Growing Pains

by Cass Lennox

  “Brock Stubbs. You motherfucking stud.”

  They turned to see Marjorie Pine standing in the parking lot, staring at them. Brock then noticed the bachelor party clapping and whooping at him in the front door of the bar. The reality of what he’d just done hit him like a ton of bricks. He’d almost gotten in a fight.

  Another one.

  And he’d wanted to. He’d wanted to literally tear the guy’s face off and had felt so able to, it was scary.

  Is this what his dad felt like?

  Oh God, he was going to fall down.

  Marjorie pulled out her phone. “Aditya is going to flip when he hears this.”

  “Marjorie?” Gigi gasped. “Is that you?”

  She looked at him, then did a double take. “Toby? Oh my God!”

  “Girl, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “Brock invited me!”

  Brock turned away and stumbled back to the bar. He needed to sit down, and the guys seemed only too happy to lead him to their table and present him with more beer and water than he could ever need. Val even came over and plunked another straight bourbon in front of him.

  He didn’t want alcohol. He didn’t want anything. All that was left of the rush of feelings was a sad hollowness. What the hell had happened there? It was like some switch had been flipped in his head, and he’d been roaring like . . .

  Like his dad.

  He clenched his fists. He was nothing like his dad. He wasn’t.

  Oh God, his fists trembled on the tabletop. He unclenched them. His hands kept shaking. Fuck.

  “Man, you were, like, the fucking man,” Alan was saying to him.

  Brock shook his head. “No.”

  “Yeah, you totally were, man. Totally. Like, whoa. Just yelled at him and he ran away like a little bitch.” Alan clapped his shoulder. “Dude. Dude. Way to go.”

  “So that guy was the brother of the dude who broke Toby’s arm in high school?” Ed asked him.

  Brock looked up at Ed. He was so serious Brock barely recognized him. Brock nodded.

  Ed clapped his hands. “Okay. So, you’re officially The Dude, and that guy has a date with my fist the next time I see him.”

  “Awesome. I need to go home.”

  Immediately, hands pressed on his shoulders and voices told him not to, that he had to stay, that he needed more to drink, and people put the whiskey into his hand. His still-shaky hand.

  “There you are.” He turned. Marjorie and Gigi stood beside the table. She beamed at him. “How about that catch-up drink?”

  Brock couldn’t handle this right now. He needed space. Air. Quiet.

  “Excuse me a sec,” he said, standing. He walked outside, glass in hand, went to the edge of the parking lot, and sat down on the raised curb of a parking bay. The night expanded around him, dark and a little too cool. The air carried a particular crisp smell of dead leaves and smoky wood and cold earth, bringing the past back in a rush. He shivered without his coat and sipped the whiskey in his hand.

  Was he really as bad as his dad? He didn’t think so. After all, he hadn’t actually hit the guy. He’d been ready to, but he hadn’t. Gigi had kept him from going totally apeshit and running after Josh when he’d flipped Brock off.

  God, Josh Rogers. That asshole. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had something like that coming—he and his brother deserved all kinds of karmic retribution for the shit they’d pulled—but that exchange wasn’t sitting right.

  So much rage. That was . . . Had that really been Brock? He’d been angry before, but never to the point of actual willingness to hurt someone else. And it wasn’t like that was the first time he’d had homophobic remarks thrown at him, so he knew he could react better than that. With less anger, less violence.

  Okay, maybe he wasn’t so much like his dad. His dad wouldn’t be sitting here thinking like this, right? Brock didn’t think he did that. Who fucking knew.

  Besides, there had been other times, hadn’t there? Travel had seen some dodgy moments, like with pickpockets and shitty parts of town. He’d once run away from guys attempting to rob him, and he had squared up to unreasonable drunks in bars. Those had been moments where he’d felt the same rush of heat and adrenaline, the same itch to do something.

  But not quite so furious. Most of those times, he’d been scared. Here he hadn’t been. So today was different.

  It had to be this place. This place, his parents, all this stupid messy shit with Gigi . . . all of it was getting to him. He needed to leave. Not now—too drunk and tired and pissed off—but in the morning. He needed home, in Toronto, where his friends didn’t know him as a closeted liar and son of an abusive whacko, and where this dark, fucked-up anger never surfaced. Where no one judged him anywhere near as much as he seemed to be judged here.

  And once he was back there, he was going to get some professional fucking help with this shit, because he never wanted to find himself here again.

  He sat for some time, slowly sipping the whiskey and breathing in the night air. A few people came to the bar, a few left, but no one approached him. After a while, he felt like he could maybe go in and be sociable for a little longer, if he hadn’t made people feel awkward or weird. He hoped not. He hoped the guys were so smashed by now that they’d brush over it, and that Gigi wouldn’t try to talk to him.

  Brock was kind of done with today. He was done being nice. He was done being okay. He was just done.

  Last summer

  Gigi counted in his head as Mark’s feet flew through the first of his solos. The jock was nailing it for the first time, finally. Mark executed three spins, tapping his foot on the beat with each spin, then finished with his arms spread wide. Gigi grinned and clapped.

  “Fuck yeah!” Mark punched the air in victory, then came over for a double high five. Gigi indulged him for once and returned the high five. “Watch me own this shit!”

  “Now do it again,” Gigi said.

  Mark’s grin went flat. “Whaaat?”

  So easy. Teasing Mark was turning into the highlight of Gigi’s week. Practice number four and the hetebro was finally getting the routine down. He no longer squirmed whenever Gigi partnered him, and he actually seemed to enjoy being dipped. He sometimes even went quiet with concentration. Gigi had to admit it: he was impressed.

  Granted, the least Mark could do was fucking concentrate after Gigi completely redid the choreography to be less Beyoncé-in-heels and more twenty-first-century vaudeville channelling a hefty dose of Rat Pack suaveness. This routine was so not what Gigi had imagined when he’d signed up for this competition, but it was turning out to be a lot of fun.

  “Nah,” Gigi said. “Take five.”

  Mark’s beam returned in full force. “Sweet.” He immediately sunk half his water bottle and dug into his bag for his phone.

  Katie and Brock were due to film this session any moment now, which was super inconvenient because Gigi wasn’t talking to Brock. It took a lot of energy and creativity to ignore someone in the same room, and it was proving really difficult, because if Gigi was being honest, he kind of wanted nothing more than to talk to him. And be touched by him. A lot. Especially on his dick.

  But that was off the table now because Gi was a total freaking head case. Goddamn it.

  Gigi spun a few times to let off excess energy, then went to his own bag for his water bottle. In between gulps, he stared at himself in the mirror, then struck a pose. Lean, muscular, strong, and fucking fabulous. The awkward, eager, shy little hometown Toby had died a natural death after a year of intimate acquaintance with the Toronto gay scene, and in his place had risen a sharp, talented, fucking gorgeous queen. He liked fucking and being fucked and dancing on stage, sometimes in heels and silk, and singing to an audience with good taste. Bears ate him for breakfast, and he loved it. He hadn’t had a candy bar in six years. This was his life now. There was absolutely no glimmer of that hot mess of a teenager lingering on him.

  At least, he thought there wasn’t. Brock was making
a serious mess of his insides right now and it was making him . . . feel things he hadn’t felt since being a teen. Brock Stubbs, who was no longer in the closet. Brock Stubbs, who lugged cameras around with those sinful arms, whose mouth had learned some tricks since high school, and who took him out to dinner in public. Brock Stubbs, who was still hot and still interested and still made Gigi’s stomach whirl like a butter churn.

  The blowjob. It was all that blowjob’s fault. Well, that and Brock fucking Stubbs being so delicious. Gigi couldn’t believe how good the other evening had been.

  It had started, of all places, with Brock on his knees on the sidewalk outside QS Dance. Gigi had been saying something about how he wasn’t convinced Brock was on the level because of their history, when Brock had just dropped in front of him.

  “I am one hundred percent gay,” he’d yelled, keeping his eyes firmly on Gigi. “Gay as a rainbow. Gay as a handbag full of rainbows. Gay as a man bag covered in unicorns and full of rainbows and glitter. I am gay and I always have been and I always will be.”

  Oh.

  Dear.

  God.

  “D’you think he lost a bet?” someone’d muttered as they walked around them.

  “And I,” Brock had continued, “have had a crush on you since grade ten.”

  Gigi’s traitorous chest had swelled. So had his dick. Hail God and all the gay angels, not only was Brock very obviously out now, but he’d developed game.

  “I fucked up bad because I was fucked up,” Brock had added. “I’m asking you for a second chance—for friendship, for whatever you’re willing to give me. I’m begging you.”

  Gigi’s hand flew up to cover his eyes, and he had to remember to breathe. He loved it when they begged. He loved it that Brock was doing this for him.

  A queen knew when to surrender.

  So he cleared his throat, which had gotten all closed and lumpy for some reason, and told him to get up. Once he did, Gigi said, “Dinner.”

  The Huh? was clear on Brock’s face, and Gigi allowed himself a small laugh. “You’re buying me dinner,” he explained. Brock opened his mouth to answer, and Gigi held up a hand, because he wasn’t done yet. “This is not a date. This is not forgiveness, or friendship, or a promise of forgiveness or friendship, or anything to do with fucking, or a promise of fucking anything at all. Got it? It’s dinner.”

  “I would love to buy you dinner,” Brock said, a grin threatening to split his face.

  After that crazy public declaration of being out, they had indeed gone to dinner, and talked, like properly talked. Brock had been full of stories from his years of travelling and years at university, talking about faraway places and people with an energy that hadn’t been there in high school.

  The guy had grown into himself, and not just physically. He seemed so much more relaxed and easy with himself. Being out of the closet did that, but Gigi didn’t think it was just his acceptance of his sexuality. Despite that the new openness, Brock was still the guy Gigi remembered. The shy glances, the blushes, the jokes, the innate sweetness. All still there.

  So naturally Gigi had wanted him for dessert. Halfway through dinner, he’d been wondering if he could suck him off under the table without anyone noticing, then kicked himself for even considering it. Then they were walking and Brock was saying thank you for dinner and he’d looked so yummy in his goddamn shirt that before Gigi had known it, he’d pressed the guy into the nearest doorway and kissed him.

  Brock had kissed him back. Hard.

  Hands had groped under clothing. Brock’s lips had moved to Gigi’s neck, stubble rasping. A question and Gigi had said, “Yes, do it, God, yes,” and the next thing he knew, his high school dreams had come to life. Brock’s mouth on him, those brown eyes looking up into his, his fingers entwined in Brock’s curls. Gigi’d felt like he was on fire, like every part of him was falling into that steady gaze, and it was absolutely fucking perfect.

  And when it had been over and Gigi’d been panting, head pressed hard against the brick wall, Brock had kissed him again, tasting of come and beer and himself. Suddenly Gigi had been back behind the blackout curtain, kissing his high school crush like nothing bad had happened and six years had never passed. Toby was back.

  So he’d flipped out, shoved past Brock, and run.

  Worse than giving into lust when he knew he shouldn’t have, worse than cutting and running without an explanation, worse than everything was how Gigi still, days later, felt like he was that seventeen-year-old boy again.

  Even though he really, really wasn’t. Not anymore. He wasn’t.

  It was unreal how aware of the guy Gigi was. After Brock’s declaration of just how much his closet no longer existed, followed by (an amazing) dinner, that (epic) blowjob, and Gigi’s (unbelievably stupid, crass, embarrassing) meltdown and departure, Gigi had been unable to meet the guy’s eyes. Instead, he had upped the waspy camp and ignored him, preferring to focus entirely on Mark. Practically cooing at the poor dude, all Marky Mark and hon and sweet thang, bitching with Katie, swinging himself around the practice room as though he had a horde of horny twinks shadowing him. Occasionally even he thought he was laying it on a bit thick, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

  Of course, this had to happen in the middle of a goddamn competition. Of course, Brock was filming him. Talk about ridiculous coincidences. It was like he was stuck in some fucking bad rom com. The analogy worked because Tyler, Gigi’s best friend who’d been languishing at ease for a year, was also suddenly too busy making eyes at his dance partner, Evie, to be interested in helping Gigi out with this stupid dilemma of past lust brought to fruition.

  “Talk to him.” That had been Tyler’s advice.

  Yeah fucking right.

  Mark was texting furiously, and Gigi wanted to rip his phone off him. The guy spent all his free time on it, mostly texting or calling his girlfriend, Frannie (otherwise known as baby). Gigi was going to have to start a no-phone-during-practice rule. The madness had to stop. The guy wasn’t using his break properly to, like have a break. He was all tense and uptight—

  Gigi frowned. Wait a minute. The jock did look upset.

  Mark tossed his phone into the bag with a heavy sigh. “Gi, dude, can I, like, ask you a personal question?”

  Oooh. That sounded juicy. What possible problems could a handsome hetero jock like Mark have? “I’d be honoured, sugarplum.”

  “So, you’re gay.” When Gigi didn’t immediately respond, Mark gestured. “Right?”

  Gigi indicated his shirt: HERE FOR BEEF.

  “Right. And you’re out to your family?”

  Gigi frowned. “Yeah.” Oh God. He’s gay. He’s going to tell me he’s gay. Or bi. No way. No fu—

  “How did they react?” He was fidgeting with his water bottle. “Were they, like, cool with it?”

  “Hell yes.” He’d officially told his mom, dad, and Sophie over dinner one night when he was twelve. Granted it was old news by then, but he’d still said the words I like boys and there’s this one boy I like and he’s really cute, and none of them had blinked an eyelid. “They were totally fine with it. I’ve crushed on boys since I was a kid.”

  “Hey, man, that’s great.” Mark finally looked up, his face genuinely happy. It clouded over again quickly. “But you know guys who’ve come out and their families weren’t so hot about it, right?”

  “Yup.” It was a common story. Hell, kids were filming the not-so-hot-coming-out scenes and sticking them on YouTube these days. What a time to be alive. “Marky Mark, where’s this coming from?”

  Back to the water bottle. “I know I said in the interview that I’m doing this dance thing because it seemed fun, and Frannie said I should go for it, and because my brother is gay so it’s all like personal and stuff, but there’s this whole, like, layer to that you know? Like, my parents kicked him out when he told them.”

  Gigi’s chest hollowed. Oh hell. “How old is he?”

  “Sixteen.”

  Gigi remem
bered being sixteen. Sixteen was when he’d first noticed Bro— Nope, not going there. It was when he’d first listened to the Rent soundtrack. His whole life had been dance, music, school, avoiding being beaten up at school, and trying to find Tom of Finland pictures online.

  If he’d been kicked out of home at sixteen, he’d have been chewed alive.

  “I’m sorry, Mark.”

  Mark shook his head. “Nah, man, it’s cool. I mean,” he added hastily, “it is what it is, and it fucking sucks, but it’s not your problem. And it’s like under control and stuff. He’s staying with me for now, but the dorm isn’t so down with it, and social workers have been talking to my parents and to him and stuff.”

  “He’s staying with you?”

  Mark stared at him as though Gigi was an idiot. “Uh, yeah? He’s my baby bro. Of course he’s staying with me. If I was done with university and had a job and shit, I’d take him in and get him through school and stuff, but I’m, like, not. Which sucks, you know? I offered to give it up and work and support him, but the social workers said it would be better for my parents to take him back.”

  Gigi cleared his throat, which had been blocked by some nameless emotion he didn’t deign to examine very closely right now. “Child abandonment doesn’t sit well with the government, no.”

  Mark glared at his phone. “No shit. I just got a text from Cal saying my folks are going to take him back and put him through school, but with a whole list of bullshit rules. No friends over after school, no parties, no posters of guys, restricted internet use, no boyfriends. And no support after high school. Man, I am pissed.” He tossed the water bottle down. “Cal’s life is fucked. My parents don’t get it, and they’re going to mess him up, and there’s nothing I can fucking do about it.”

  “He’ll be okay.” Gigi somehow found himself in front of Mark, patting his shoulder. “Getting through school will be tough, for sure. But he won’t be homeless. He won’t have to hustle for food or shelter. That happens to a lot of queer teens.”