and drinks. Not forgetting to try to be the guy Gigi expected him to be throughout it all, which meant being friendly with the relatives, fun and easygoing, and out.
Oh man. Explaining himself to his parents. Coming out to his parents. It wasn’t like Brock had never imagined returning and confronting them, but the idea that he had the opportunity to do it was . . . not as exciting as it had been in his imagination.
But it would be a moment, right? To really declare himself to them and to, like, be himself. He could do that. He was good at coming out by now. His parents would react badly, but as long as he had a way of leaving, it would be okay. And then he wouldn’t have to worry about them anymore, and he could enjoy this weekend, and he could explain everything to Gi, and it would all be okay again.
So. Get through lunch, and he’d be solid.
Someone knocked on his window.
He almost jumped into the passenger seat in surprise, letting out a somewhat unmasculine gasp. When he settled back, he saw a woman staring through the window. He frowned. She seemed kind of familiar.
“Brock Stubbs?” she asked through the glass.
Oh wow. The voice helped—she was Marjorie Pine, a girl from his high school theatre group. She’d performed opposite Gigi in a number of productions and had graduated in the same year as Gigi. Last he’d heard, she’d moved to Edmonton, so her being here had to be unusual. She looked good. She’d filled in and changed her hair, and the result was more maturity than the last time he’d seen her.
Brock opened his door and stepped out the car. “Marjorie?”
A big smile burst across her face. “I thought it was you! Hi!” She gave him a big hug, and he hesitantly hugged her back. They hadn’t spoken much in theatre group—he’d been part of the tech crew, not the actors—but he had good memories of sharing spliffs with her and Aditya after rehearsals. He was pretty sure she’d hated Gigi though, and Gigi had definitely hated her back. They’d fought constantly on stage when they weren’t delivering lines.
“It’s good to see you.” Brock let her go.
“Likewise!” She spread her hands wide. “I mean, I didn’t expect to see you back here. I thought you went off to Guam or somewhere.”
“Indonesia. And that was only for a year. Then I went to Europe.” He shifted his weight. “I’ve been back in Canada for years now. Toronto. I thought you were in Edmonton?”
She nodded. “Yup. Still am! I’m here for a long weekend to see my parents and help them with a big group of guests.” Her parents ran one of Maney’s two B&Bs.
“Oh.”
“The guests are here for Sophie Rosenberg’s wedding—have you heard about that? Fancy-ass wedding on the lake.”
This was it: the grapevine in action. “Yeah.”
Her smile turned knowing. “Which means Toby is in town too. Some coincidence, huh?”
That was his cue. “Not really a coincidence. I’m in town for the wedding. I’m, um, Toby’s plus one.”
Marjorie’s eyes widened. “No. Shut up.” She smacked his shoulder lightly. “You two got back together? That’s awesome!”
Brock blinked. They’d never been together except for . . . “Uh, we weren’t really—”
“Oh hey, I knew about you two making out after rehearsals.” She said it like it was nothing.
But it wasn’t nothing. Brock’s vision narrowed to just her smiling face. She’d known? Back then? About them? What? They’d taken such care to hide it. Brock had been certain no one had known. He’d been sure of it.
“You did?” he asked, feeling light-headed.
“Oh yeah. Adi did too. We didn’t talk about it much because you hung out with Josh, and Toby got enough shit as it was. Plus I liked you too much to rat you out.” She peered at him. “You okay? You look ready to faint.”
No kidding. Fainting would be preferable to this belated embarrassment—and slight frisson of fear. Who else had known? Had anyone gossiped? Had his dad’s eventual reaction been based on hearing the true version of events?
Brock sucked in a deep, wood-scented breath. “Yup. I’m good. I’m great.” He leaned against the car for support. “I didn’t know anyone knew we were doing that.” Not until they’d been caught.
“I noticed you and him lingering a bunch of times and figured it out.” She shook her head. “Sorry it ended like that. I felt super bad for you two. Well, for Toby; I judged you super harshly for a long time, but I think I understand now why you did what you did.”
Shit. Brock just wanted to curl up in a hole and die. Oh man, this sucked. “I, uh, wasn’t in a good place.”
“You’re telling me. This was a shitty place to grow up. I’ve been here for four days and I’m already itching to get out. The woods are great to ramble in, but it’s not like I can walk through them all day.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder with an unconscious toss of her head. “You and Toby free for drinks or coffee while you’re here? It would be awesome to catch up with you both.”
Brock wasn’t sure Gigi would be up for that. Besides, the schedule the Rosenbergs had emailed around didn’t give them much free time. The wedding was tomorrow, and they were returning to Toronto the day after.
“I don’t know that we can,” he said apologetically. “We’re pretty busy.”
Her face fell. “Oh. Sure, yeah. I get it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, I should’ve figured you’d have family stuff to do.”
Damn it. Now he felt bad for disappointing her as well.
“But actually, we’re, uh, we’re doing a bachelor thing tonight,” he said. “We’ll be at Warner’s for drinks from 9 p.m. onwards. If you’re free . . .”
Her face split in a grin. “Yeah! Absolutely! I’ll see you there.”
She left after that, explaining she had to return to the B&B, and Brock watched her go from the side of his car. What a blast from the past. He’d avoided thinking about that theatre group for years, as what had happened between him and Toby had been so painful it had coloured the last year and a half he’d been at school. Before he’d kissed Toby for the first time, he’d had a lot of fun learning the stage lighting, sound and curtain set up, and hanging out with the rest of the group. Even though he’d only joined it for an excuse to be around Toby, and to linger at school, it had taught him a ton of skills and given him a few new friends.
And now look at him. Still around Toby, still lingering, only outside the damn forest instead of in an aging audit
orium. Didn’t want to go to his parents’, didn’t want to return to the Rosenbergs’, didn’t want to move at all.
But he had to. He was here, and he had no real choice except to see this through. He wouldn’t run away—couldn’t, not if he wanted to be able to look himself and Gigi in the eye again.
His arms were crossed, and he found himself absently rubbing the scars along one triceps. Fuck. He pulled his arms apart, looked up, and took a big, deep breath, easing his shoulders back and down. It was a posture Gigi did to calm his nerves before a performance.
He could do this. He’d gone through worse. There were the three months he’d eaten nothing but rice and fruit in Indonesia, and the time he’d been stranded in the Netherlands at a rural train station somewhere between Utrecht and the German border with five Euros to his name. Seven hours spent on a bus in Cambodia. His adolescence here.
Yeah. He could do this.
Then he got back in the car and drove to the Rosenbergs’.
The house was in a state of chaos as people rushed in and out the front door. Several of the aunts were bundling the younger kids into a car, presumably to get them out of the way until lunchtime, and Brock got a wave from Rosie as he walked by. Inside, there were more people carrying around food, and he saw Gigi helping his dad carry cots from the rec and dining rooms to the laundry room. Brock received a nod from John and raised eyebrows from Gigi. Gigi was clearly busy, and Brock didn’t know what to say to him anyway, so he went to help Naomi.
She didn’t mention the fight or the fact he’d left, only welcomed him back, handed him an apron, and set him to washing rice, then chopping vegetables. People ducked in and out of the kitchen in bursts of chatter to steal food and ask questions, but the conversation in the kitchen remained limited to the food. It was nice. Peaceful. Relaxed.
All too soon, the time came for him to leave. He untied the apron and passed it to Naomi, who took it with a tomato-y hand. “Thanks for the help.”
“No problem, M—Naomi.”
“Toby’s good with prep, but it’s nice to spend time with you.” She paused a moment, then smiled at him. “Have fun with your parents.”