Gay Fiction, Volume 1

by Mel Bossa

  “Sour Kitten?” I asked.

  “Thank God, no. I managed to convince my daughter otherwise.”

  “What’s our new name?” Diego asked.

  Nina took a breath. I swore I caught a glimpse of money symbols dancing in her eyes. Obviously, the new name was her idea. Part of some big business plan she was brewing. “The Jetsetters,” she said, as if it were holy.

  I repeated the band’s new name in my mind. I had to agree. It was catchy and much better than Broken Corners.

  I was in love with the guitarist of the Jetsetters.

  With Nina behind the wheel, she’d drive them straight to stardom. A tour in Europe. A new record deal. A hit single.

  It was only a matter of time before everyone knew who Diego, Halo, Athena, and Mary Jane were.

  “I like it,” Diego decided. “By the way, I wrote a new song. I think it’s really good.”

  Nina was ready to leave. Her hand was on the door knob. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she said. “You can sing it to me on the plane.”

  She stopped for a second. She looked back at me. “I guess this won’t be the last I’ll see of you, then?”

  I straightened my posture. “No,” I answered. “I guess not.”

  She opened the door. She stepped out into the dimly lit interior hallway. “Then don’t fuck this up,” she said. “Either one of you. I’ll leave a ticket for you at the American Airlines counter at O’Hare.”

  “I’ll make sure Diego is at the airport on time,” I promised.

  “Good,” she said, walking away from us and heading to the rickety, old elevator at the end of the hallway. “I’m glad we understand each other.”

  I closed the door. I stood motionless for a moment, waiting for Nina’s intense energy to dissipate.

  Hollowness had invaded my body and I ached from it.

  Diego would be gone within hours.

  “Hey,” he said from behind me. I turned around. Our eyes met from across the room. He was holding the handle of his guitar case. He ran his other hand through his dark hair. His magenta and blue-streaked bangs slipped down again, into his eyes. “I want to take you to Pilsen.”

  I nodded. “Okay.”

  He shifted in his combat boots, nervous and anxious.

  “I want to take you home with me.”

  Chapter Twelve

  I was breathless and hot by the time we reached the third floor of the apartment building. The narrow wooden staircase didn’t look like a tough climb from the ground floor. But once we’d started our ascent, I quickly realized there was next to no air circulating inside the old building.

  There was only the overwhelming stench of mildew.

  Each step creaked and groaned beneath our feet. I followed Diego, amazed he could take two steps at a time.

  By the time we were standing in front of the door marked 3A, I was almost panting. My skin felt like it was on fire beneath my pea coat, scarf, hooded sweatshirt, and jeans. Why had I worn so many clothes, so many layers?

  “I don’t suppose your mother has an indoor swimming pool,” I joked, with a sweaty grin.

  Diego gave me a strange look and said, “No such luck,” in response.

  He reached out a fist and tapped his knuckles against the cracked wood.

  I heard a television muted, killing the Spanish dialogue. Then footsteps approached the opposite side of the door. They were slow, padded, tired.

  A few locks had to be turned before the door clicked and was finally pulled open—just an inch or two. A pair of dark, heavy eyes peered out at us.

  “Dios mío,” were the first words I heard Diego’s mother say.

  “Mom,” he said, “Open the door. It’s me. I brought someone with me I want you to meet.”

  At first glance of her son, she dissolved into a puddle of sobs. She flung the door open, threw open both of her arms, and exclaimed, “M’ijo!”

  Diego beamed in the bright light of his mother’s love. He slid into her arms, kissed her cheek, and held her. Emotion crept up inside me and I thought I was going to cry.

  Diego’s mother was a short, round, and pudgy woman. Her dark auburn hair was graying at the temples and pinned up in a half attempt at a bun. She was wearing a polyester floral printed housedress and faded yellow slippers. Beneath the exhaustion weighing her down, I could see a faint reminder of the beautiful, vibrant woman she had once been. I sensed her sorrow. I could feel it in the air around her. It was a heavy, invisible pillar of heartache she carried across her back, making her every movement difficult.

  She couldn’t escape it.

  Finally, she released her son and looked me in the eye. “Hello,” she breathed, taking me in, summing me up, and knowing in an instant everything about me. “You’re wit’ my son, yes?” Her English was broken, but this made her more endearing to me.

  I nodded. “Yes, I am.”

  “Mom,” Diego said, “this is Justin.”

  She ushered us into the cramped apartment, reaching for us and touching our sleeves. Once we were inside, she bolted three locks on the door. We were standing in the middle of her cluttered living room, surrounded by Catholic artifacts, framed photographs of Diego at different ages, and more knitted afghans than I’d ever seen in my life.

  I wondered how many hours of the day she spent stuck inside the cocoon, missing her faraway son and her dead husband.

  Diego sank into the low, worn sofa. I sat next to him.

  “You look hungry,” his mother said. “You don’t eat in Los Angeles?”

  “Mom, I’m not hungry.”

  She shook her head. “I’ll fix you a plate of food.”

  “Mom, I wanted you to meet Justin. He’s…very important to me, and I—”

  She gave me another glance over. Her eyes rested on my Converse shoes. “He looks very hungry, too,” she determined.

  I stood up. I offered her my hand, but she didn’t shake it. “Mrs. Delgado, it’s very nice to meet you.”

  Her hand moved to the beautiful gold crucifix she wore around her neck. She touched it gently. I wondered if she was praying for me. “You may call me Dolores,” she said, with a warm smile. “I’m very happy you brought my son home to me.”

  “He wanted to come and see you—” I started to say, but Diego stood up next to me.

  “We can’t stay long,” he said. At once, her smile dimmed. It was as if someone had unplugged the light inside her soul. “I have to catch a plane in a couple of hours.”

  “Back to Los Angeles?” she asked, lowering her tear-filled eyes. “So soon?”

  If she starts crying, it’s over for me. I’ll start bawling like a baby myself. How could Diego stay away from her for so long? She’s so lonely. And sad.

  “No, Ma,” he said, “I’m going to Europe.”

  She turned to me. “You’re taking my Diego to Europe?” she said. “Why?”

  I shook my head. “No. It’s not me. I’m not going.”

  “Justin lives here…in Chicago.”

  Her smile returned, but it was faint and not as happy. “Good,” she said. “Then he can visit me when you go.”

  She moved away from us and into a tiny kitchenette, barely big enough to contain a refrigerator, a stove, and a sink. She moved around the sliver of space with expertise.

  “She won’t let us leave without eating,” Diego explained in my ear. “It’s just her way.”

  That’s perfectly fine with me, because whatever she’s making smells amazing.

  “She’s so sweet, Diego,” I said.

  He nodded, watching her. “Yes,” he agreed. “She is.”

  Minutes later, we were handed plates of warm tortillas, Spanish rice, and pinto beans. I inhaled the intoxicating blend of aromas. The combination of smells invoked a sense of comfort and love.

  I wondered if I would’ve brought Diego home to my parents’ farm in Georgia, would my mother have snuck off to the kitchen only to return with plates of fried chicken and grits, a pitcher of sweet tea, and slices of sweet p
otato pie? No, she would’ve insisted we go out to eat at the local Golden Corral with some explanation like “I’m just not wantin’ to clean up a big ol’ mess today, darlin’.”

  Truth be told, the goats ate better than my father and I ever had. Same went for the chicken, cows, horses, and pigs.

  “Do you like?” Dolores asked me. She was sitting across the coffee table from us in an overstuffed recliner. The television was on but the sound was still turned down. On the screen, a Mexican woman was crying in what looked to be a scene from a Spanish soap opera.

  “It’s delicious,” I said.

  “You come here whenever you’re hungry,” she told me. She followed my eyes to the television. She smiled “You like the novelas? I watch them all night long.”

  Then Diego did it. He dropped the bomb. “Mom,” he said, “Justin is my boyfriend.”

  She blinked a few times. “What, m’ijo?”

  Dear God, he’s coming out to his dear, sweet mother right in front of me. Where’s the door? Can I take the food with me? To go?

  “My boyfriend,” Diego repeated. “Mi novio.”

  Are you trying to kill her? Is that why we’re here?

  “Diego,” I cautioned. “Maybe you should—”

  Dolores leaned back in the recliner and locked her eyes on me. “You are in love with my son, yes?” she asked.

  I met her stare. We spoke silently for a few seconds, but I have no idea what we were saying to each other. “Yes,” I answered. “Very much.”

  She stood up and approached me. I looked up, hoping she wouldn’t hit me or cuss me out in Spanish. Instead, she took my empty plate and placed a warm, rough palm against my cheek. “Then I will get you more food,” she said. “And for me…the bottle of tequila.”

  *

  We were sitting on the edge of Diego’s childhood bed, facing the only window in the narrow room. Outside, the city was cloudy and gray and on the edge of a snowfall. Inside, the stuffy air was thick with nostalgia.

  I traced my finger over a few squares of the quilt beneath us. I knew his mother had made it for him without having to ask.

  “It’s strange being in here,” Diego said to me. “I feel like…I’m sitting in the middle of my past. My mother left my bedroom exactly the same. It’s like I never left.”

  I glanced around the room. Books of poetry—mostly Pablo Neruda—sat in a pile on a makeshift desk in the corner, a poster of Jimi Hendrix was tacked to the wall, a Chicago Bulls jersey hung from one of the wooden bedposts, and a pile of neatly folded clothes filled a laundry basket near our feet. On the nightstand were a clock radio, a Fender guitar pick, and a bizarre lamp with a cartoon cowboy for the base.

  “Why did you leave?” I asked. “I can tell you and your mother love each other a lot.”

  “Because I’m not my father and I never will be,” he said. “I look a lot like my dad.”

  “Yeah, I saw all of the pictures in the living room. I noticed…the similar features.”

  “As hard as I tried, I could never be him,” Diego explained. “That’s all she’s ever wanted. For my dad to come home. Even though we both know…”

  Diego’s soft eyes were focused on the view the window offered of the street below us. I wondered how many times he’d sat in this exact spot when he was growing up. How many songs did he write looking out this window? How many plans did he make?

  “But it’s been so many years,” I said. “And she still won’t let go?”

  “She never will,” he said. “He was the love of her life.”

  With those words, Diego turned to me and placed a sweet kiss on my lips. “You’re the only person I’ve ever brought here,” he said. “I was always ashamed of where I come from. It’s not very…rock ’n’ roll.”

  I touched his face. “This is your truth.”

  He shook his head. “No,” he said. “You are my truth. This here—this is who I used to be. But in you…I see who I want to become.”

  I felt tears sting the corners of my eyes. “You can’t say stuff like that to me and then run away to Europe for twelve days, Diego,” I said, fighting back my emotions. The tears won the battle.

  “But you know I’ll be back, Justin. And while I’m gone, I’ll probably write a thousand songs about you.”

  I nodded. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “I know you have to go.” I glanced at the clock, the time. “And you need to go soon, actually.”

  “Let’s make a promise to each other,” he said, taking my hand in his. “After this tour, when I come back—I don’t ever want us to be apart again.”

  “Okay,” I agreed. “I can live with that.”

  He slid his arms around me and hugged me. I buried my face against the warmth of his neck. I inhaled deeply, calmed by the sweet smell of his skin. “Do you know how hard it is for me to leave?”

  “Yes,” I choked.

  He reached for the chain of dog tags around my neck. “I still want you to keep these for me…until I come home to you.”

  “I won’t take them off,” I vowed.

  Diego stared at me for what seemed like an eternity. His eyes moved across me, every inch of me, slowly. It felt like he was memorizing me.

  “I always knew I would meet you,” he said. “I just never knew when it was going to happen. But now that I’ve found you…”

  I offered him a smile. “Is this what forever feels like?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “This is what it feels like to be in love.”

  *

  An hour later, we were standing face-to-face near a ticket counter at O’Hare Airport.

  We hugged good-bye, holding on to each other in the middle of a sea of suitcase-toting strangers. Nothing else mattered to us except each other. The world was an afterthought, just a backdrop for this crucial scene in our lives.

  I closed my eyes, not wanting to forget the feel of Diego’s body close to mine.

  “It’s only twelve days,” he said, trying to reassure us both. “It’ll go by fast. You’ll see.”

  “I’ll stay busy,” I said. “I’ll probably work an extra shift or two. Hang out with Starsky. Get caught up on homework. Prepare for my interview. Anything to keep me from missing you.”

  He locked eyes with me. “I already miss you, Justin. And I won’t stop. Not until—”

  I hugged him again, afraid to let go. “You’re the most incredible person I’ve ever met,” I whispered into his ear. “I’ve fallen madly in love with you, Diego Delgado. You’re the most beautiful man in the world. I don’t care what we have to go through to be together, I’m yours.”

  I pulled away from him. The tears in his eyes surprised me. I touched his cheek and wiped them away with my trembling fingers. He reached up for my hand and covered it with his, squeezing gently.

  “I’ve never felt like this about anyone before,” he said. “And I know I never will again.”

  He kissed my cheek.

  He stepped back.

  We spoke silently with our eyes for a few seconds.

  And Diego started to move. I kept my feet planted. The distance between us started to grow. I fought the urge to run after him, beg him to stay, convince him to become a music teacher instead of a rock star.

  Instead, I stood in the airport and I cried.

  As I watched the love of my life walk away, I already wanted him to come back.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Before I met Diego, I never realized how lonely I was, how truly mundane and predictable my life had become. I’d spent the last three years living by rote, repeating the same constant routine until it became second nature. Go to school. Go to work. Come home to my apartment. Eat dinner. Do some homework. Take a shower. Get some sleep.

  My life was as simple as the instructions on the back of a shampoo bottle.

  When I got home that night after saying good-bye to Diego at the airport, the apartment was resonating with reminders of how alone in the world I was. The only person to whom I mattered was Starsk
y, and even she’d been preoccupied lately with problems in her long-distance relationship.

  As I stood frozen in the doorway of my apartment, peering inside with my key still in hand, I was filled with dread. For the last three days, my world had been constantly filled with a never-ending supply of hot sex and mad love. Diego had gifted me with an incredible amount of affection and attention—and now, it was gone.

  I knew I was going to miss him, but already, and this much?

  What in the hell is wrong with me? I’m lovesick and stupid.

  I shut the door behind me and locked it. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and silently tried to prepare myself for the twelve days ahead.

  *

  Just as I’d feared, everything reminded me of Diego.

  I could smell him—on the pillow where he’d rested his head, the bath towel he’d worn around his hips, my skin, my clothes, in the air.

  As I lay on the futon, staring up at the cracked, water-stained ceiling of my apartment and aching for Diego, I worried I’d become obsessed with my guitar-playing Latin lover. Somehow, I’d allowed him to take over my every thought.

  I reminded myself that even though my life before him was dullsville and suck-worthy, I’d come to Chicago three years ago with a purpose: to create a solid future for myself. I’d saved a lot of money while working at Clouds—mostly bits of change and crumpled bills from the tip jar, but it had added up over time. I only had one year left of college. I was up for an internship at an awesome advertising agency.

  I did my best to convince myself I was independent. Diego was lucky to have me. I was a catch. I could get by just fine on my own.

  But the truth was, I was completely miserable without him.

  I rolled over, buried my face in his pillow, breathed deep, and begged for sleep to come.

  *

  “It will be over before you know it,” Starsky reassured me a few days later. We were sitting at a café table beneath a ceiling fan. Clouds felt like a deserted ghost town. We hadn’t had a customer in almost an hour. Starsky blamed it on the new brand-name coffee shop that opened down the street a week ago. I was more optimistic. I blamed it on the fresh blanket of snow coating the sidewalk.