If I Told You So

by Timothy Woodward

  Advance Praise for Timothy Woodward and If I Told You So

  “A romantic coming out tale simply told and engrossing. As Sean’s gay identity emerges, Woodward poignantly captures the evolution in his relationships with family, an old girlfriend, a new boyfriend and, most importantly, himself.”

  —Lee Bantle, author of David Inside Out

  “Reading Timothy Woodward’s If I Told You So ought to be a rite of passage for every LGBTQ and straight young adult. It is a potent reminder of just how powerful first love can be—and how irresistible.”

  —James Lecesne, author of Absolute Brightness

  “Woodward writes from the heart—a genuine, honest story about the joys and pains of first love, and realizing that no one is as alone as it sometimes seems.”

  —Robin Reardon, author of A Secret Edge

  “A touching story about navigating the sometimes treacherous waters of first love and first loss.”

  —J. H. Trumble, author of Don’t Let Me Go

  If I Told You so

  Timothy Woodward

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Advance Praise for Timothy Woodward and If I Told You So

  Title Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  A READING GROUP GUIDE

  Copyright Page

  For my mother, who always knew.

  For Lynn Safford, who planned the parties and provided my inspiration. You are missed.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you to the readers of the partial drafts, the early drafts, and the almost but not quite final drafts. Jenny Rainville, Julia Bruce, Stacy LaBella, Amanda Maselli, Jo Anne Frazier, Tiffany Pelletier, Elizabeth Foscue, Meg Costello, Stephen van Ness, and Renée Bouchard, your insight and enthusiasm were invaluable.

  Thank you to my students, so many of whom appear in these pages, especially Drew Doucette and Erica Louise Loughlin. I hope you can see yourself and like what you see.

  I owe a great debt to the faculty at Southern New Hampshire University. Your guidance shaped this story from page one. Thank you to Rick Carey, Gretchen Legler, Kim Ponders, and Bob Begiebing. Thank you also to my three mentors who each suffered through the earliest drafts: Merle Drown, Diane Les Becquets, and especially Katie Towler, who suffered most of all.

  Jade Hale, Susan Kennedy, Mike Hancock, Linda Butler, Robert Perreault, Peggy Newland, Patrick Bernard, Anne Bot-teri, Kevin Sheahan, and Meg Bieniek were also there from day one. You are my writer family. And Lynn Safford, who we all miss, thank you for giving me the ice-cream shop.

  Thank you to Kelly Stone Gamble for celebrating each milestone with me along the way.

  Thank you to Greater Boston PFLAG and Pam Garramone for everything you do for all of the Sean Jacksons in the world. This book could not exist if not for the impact you make every day.

  Thank you to Suzanne Brockmann for introducing me to my incredibly patient agent, Deidre Knight, who never gave up. And a special thank you to my editor, John Scognamiglio, for making things so easy.

  Kristan Watson has waited the longest to see this book happen. Let’s hope the next one doesn’t take so long.

  Finally, thank you to my parents for their unconditional support and love.

  Prologue

  “Where have you been?”

  So much for the stealthy entrance. My plans of sneaking in unnoticed are crushed when my mother turns on the hallway light. She’s standing at the top of the stairs like a sentry, and her eyes bore through me better than any spear she could brandish at my throat.

  “Out.” I try not to sound too insolent.

  “Do you know what time it is?”

  “Late?”

  “Two A.M. late.” She starts down the stairs with her arms folded across her chest. Her eyes never leave mine. “Sean, I like to give you a lot of trust, but you’re making it really difficult.”

  “I’m sorry. I would have called, but there wasn’t a phone where we were.”

  “And who is we?”

  “Jay and Becky.”

  She’s made it to the bottom of the stairs, but she purses her lips and takes a step toward me before responding. “Jay again?”

  I don’t say anything because behind her question is an accusation. I’m not sure what I am being accused of, but her tone says, “I don’t think I like Jay.”

  She grabs my chin, her thumb pressing hard below my lip. I want to turn away, but her grip is strong. She looks at my eyes carefully, examining.

  “Mom,” I say, “we weren’t doing drugs.”

  She keeps looking for several seconds, but finally convinced, she lets go.

  “Should I even ask what you were doing, then?”

  I think back to Jay’s boat, the camp, and the escape in the canoe. I think about Jay pulling me out of the water and holding me to his chest. I close my eyes, afraid my mother might see through them and read my thoughts. I don’t say anything.

  “Sean . . .?” She puts her hands on my shoulders, and before I can resist she pulls me toward her. “Honey, I just love you so much and I worry, you know?”

  I can feel the cool damp of my shirt where she presses it against my back. Don’t notice. Don’t notice.

  “You’re all wet.”

  “Yeah.” I had thought the interrogation was about to end, but this little detail has opened a whole other line of questioning. Think quick. Why am I wet? Certainly, I can’t tell her about Jay and me and the canoe tipping over. But it’s two A.M., and my brain is fogged with thoughts of Jay. I take too long to formulate an answer.

  “Why are you all wet?” She’s noticed that it’s not just my shirt, but my cargo shorts and sneakers, too.

  “Um, I went canoeing.”

  My mom folds her arms, waiting for more.

  “And . . .we . . .just . . . tipped over.”

  “Oh my God! Are you okay, were you wearing a life jacket? Where were you?”

  She should see that I’m standing in front of her in one piece, but she has hit panic mode. She starts to check my arms and legs for life-threatening injuries.

  “Mom, calm down. Jay took me out in his canoe, but we hit a sandbar coming in to shore and while we were trying to get unstuck we tipped over. The water was, like, two feet deep. I’m fine.” And it’s kind of close to what really happened. The two feet of water part, anyway.

  “People drown in two feet of water. You’re not supposed to be on the lake at night in a canoe. Does Jay even have running lights?”

  “Mom, look at me, I’m fine!”

  “I’m not sure
I want you hanging out with Jay anymore. This is the second time you’ve come home with some ridiculous tale to tell.”

  “Mom, you can’t. I mean, Jay’s my boss.”

  “All the more reason why you shouldn’t hang out with him.”

  “I’m sixteen. You can’t treat me like a little kid.”

  “I’m treating you like my son who still lives under my roof. Sean, I want to trust you to make the right decisions, but. . . ” She looks away and exhales through her nose with enough force that I can hear it.

  I open my mouth to defend myself, but all I can get out is a sarcastic gasp.

  “I don’t want you hanging out with him. You can see him at work, but other than that—”

  “Mom, you don’t understand.”

  “Then explain it to me.”

  “I, I . . . I can’t.”

  “Until you can, the only way I can trust you is if I know you’re not with him.”

  “Mom!” I can feel the tears pressing on the bottom of my eyes. Don’t lose it, Sean.

  But I can’t hold it back any longer. The pressure behind my eyes is too much, but I don’t want my mother to see me cry. I plow past her, and her guidance counselor instincts have been alerted to a teen in crisis. She catches me by the shoulder and uses my own momentum to spin me toward her.

  “Sean?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  This time her voice is soft and absorbent, a tissue to dry my eyes. “What? What don’t I understand? Try me.”

  I look into her eyes, only inches from mine. It occurs to me that her prediction that I would be taller than her has finally come true. At five nine I practically tower over her petite, five-four frame, but despite my height advantage she still holds power over me, and I can feel the words being dredged from my throat. “I’m in love with him.”

  She just stares for a second, and then her eyes close as she makes connections. I can see the pieces clicking into place for her. She opens her eyes and, just to be sure, says, “Sean?”

  I open my mouth to speak, but the words are frozen again. I thought I was past this. It doesn’t matter; she heard me.

  Her hand drops from my shoulder and goes to her mouth. Now her eyes are shiny and wet. Tears of sadness? Grief? Anger? I don’t stay to find out. I turn and bolt up the stairs to my room. My mother doesn’t try to follow.

  I slam the door behind me and lean against it, my knees folding underneath me. I slide to the floor and sit. I try to listen for my mother, but all I can hear is my heart throbbing in my ears. I wait. My hands are shaking; I can’t face her right now. This wasn’t how I intended to tell her.

  I want to call Becky. I hesitate, not sure I should leave my post by the door. I look at the doorknob. Nothing. I decide if my mom hasn’t come pounding down my door yet, she’s probably not coming. I crawl to the phone where it lies halfway under my bed. I start to push buttons, but I stop. Who am I kidding? It’s two A.M. I put the phone down and lean my head against my mattress and close my eyes. My tears seal my eyes shut, and it takes too much strength to open them again. I touch my cheek and realize I’ve been crying for a while. I use my sleeve to wipe my face, but the effort is exhausting. The adrenaline from a few minutes ago has started to slip away. There’s no longer a bass drum thumping through my head; I can actually hear myself breathing. I concentrate on breathing for a few minutes and try to figure out how I got here, a crumpled, wet, crying mess on the floor of my room.

  Chapter 1

  “Sean!” My mother’s voice cuts through the cocoon of morning warmth and sunshine. “You are not going to sleep all day!”

  I roll over and hug my tattered quilt tighter around my shoulders. The quilt, a handmade gift from my grandmother, is as old as I am. The stuffing has leaked out in places so that it doesn’t provide much warmth anymore, but it’s perfect for sleeping in on a Saturday in mid-june.

  “I’ll be up in a minute,” I say, loud enough for her to hear. I crack one eye to read the red digital numbers on my alarm clock. 10:07. Twenty-three minutes doesn’t seem too much to ask.

  “A quick minute.” I hear her retreat from the bottom of the stairs, apparently satisfied that I am still among the living.

  It’s the first Saturday of summer vacation, the first Saturday of an entire summer of lazy Saturdays to look forward to. The phone rings, disrupting my half dreams, but my mom answers after only two rings, and I close my eyes, thinking the distraction should be good for a few more minutes of shut-eye. With any luck it’ll be Aunt Maureen.

  “Sean!” I look at the clock again. 10:11.

  “I said I’d be up in a—”

  “It’s your father on the phone.”

  I roll over on my stomach and swat some dirty laundry away from the bed until I find the phone hiding under a pair of cargo shorts.

  “Hello.” I try to keep that just-woke-up fog out of my voice.

  “Hey, kiddo. Still asleep, huh?”

  “It is Saturday.”

  “Hey, no worries.”

  My dad sounds way too cheery.

  “Did you catch any of the Sox game last night? I saw the highlights on ESPN, but the networks down here only cover the Braves. ”

  “Sorry, didn’t catch it.” I don’t have to try very hard to keep the enthusiasm out of my voice.

  “That rookie pitcher from Japan is somethin’ else! I’m tellin’ you, he’s the real deal. I picked him up in my fantasy league. I figure he’ll help me in Ks and wins, and maybe ERA if he stays healthy.”

  “Good luck with that,” I say. “Listen, Dad, I need to take a shower. Start the day, you know?”

  “It’s after ten; you know you won’t be able to get away with that when you’re down here in Georgia.”

  Now I’m wide-awake. “What?”

  “I asked your mom to let me tell you. We decided that it would be a good idea for you to live with me for the summer.”

  “With you? In Georgia?”

  “How does that sound?”

  “Isn’t it hot in Georgia?”

  “You’ll get used to it. I’ve already got a job lined up for you. A friend of mine needs help on his landscaping crew.”

  A shudder shoots down my spine. Landscaping means fertilizer. Fertilizer makes me feel dirty. Now I really do need a shower.

  “What do you say?”

  “Um, let me think about it.”

  “Don’t think too long. I’ve arranged for you to fly down here next week.”

  What was that I was saying about an entire summer of lazy Saturdays? I decide to make a personal rule against answering the phone before eleven A.M. This is way too early to have the day ruined.

  “Great. That gives me, like, seven days to pack.” I try hard not to make it sound too sarcastic.

  “Your mom and I still have some details to work out, so why don’t you let me talk to her again?”

  I am only too glad to get off the phone. I mean, it’s not that I don’t like my father, I just don’t like talking to him. When we do talk, I feel like we should hire a translator. He goes on about RBI, ERA, and how the Red Sox need a new middle reliever. If it’s football season, he wants to know what I think of the Patriots’ nickel package. I feel bad for him in a way; he moved to Georgia about a year ago, so keeping track of his favorite teams is hard. I just don’t want to be the one to keep him up-to-date.

  My parents have been divorced for five years, so I’m used to it by now. Actually, for a while, it wasn’t all that different. My dad still lived in Bell Cove, and I saw him almost as much as when he lived with us, which wasn’t that much. He’s a workaholic and had constant late meetings. When he was home, he’d be too tired to do much more than sit in his recliner and watch the news. Then he moved down state to a town on the Massachusetts border. I was only able to see him a weekend or two a month, and I guess that was when we really started to grow apart. Not that we were ever all that close. My dad’s always been into sports and fishing, flannel shirts and work boots. I’m more of a
n arts and theater, polo and loafers guy. He’s country and I’m country club. Now that he’s in Georgia, we only talk on the phone. He does make an effort to call me every week, but our conversations are always pretty short. He tells me about the bass he caught at his favorite fishing hole; I tell him about the new play the drama club is putting on. Okay, talk to you next week. Have a good one. Bye.

  I find my mother downstairs in the kitchen where I pour myself a bowl of Frosted Mini-Wheats.

  “Uh, Mom? Dad thinks I’m living with him for the summer?”

  “We both felt that working with your father in Georgia would be better than doing nothing around here.”

  “I can’t believe you two agreed on something.”

  “Don’t be smart. You’re sixteen. You should be saving for college. Besides, your father misses you.”

  “Then he shouldn’t have moved to Georgia.”

  “Sean, just because I don’t get along with your father doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t get along with him.”

  “He wasn’t exactly the model dad. It’s not like he was home much.”

  “He’s trying.”

  “Too little, too late.” I push myself up from the kitchen table and drop my dishes in the sink. My spoon clatters against the stainless steel. I head for the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Out. If the only reason you’re sending me to Georgia is so I can work, then I might as well get a job here.” I’m out the door before she can reply. I grit my teeth and climb on my bike to ride into town. I’m serious about the job. It’s either that or sweat like a pig in Georgia.

  Ten minutes later, I’m standing with my bike between my legs, looking out over Bell Cove and the lake beyond. My hometown is nestled along the south shore of the lake, and it extends seven or eight houses inland at its widest point. In some places, a house has been built up on the hill away from the main town, either a rich city-dweller’s summer-cottage attempt to get back to nature or an aging hippie’s attempt to get back to civilization.