Growing Pains

by Cass Lennox

  Brock stood too, suddenly at a loss now that he wasn’t so sure he wanted to leave Gigi behind. He followed Naomi downstairs, then slipped his shoes and coat on so he could go outside to think. He walked around the block, his return trip showing Ed sitting on the front steps with a cigarette.

  Ed waved at him. “’Sup, my man!”

  Brock waved back uncertainly. He hadn’t spoken much with Ed since coming here, so he wasn’t sure exactly why Ed seemed to be waiting for him.

  Ed stood up and went over to Brock, his cigarette trailing smoke behind him. He gestured with it. “Don’t tell Aunt Naomi, okay? She and my dad would totally freak if they knew I smoked.”

  “It’s not the greatest habit.”

  Ed shrugged. “I know. Cravings are a bitch. But the smoke is a sweet mistress.” He took a drag, then flicked his ash on the grass. “Listen. I know you’re having the worst weekend ever, what with that fight, and you and my cousin having some—” he made air quotes “—‘issues,’ but I was hoping you’d stick around for tonight. I hear you rock at pool, and I’m totally shotgunning you for my team.”

  “Pool?”

  “Yeah, at Warner’s.” Ed grinned. “It’s gonna be us, Alan, his buddies, and maybe Uncle John and my dad standing around drinking whiskey and playing pool. Freaking sweet, man.”

  And suddenly, more than wanting to go back to Toronto, more than wanting to get his head together and figure this fucking weekend out, and way more than talking to Gigi, Brock wanted a drink and to shoot some damn pool.

  Which was how he found himself at Warner’s three hours later, after a meal out that had seen him and Gigi seated at opposite ends of the table, the full bachelor party between them. They’d arrived in separate cars and had immediately gravitated apart, deliberately avoiding each other. Same thing happened arriving here at the bar—they were at opposite ends of the table while the guys sat drinking between them. Not that Brock was ready to talk to him, not yet, and it looked like Gigi wasn’t exactly raring to get into it either.

  It was weirdly reminiscent of high school—Gigi, at a distance, yet within sight and so, so obvious, his presence like a winking glint in the edge of Brock’s eye. It wasn’t just the pink button-down with white stars all over it, which, yeah, was eye-catching and possibly the gayest clothing item this town had ever seen, but also Gigi’s dyed-red hair, and the way his whole body moved when he spoke. Just so expressive.

  Brock glanced at himself. Jeans and a flannel shirt. Same as most of the guys here. Only, he suspected Alan’s friends had paid more for theirs, and he wasn’t wearing bow ties or suspenders or big glasses like some of them were. And his jeans weren’t rolled at the cuffs. Despite all the extra hipster shit, he still fit in more than Gigi did.

  But these guys seemed like a good bunch. He hadn’t had a chance to talk to them much until dinner—the hike had been mostly him, John, and Alan’s dad swapping hockey and work stories—but they were chatty and full of jokes. He didn’t know if one of the Rosenbergs had mentioned him and Gigi sounding off, but they seemed pretty okay about talking with both of them individually.

  Not that he’d have expected them to do anything else. Because this was the twenty-first century, and Canada, and if these guys were aware of any problems, they were too polite to draw public attention to them.

  Besides, they were clearly more focused on Alan’s upcoming nuptials and giving shit to Keith.

  Keith finally broke, and smacked the table with one hand. “Guys, can’t we just let it go? It’s a bunch of fucked-up coordinates, not the end of the goddamn world.”

  A chorus of insults raged back:

  “Tell that to my blisters, man.”

  “You’re such a fucking douche bag, Keith.”

  “Two hours, dude! Two! My Converse are ruined.”

  “Suck my dick, Keith.”

  Brock couldn’t help glancing at Gigi, who was taking everything in with a small smile.

  The best man, Julian, gestured for silence. “Everyone, shut up. Keith, you’re buying the next round.” Keith groaned as the guys around him cheered and patted his back. “But first! A toast and an ode to our brother-in-arms, Alan Wong!”

  First Julian, then Alan launched into speeches about their friendships and love and marriage, then everyone started sharing anecdotes about Alan’s apparently reluctant transition into adulthood. Brock’s attention wandered during the speeches, and he glanced around the bar. It was mostly as he remembered it: dark wood and metal furnishings, plenty of tap beer and decent whiskey, pool tables on one side, darts on the other, and board games piled on a shelf. They were one of several groups in here, but he didn’t recognize anyone else.

  Brock had visited Warner’s a lot with friends in his last year in town, when he was only a year underage and could persuade the bartenders to sneak him some beer. So his pulse jumped when he recognized one of the bartenders there tonight—Val, the one who’d always been cool with not checking ID when he’d bought beer. She spotted him and waved. Julian was finishing a story about Alan’s last day of work at the Toronto firm where they’d met, so Brock ducked away and approached the bar.

  Val was fortysomething now, still tattooed and chill. Without batting an eye, she said, “Hey there, stranger. ID.”

  He managed to crack a smile. “Seriously, Val?”

  “Nah.” She leaned against the bar. “Brock Stubbs. Look at you, all grown up.” She gestured at his face. “And getting into accidents. Least, I hope it was an accident.”

  “Let’s say it was.”

  She grinned. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you back here again. You in town for long?”

  “Nope. Just for the wedding.” Maybe. He still hadn’t decided if he wanted to take off tomorrow.

  She looked behind him. “Oh, the Rosenberg wedding? Nice. Didn’t know you were close to them.”

  Behind him, Gigi had started telling the story of Alan meeting his family for the first time. Alan was trying to stop him, but was restrained by Keith and Julian. Gigi was the centre of attention as he reenacted Alan stammering a poorly phrased compliment to Naomi.

  Brock shrugged. “Things happen. How have you been?”

  “Good, good.” She gestured at the bar. “I’m managing this place now.”

  “Congrats. That’s awesome.”

  She smiled. “It has its perks. So what can I get you?”

  “And I was like, ‘Oh honey, I know my sister is all in love with you or whatever, but that is my mother you’re talking to,’” Gigi said, to a round of groans. From the sounds of it, his camp was at Friday-night-in-the-Village levels.

  Shit. Brock hated it when Gigi amped it up in places like this. Not that he’d ever say anything, because there was nothing wrong with him being like that (and Gigi had totally read him the “it’s not okay to ask anyone to Tone It Down” act way back at the beginning of them dating), but he dreaded to think of the attention he’d get here.

  “Bourbon,” Brock said. “Double. Straight.”

  Val raised her eyebrows, then turned away to pour the drink. Someone banged into him from behind, and he twisted to find Julian there. “Man,” he said happily, “your boyfriend’s a total legend.”

  “Good to know,” Brock said. “Buy you a drink?”

  Julian held up his hands. “Whhhoooaaa, sorry, don’t swing that way!”

  Brock had jumped and started stammering out a response when Julian grinned and clapped his shoulder. “Just messing with you. And shut up with the buying talk, it’s Keith’s round.” He turned and yelled at Keith, who rolled his eyes and reached for his wallet.

  Val placed the whiskey in front of Brock. “Anything else?”

  Brock smiled at her. “I think these guys are going to ask for a big order.”

  “And I’m paying,” Keith grumbled, appearing next to him. “I’ll have a Lug-Tread and everyone else is getting pitchers of your cheapest beer.”

  Val nodded and began grabbing empty pitchers.

  Julian
slung one arm over Keith’s shoulder. “Man, you hate us right now if you’re buying us Molson.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “Oh my God, sweetie,” Brock heard Gigi say, “do I look like someone who follows hockey? Or any sport?”

  He sank the whiskey and promised himself he wasn’t going to talk to him. Nope. Not at all. Easier. Safer.

  It worked for a while. Many pitchers, shots, stories, and games later, Brock had retreated to the pool table with Ed, Keith, and Alan’s cousin Luc. Alan had lost a drinking game and was wearing antlers while losing another drinking game. Gigi was playing pool against one of Alan’s friends on the table next to Brock’s, and Brock was desperately trying to ignore him.

  It was hard though. Every move he made seemed to emphasize just how close-fitting his ridiculous shirt was, or how his jeans stretched over his ass when he bent over to take a shot, or that he was more LaMore than Rosenberg tonight. Brock wasn’t sure if he was doing it intentionally or not.

  Either way, Brock really wanted to fuck him. It was confusing because Brock was sure they were supposed to be angry at each other right now. When had that changed? Had it changed? Could he be this furious with someone and still want to fuck him?

  Maybe it would be better to just not think too much about it and dodge Gigi when they rounded their tables at the same time. Focus on his game, which he and Ed were winning.

  Finally, something he was good at.

  Brock was in the middle of discussing the upcoming hockey season with Luc, so he didn’t notice the man until Luc got distracted and didn’t answer him. He felt rather than saw the guys around him go still, and he turned around.

  Standing before the pool tables was Josh Rogers.

  Older, heavier, more bald, but undeniably him.

  And he was staring straight at Gigi.

  Gigi stood under the pool table lights, cue caught in his fingertips, hip jutting out defensively, and eyes glittering dangerously. He stared straight back at Josh with chin uplifted.

  Magnificent.

  Then Brock’s thoughts scattered as Josh stepped forward aggressively.

  “I’ll be damned,” Josh said. “Look who it is. I just walk in here, and it’s like nowhere’s safe for normal people anymore.”

  “What a surprise to find you still here,” Gigi said in a tone that implied it was no surprise at all.

  “I didn’t recognize you without your man boobs, Rosenberg.”

  Gigi arched an eyebrow. “And I didn’t recognize you without your hair.”

  Keith took three steps and threw an arm over Gigi’s shoulders. “Hey, homeboy. Hey. This shit-stain giving you grief?”

  “Nope.” Gigi smiled evilly. “Not anymore.”

  “Who’re you? His boyfriend?” Josh asked.

  “Nah, man.” Keith took a swig from his microbrew. “Just his buddy wondering what the problem is.”

  “My problem is that I didn’t realize this was suddenly a fag bar.”

  Same old Josh. For fuck’s sake. How had Brock pretended to be friends with this guy for so long? Sure, after high school Brock had dropped him like he’d dropped everyone else in Maney, but before that, he’d counted Josh as one of his friends. They’d fumbled through homework together, drunk together, and played soccer and hockey together. Brock had always cringed when Josh had gone after Gigi—cringed, then thanked anyone who was listening that Josh didn’t know he was gay.

  That ended now. Even though another showdown with a homophobe wasn’t exactly how Brock had hoped this day would progress. It was great that he’d drunk enough to not feel scared, just pissed off. After all, if he was going to go out with a bang, he might as well include his old friend in the collateral. And if Brock survived this one too, he was going to order three fingers of the most expensive bourbon on the shelf, sleep it off, then drive home first thing in the morning, regrets about Gigi be damned.

  “I wouldn’t say two gays make it a gay bar,” Brock said.

  Josh looked over at him, and his eyes went wide. “Brock? Brock Stubbs? The fuck, man?” A pause. “What happened to your face?”

  Brock put down his cue and stepped forward so he was standing slightly in front of Gigi.

  “Oh damn,” Ed gasped. “You’re in for it now, shit-stain. You’re, like, round two today for this guy.”

  “Shut up,” Josh snapped. His eyes stayed on Brock’s, and his expression was a strange mix of confusion and shock. “The fuck is this? You don’t call, you don’t write, then you show up in town with this faggot?” He gestured at Gigi, then frowned as the penny dropped. “Seriously? You two? What the fuck?”

  “Yeah. Seriously. Us two.”

  “So, uh, who is this asshat?” Ed asked behind Brock.

  “He used to go to high school with us,” Gigi replied.

  “Wasn’t that like ten years ago?”

  “Almost.”

  “What the hell do you want?” Brock asked.

  Josh’s fists clenched, and his eyes flickered beyond Brock, at Keith, Ed, and Luc. When his gaze returned to Brock, Josh’s jaw tightened. “Outside, Stubbs.”

  “Brock.” Gigi’s voice held a warning in it.

  He’d already dealt with worse that day. Brock nodded, and both he and Josh made for the front door. He heard people following and hoped there wouldn’t be too big of a crowd. Having one did make this seem less scary. Even so, Brock still had a twinge of fear when Josh spun to face him in the parking lot.

  “So you’re a fucking fag now?” Josh spat. “Or are you just fucking one?”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  Josh sneered at him. “I guess that’s right, seeing as we haven’t spoken since you left.”

  Josh looked furious but still slightly confused. Brock remembered that expression from when they were kids—Josh had always been the kind of guy who lashed out instead of asking questions whenever he didn’t understand something. Always aggressive and forward, but not very forward-thinking.

  Come to think of it, that was sort of familiar.

  “Guess I figured you wouldn’t want to be friends once I came out,” Brock said.

  “No shit, Stubbs.” Josh crowded him, getting in his face. Boozy breath hit Brock’s nostrils. “So you better not be lying to me right now.”

  “I’m gay. I always have been. I never told you because you and your brother were fucking assholes to Gi—Toby, and I didn’t need that shit too.”

  Josh reared back, something like guilt crossing his face. “That right?” He retreated a few steps, then narrowed his eyes. “So that time in school . . .?”

  “That was me. All me.”

  Josh shook his head. “Jesus effing Christ. Are you shitting me? I stood up for you. I can’t believe that.” He pointed a thick finger at Brock. “You lying piece of shit. You’re worse than Rosenberg, you know that? At least he was always honest about being a goddamn queer. Fuck, I feel sick just looking at you.”

  Brock’s stomach sank. God. When was today allowed to be over? “Then don’t look. What’s it matter anyway? I don’t live here anymore.”

  “It matters because you’re a traitorous piece of shit.” Josh was shouting now, face red and spittle flying. “You think you can come back here with fucking Rosenberg, drink in my bar, and be all faggoty in public? Now? Here?” He flung his hands at the bar, where Brock could clearly see people watching through the windows at them. “It’s disgusting. I don’t wanna see that. Nobody here wants to see that.”

  “Tough.” Brock kept an eye on Josh’s fists. Even though the guy had always been less inclined than his brother to actually hit people, he could still be hard to take down if he was pushed far enough. “Like I said, you don’t have to look. And this is our town too. We might not live here anymore, but we came from here, and we will come back if we want to.”

  “Not if I have something to say about it.”

  God. He was so sick of this. So sick of angry, hotheaded, self-righteous piss-heads like this yelling bullshit at h
im. Rage seared through him, white-hot and uncontrollable, and before he knew it, he was roaring. “What’re you gonna do, huh?” Brock was aware he was advancing on Josh, but he didn’t care. “You gonna call the police? ‘Help, there are some fags in my bar and I don’t like it’? You fucking child. You ignorant redneck piece of shit. Grow a pair and find something important to shout about. Fucking get out of here before I actually give you a reason to call for help.”

  Josh actually took two steps back, his face paling. “Look—”

  “No! Fuck off! Just fuck off and leave us alone! Who the hell asked you for your opinion anyway?” Brock got in his face, itching, fucking itching to tear Josh’s hick head from his hick shoulders. “Give me a reason,” he snarled.

  Josh’s eyes were wide. “Nah. We’re good. I’m going. I’m going.” Josh had his hands up, was backing away. “See?”

  Not good enough. Not quick enough. Brock was ready to pound that pasty, clueless face and recessive hairline into the goddamn pavement. Everything in him was ready—his legs, arms, hands, fingers burned to do it. Not just hit him and smash his head into the sidewalk, but make him bleed, tear him apart, shred muscle from bone. He reached forward—but there was something heavy holding his arm. He tried to shake it off, but it wouldn’t go away. He couldn’t go anywhere.

  But it was okay. Josh kept walking.

  “You better fucking leave!” Brock yelled. “Get out of here!”

  Josh backed up to his car, got in, and drove away, flipping Brock off through the car window.

  Brock was about ready to run after him, car or not, when the person gripping his arm tugged at it.

  Oh, they were talking to him too.

  He turned to see Gigi standing there, both hands on his arm, face stricken. “Gi?”

  Gigi exhaled in relief. “Oh thank sweet baby Jesus, you’re okay.”

  Brock jerked his arm away from Gigi. “Of course I’m fucking okay.”

  “Breathe, babe.”

  “I’m breathing!”

  Gigi’s eyes shone. “That was crazy. I have never seen you like that. I want to fuck you so bad right now.”

  Adrenaline was still pounding through Brock, making him twitch with unexpended energy. Sex sounded amazing. The idea of sweeping Gigi up against the wall of the bar and wrecking him had him hard. And Gi was up for it, if the dark smile on his face was any indicator.