by Cass Lennox
His mom stood frozen in the kitchen, hands over her mouth.
Brock threw down the chair. “Fuck. You.”
In this position, his father looked especially fragile. Way past old, almost elderly. A twinge of guilt ran through Brock, but he ignored it.
“Oh no. Oh no,” his mom whispered. She inched around the kitchen counter, then gasped at the sight of Pete.
Pete slowly uncurled, his face a warped, furious caricature of his usual features—but there was a new hint of wariness there. “Stop fucking around, Brock. If you ever want to see this house or money from me, you will stand down.” His eyes narrowed. “That goes double for seeing anyone in our family ever again.”
Like Brock gave a shit about the goddamn house or his father’s money. And it wasn’t like he’d seen anyone in his family lately either. If Pete thought that was what it took to make him panic, he was so wildly off-base it was almost funny.
And in any case, there was nothing to stop his mom or his relatives from contacting him. Nothing. Not even Pete. So he was lying. Everything that came out of his dad’s mouth was pure, noxious shit.
He hadn’t even gotten off the floor yet. Brock had hit him hard, but he hadn’t hit anything vital.
“Brock, honey, take a moment to think about this,” his mom started.
“This is your fault,” Pete snapped at her, his eyes never leaving Brock’s. “I tried my best with him. I knew that incident with that Rosenberg faggot didn’t seem right. I knew Brock was lying. I knew it, but you said it had to be a mistake.” He shook his head. “I should’ve known something was wrong when you didn’t come home, boy. You think we didn’t notice you changed your number? Ungrateful, dishonest piece of crap. No real man turns his back on family.”
“You’re such a fucking asshole.” Brock’s voice sounded strange; it was coming out all twisted and raspy. “I never wanted to come back. Why the fuck would I want to come back here? I’m only here to tell you my life is better without you, and that I’m never going to see you again.”
“Oh, Brock. Don’t do this. Listen to your father.” His mom took a few steps towards him, and Brock took a few steps back, hating the lost, confused look on her face. Why couldn’t she ever fucking take his side?
“That’s why you came here today?” his dad asked. “To hurt us? To make your mother and me a laughingstock in our community? You think you can do this to me and not face consequences?”
Brock swallowed. Just words, just words. “I came here today to tell you I’m gay, and that I’m not afraid of you.” That last one was a lie, and might always be, but fuck it sounded good to say it. It felt good to say it. “You can keep the fucking house. And back in high school I kissed Toby, not the other way around.”
There. Done. He pivoted and sprinted through the living room, into the front hallway.
“Brock! Get back here!”
His shoes. He needed his shoes. He scooped them up.
“This isn’t over, boy!”
Brock left the house, slamming the door behind him as he burst into the cool, open air. He ran to the rental car and dove in, heart beating so fast it was a buzz in his temples and chest. He tossed his shoes into the passenger seat and fumbled with the keys to start the car. All he could hear were his desperate pants, loud in the space of the car. He dropped the keys twice, his hands were shaking so much, but by the time he’d picked them up the second time, he realized no one had followed him outside. He managed to start the car and shifted into drive. One socked foot on the accelerator and he was gone.
Brock watched the house recede behind him in the rearview mirror. A shudder ran up his spine, then another, and then he turned the corner and navigated towards Main Street.
Oh fuck. Oh God. Ohhh, shit.
Oookay, so, unbelievably, that had gone way better than expected. Being older and stronger was an improvement on being a kid.
He’d fought back—and won.
He forced himself to breathe deeply, marking each exhalation with a slow, “Fuuuck.”
He’d done it.
He’d come out.
And he’d fought his dad.
Holy shit, he’d beat his dad up. What the hell? That wasn’t who he was. Didn’t that make him the same as Pete?
Wait, he’d done it in self-defence. In total self-defence, actually. His face and chest throbbed. That made it . . . not okay, but better.
At a red light, he checked his face in the mirror. Red marks on his cheek and jaw and near his eye. Those were going to be nasty bruises by the end of the day. People were going to ask questions. Ugh. Just what he needed.
And injuries there were unusual. In the past, his dad had largely left faces alone. Didn’t leave anything that would draw attention. Either he was getting sloppy or he’d been so furious he hadn’t thought about where to land his fists. Not that Brock had given him any chance to aim, with him fighting back and all.
His hands were still shaking, but gripping the wheel helped a lot.
He exhaled, long and loud. That actually hadn’t been so bad. He’d forgotten how much worse the buildup could be than the actual encounter. So, he was definitely totally completely disowned—but he’d done it. He’d come out. And not only was he out, he was also out. Like, of the family. He’d completely pissed off his parents right? That meant no more pressure to face them. No more awkward thoughts about maybe calling them on major holidays (just to see if his mom was okay, just to check they were still in Maney, just to . . . do something about the silence). No more pretending he liked his family. No more sniping, critical comments from his dad, and no more pathetic apologizing from his mom. No more anything with the Stubbses.
His chest lightened. He suddenly whooped, pounding his hands against the steering wheel. He felt amazing. He could do anything he wanted now. He was free.
When the light turned, he kept driving and saw the high school appear on his left. The high school. Where he and Gigi had started. Holy shit. Talk about visiting the past.
It seemed like an excellent idea to pull into the parking lot and stop for a moment. So he did that.
He turned off the engine but left the car on so he could keep the stereo playing.
Gigi’s RuPaul album blasted into the car. Brock thought the song was “Champion,” but he wasn’t sure. The auto-tune kind of made all the songs on that album run together.
He sat back, hands still shaking slightly. Only slightly. He crossed his arms so he didn’t have to see them. Drank in the realization he’d done it. He’d finally done it. He’d come out. He’d stood up to them. He’d . . . hit his dad with a chair.
But it was okay. The world hadn’t ended, and he was still sitting there. He was safe. He would never have to deal with his parents again. He didn’t have to hide anything from anyone anymore. This was the kind of moment in movies where people cheered, where the hero quipped an awesome one-liner, smiled, and walked into a newer, better life.
All Brock did was burst into tears.
Eight years ago
Toby blinked as the spotlight hit his face. He shifted his weight to one foot and waited while the tech crew adjusted it. Tech crew meaning Brock, hopefully. He could just picture those amazing large hands steadying the heavy lamp in place and that frankly adorable frown Brock got when he was concentrating.
God. Toby was about to pop a boner right here on stage, for real. Cute guys should be banned from tech crew. Stop thinking about him. Think about . . . think about math. Yeah. Freaking binomial functions should be banned.
“That’s perfect!” Ms. Vankampp shouted from the stalls. She strode down to the stage. “Brock, Tina, get a secondary in position, upstage right.”
Another light flickered on behind Toby. He shifted his weight back to the other foot. He desperately wanted to do something, like practise the pirouettes he’d been learning or turn and shout lines at his costar, Marjorie, who stood upstage from him looking as bored as he felt. But they were supposed to stay quiet and still so Ms. Vankampp co
uld communicate with the tech crew.
“We’re almost done,” she said to them before whirling around. “Brock! Your other right!”
The secondary light flickered on over Marjorie, who hissed and pretended to shy away from the weight of the glare. “Nooo! It burrnnnsss.”
And Toby thought he was a drama queen. He arched an eyebrow—which was exciting because he’d practised it for months until he could do it perfectly. Not that Marjorie would appreciate the subtle art of a raised eyebrow. “Wow, Marj. Dying undead bloodsucker comes so naturally to you.”
She flipped him the finger as she sank to the floor, breathing heavily.
“There is no need for dramatics, Marjorie.” Ms. Vankampp regarded the stage carefully, then raised a thumb. “Good enough! Mark those positions down for Reno and Billy in scene five.”
“Ms. Vankampp, do we have to be here for this?” Toby asked, ignoring Marjorie’s rattling gasps behind him.
“Yes, Tobias, you do.” Her gaze flickered between him and Marjorie. “Practise your lines.”
Toby sighed loudly and side-eyed Marjorie. “You learn your lines yet?”
“No,” her undead corpse said.
“Of course you haven’t.”
“I have a life,” she sneered. “It gets in the way of lines.”
Toby refused to visibly bristle. “Well, Reno, you might want to get on that instead of on your boyfriend.”
She surged to her feet, her face furious. “You’d know all about having a boyfriend,” she hissed, “wouldn’t you, fag?”
Toby felt himself blush. He wouldn’t, actually. Truth was, he hadn’t even kissed a boy. Didn’t seem like he’d ever kiss anyone at this rate. But if the truth hadn’t stopped rumours and bullying when he’d started high school, it wouldn’t stop them now. And actually, it was okay. He was seventeen now and in his final year. After this, he was off to Toronto and a way better, way gayer life. This is the last year I have to put up with this shit from her. From anybody.
“At least my cocksucking skills are only rumours,” he deadpanned.
Her jaw dropped.
“Ms. Vankampp?”
That was Brock’s low voice. Toby had to stop himself from turning around, even though he itched to look at him. The guy was the hottest thing this side of the Georgian Bay. Biceps like a god’s from hauling around stage equipment, curly brown hair that Tobias wanted to wind his fingers through, and a smile that lit up the stage brighter than this fucking spotlight currently blinding Toby.
He couldn’t help it. He could never help it.
Face burning, he turned around and stepped out of the light so he could see them. Brock and Ms. Vankampp were poring over lighting diagrams in front of the stage. Brock was marking the paper with a pen. Toby tried not to actively drool because Brock was wearing the blue sweater today, the one that set off his colouring so freaking well. It wasn’t cool to be caught staring, so he moved around, going over a few dance steps while trying not to look like he was ogling Brock. As he moved back into the beam of light, Brock and Ms. Vankampp turned into shadowy outlines. He executed a spin to find himself face-to-face with Marjorie.
“Are we gonna have problems here?” she hissed.
“How about you knock it off with the fag bullshit and I won’t mention what you smoke with Aditya backstage when Ms. Vankampp isn’t watching?” he replied archly.
She went red. “Deal.” She took a step back and eyed him up and down. “I cannot believe you’re playing Billy. Fattest Billy ever.” She turned and flounced off the stage.
The bitch. How dare she upstage him? And the weight remark was just low.
But it had happened in front of the theatre group leader and Toby’s long-term, doomed crush. Oh man. Had they heard? He and Marjorie had been quiet, but maybe they’d heard anyway. Acoustics were a thing. Fuuuck. He could feel himself getting hot in the face, and just freaking knew Ms. Vankampp and Brock were watching him. He quickly barrelled offstage too, needing to get away from their scrutiny. Particularly from him.
And there is nothing wrong with me playing the lead. Goddamn Marjorie. I’m good at this. There’s nothing wrong with liking boys. There’s nothing wrong with being overweight. Like Marjorie could even talk anyway; her hips had to be as big as her fat mouth. He wasn’t fucking fat anyway.
Not that much.
He tugged at his shirt and tried not to think about all the fries he’d eaten at lunch. Tried not to imagine what Brock saw, really, when he looked at him.
“Tobias?” Ms. Vankampp said behind him.
He froze. Now what? He turned around to look at her. She had her arms crossed and was giving him that I’m so sorry look. “Is Marjorie giving you problems?”
This whole hick school is giving me problems, lady. “No.”
“If she is, let me know,” she said. “I cast you as Billy because you’re the best triple threat this province has. You were born to play him.”
He resisted rolling his eyes. Yeah, it means so much to me to play the lead in yet another hick school production.
Okay, that was actually a lie—it totally did mean something, just not as much as if he were in a theatre school. Even though Ms. Vankampp was totally overstating it—and probably had to say nice things because she was a teacher—hearing her say that was still awesome. And Toby’s mom thought all these school plays proved he had a chance at the acting thing. Which, okay, she was his mom, so whatever. But sometimes Toby believed her and it felt really good. Like, it could actually happen one day he would get out of here and live the life he wanted.
“Thanks, Ms. Vankampp.”
“Good.” She checked her watch. “We’ve run over time. You all right to get home?”
“Yes, Ms. Vankampp.”
“Good job today, Tobias.” She smiled encouragingly and walked towards Marjorie and the cast members playing Hope and Evelyn. They hung around in the backstage area, poking props at each other. Toby slunk away to the hidden depths of backstage, where he’d stashed his bag. If he didn’t hide it every rehearsal, he couldn’t guarantee getting it back in one piece.
In middle school, Toby had joined the theatre club because he loved performing. When he found himself staring at Aditya’s ass during a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, he’d had to face some hard facts, not least about what a total cliché he was.
Unfortunately, the moment he realized he liked guys and that his penchant for drama wasn’t something he was going to grow out of, everyone else seemed to pick up on it too. He couldn’t seem to hide it, much as he tried not to be obvious. Whatever that meant, because literally all he did was breathe and walk around and maybe dance and sing a bit, and suddenly that meant he was gay. He didn’t even tell people he was. Wasn’t coming out meant to happen on his terms?
Then Turk Rogers saw him looking through men’s health magazines in the general store one weekend, and as Turk was the hockey captain and walking popular jock cliché of the school, that meant everyone knew for certain by the time Toby rolled into school and into the new hell that was his academic life. Three years later, he no longer put anything in his locker, didn’t look at other guys beyond theatre roles and group projects, knew how to weasel out of a fight, and had put on fifty pounds.
Granted, things had calmed down a ton after Turk graduated. Now he was playing hockey for some university in Ottawa, and Toby regularly hoped there was a puck with Turk’s front teeth written on it. And maybe a faulty helmet. Okay, at least a crappy mouth guard.
He checked his bag. Everything was still there, including his stash of candy. He was reaching for a Coffee Crisp when someone stepped behind him. He whirled instinctively, dropping his bag.
“Whoa, hey there.” Brock raised his hands. “Just me.”
Toby blinked in disbelief. Just him? Brock Stubbs couldn’t be just anybody. He was the underappreciated tech crew buff. The cute junior that no one else seemed to notice. The shy guy with a sweet smile. Oh man, Toby finally had an excuse to look at his face
and could barely stand how completely gorgeous he was. What was he doing back here? Away from everyone else?
You’re alone in a secluded place with the cute shy guy who’s never ever spoken to you before. But this is your school, and this is real life. You know how this ends, Toby.
“Hey,” he said warily. His guard went up even as his heart sang like a lovesick diva.
Brock smiled, sending a shock straight to Toby’s groin. “I saw you come back here, and I, uh, wanted to make sure you were okay.”
What?
His disbelief must’ve shown because Brock dragged a hand through his cropped hair. “Marjorie looked like she was giving you shit, and that spotlight was pretty bright . . .”
This was directly out of Toby’s daydreams, the ones he let himself have late at night when there wasn’t anyone to taunt him for having a dopey look on his face. In them, the cute guy in a secluded place scenario always turned out really nicely for him.
Reality, Toby!
“I’m good,” he said.
Brock shifted weight. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Toby picked up his bag. “I’ve had worse.”
Brock winced. “Oh. Yeah.”
“Yeah,” he echoed, wincing at himself. Behold, the eloquence of teenage masculinity. Shit, he really was a total failure—like, on a crush level and on the smart-ass-gay level. “I gotta go, so . . .” He pointed past Brock towards the front of the stage.
Brock glanced over his shoulder quickly. “Oh, right, yeah. Yeah.” He suddenly looked nervous. “I kinda wanted to ask you something else.” Those gorgeous brown eyes flickered to Toby’s, then away. He blushed.
Blushed.
Toby froze. Was this what he thought it was? It had to be. Even if Brock was pulling some awful elaborate joke, Toby couldn’t move. Hell, even if someone had come up from the side with something nasty like, oh, a hockey stick, he still wouldn’t move. Especially since Brock was coming closer now, his eyes glittering in the sparse backstage light.