Out East

by John Glynn

  “Get out.”

  I stepped onto the asphalt, completely numb. My dad walked over to me. He gave me the strongest hug I had ever received.

  The rest of the weekend was triage. I didn’t know at the time whether I was gay or bi, but I was beginning to believe that my capacity for romantic love might be much greater with a man. My parents were shocked but supportive, and we spent the weekend processing what my feelings meant, for me and for them. As we sat on the patio they peppered me with questions. Did you ever like girls? Yes, but not with the same intensity. Do you want to be romantic with a guy? Yes, I do. Could this just be a one-off? I don’t think so. What do you think you’ll do next? Call us a pizza.

  I could see how my confession was dismantling the future they’d conceived for me—a vision that predated my existence, a fantasy that had germinated in the earliest sparks of their own relationship. But during that weekend, and the weeks to come, they were there for me.

  We will ALWAYS be your loving and supportive parents no matter what, my mom wrote in an email. We love you and the person you are. I couldn’t have asked for a better son.

  Despite their support, I could sense, over the next few months, that my parents were in mourning. They were grieving for a vision of my life that would no longer be tenable—a relationship and eventual marriage to a woman. Over the course of that fall I had to give them the space to accept me.

  Over Gchat I told my cousin Jay. You’re my brother and always will be, he typed back right away. This update wasn’t even necessary. You deserve awesomeness whether it comes in guy form or girl form.

  The process of telling my family validated a truth I knew all along—that they loved me no matter what, that my sexuality didn’t define me. Yet as I looped in more cousins, aunts, and uncles, my heart drifted to Kicki and Pop-Pop. I’d never have the chance to tell them my truth. I’d never know how they’d react. They’d never know this capacity within me.

  They do, my aunt Trisha said to me over Thanksgiving. They wanted this for you, and they love you. We all do.

  Even though I was confident they’d be supportive, I was nervous to open up to my friends. As an only child I assigned an importance to my friendships that suddenly felt volatile. I had always surrounded myself with open-minded people, and the rational part of me knew I had nothing to fear. But as I bucked up the courage to talk to my roommates, I felt my palms begin sweat. At work one afternoon I silently counted to ten. Then I counted to three. Then I sent Chauvin a message, asking if we could talk that night.

  “This changes nothing,” he assured me later on in our apartment. “I’m still going to make fun of you for everything. Most of all I’m sorry you were feeling such heartache. I’ve been there.”

  “You should tell everyone,” Evan said. “All our friends will be thrilled for you. We all just want you to be happy.”

  I went to bed that night, my heart thrumming with profound gratitude.

  My friends from the Hive were among my biggest supporters. In every single conversation, my sexual identity was secondary to my lovesickness. Everyone was more concerned about how I could heal my heart.

  As I gained more distance from the summer, I felt the rustling of an unfamiliar hope. If I could go this deep with Matt, perhaps I could go this deep with other men. The prospect of a meaningful relationship and all that it entailed—a partnership, a home, and, one day, a family—had shifted. But in some ways it now felt even more within reach. The cornerstone of building a family, of raising children, was, of course, love. I had more confidence that I could one day find it in a genuine form.

  I saw Matt a couple of times that fall. The mere sight of him catalyzed immense emotional pain. Every time he posted a new photo on Instagram or Facebook I felt physically ill. Ultimately I found a way to keep him at a safe remove without severing our connection. In part I did so by dipping my toes, very gingerly, into my new sexuality. The guys of the Hive took me to my first gay bar, where someone approached me. We talked about Harry Potter and Camus and exchanged numbers. He texted me the next day to ask me out. We met for oysters in the East Village and developed a rapport. He was the first guy I was intimate with.

  I knew I had more to figure out. But for the first time in a long time I no longer felt breakable. I felt strong.

  Epilogue

  The snow has started again, and Lonnie the weatherman is projecting two feet. Down in Tribeca the streets are windy. The storm batters against our black windows, but our living room is snug and warm, painted in the dim glow of Christmas lights, which we’ve decided to keep up all year.

  Our friends arrive. BC friends, city friends, and most of the Hive. Over the past few months our social circles have converged, a blending of the unmarried people who still feel young.

  I’m different now, but not really. I’m dating guys, but nothing else has changed—I had just been fishing in the wrong pond. I’m still the same person, just less alone.

  Our deck is a swirl of snow. Across the street, squares of window light glimmer like search beacons.

  Mike and Shane arrive in matching camel coats. They’re still together, but they’ve decided to open up their relationship. It’s new territory, but it seems to make them happy. Parker has started seeing an old boyfriend.

  Ashley and Kirsten have settled into their new apartment and are looking forward to new beginnings. Things with Sloppy Tuna Man fizzled after the new year. Kirsten no longer sees Stefano.

  Colby looks fresher, well rested for the first time since I’ve met him. His mother is doing better. One Saturday in October we bumped into each other on the Metro-North bound for home. He opened up to me about her illness, and I told him about my feelings for Matt.

  D.Lo and Everett are still together. We think one day they’ll get engaged.

  I’m switching songs on my iPod when you come in. The speakers pick up the sound of the click wheel and people laugh because the technology is so outdated. I happen to look up as you walk into the kitchen.

  You’re a friend of a friend and you’ve come alone. You’re looking around, terrified, trying to find the familiar face that invited you. You brought a six-pack of Brooklyn Lager, a friendly gesture. You didn’t want to show up empty-handed.

  Our mutual friend sees you and rescues you. She takes your Barbour coat and tosses it in the pile on the bed.

  You’re my opposite, with dark hair and blue eyes and a narrow nose that buttons into a heart. Somehow I can instantly tell you’re gay. The sleeves of your Buffalo plaid shirt are rolled up, revealing a string bracelet affixed with a brass coin. Despite your anxiety you exude a hard-won tranquility.

  You go around introducing yourself. Our mutual friend asks if you want to play beer pong and you say you do. You shake hands with my roommates and compliment our apartment. You thank them for having you. Yes, you’d love a Bud Light.

  You come up to me and say hi. You tell me how much you love the song that’s playing and I say it’s my favorite, too. You’re from New England, you live in the East Village, you work as a consultant.

  I recognize what’s happening, and I think back to the summer. A sudden thought of Matt slices at my heart. When you truly love someone, those feelings never go away. But I’m learning to keep them in their rightful place.

  We spend a half hour talking in the corner, until someone calls us over for flip cup. As we walk to the table you place a hand on my back, just for a second, and time expands and recedes and expands again. I feel a spark, but I refuse to let myself build worlds. I’ve learned to protect my heart. Sure. Whatever. In the flicker of your eyes it starts. This is what I know. Our summer begins in the winter.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  When my agent called to tell me I had received a book offer, the first person I notified, after my family, was Anita Shreve. For nearly a decade I was the fortunate beneficiary of her steadfast support. She believed in my writing even when I didn’t. I hope this book honors her memory in some small way.

  Thank you to m
y family: the Bells, the Cosgriffs, the Martins, the Kellihers, and the Kings. The Kerrigans and the Doyles. My parents, Phil and Thomasina Glynn. My grandparents, Tom and Kay Kelliher and Tom and Elinor Glynn. This book is for and because of you.

  Thank you to Bonnie Rudner at Boston College for encouraging me, among so many other things, to write books.

  Thank you to the dazzling authors and friends whose support humbles me and whose work inspires me: Maddy Blais, Stefan Merril-Block, Andre Aciman, Ada Calhoun, and J. R. Moehringer.

  Thank you to early readers and friends: Lauren Lavelle, Gabi Burnham, Katherine Parker-Magyar, Shannon Welch, Liese Mayer, Meg Reid, Nick Greene, Leslie Davidson, Seema Mahanian, Daniel Burgess, Bill Clegg, Rob McQuilkin, Meredith Kaffel-Simonoff, Claudia Ballard, Lauren Spiegel, Eamon Dolan, Dan Benge, Cindy Uh, Ken Kirshbaum, Craig Carr, Kara Shypula, Ryan Coughlin, Bryan Methe, Dave Gogel, Brett Johnston, Rory Pasini, Annie Durfee, Jodi Weisser, Jocelyn Scudder, Paula Ruyffelaert, Joseph Marchese, Whitney Frick, Kara Watson, Danny Loedel, Sandy Hodgman, Jen Gatien, Michael Cuomo, Courtney Brennan, Caroline and Lindsay Buhr, Michael and Amelia Chauvin, Cassie and Shareen Mishrick, Evan and Lizzie Geilich, Betsy Spang, Billy Schwitter, Courtney Zimmer, Sam Masters, Ronny Baroody, Brooke Welsch, Dria Murphy, and Jenny O’Brien.

  Thank you to Jaya Miceli for lending your incomparable talents to the cover.

  Thank you to my agents, Meg Thompson and Kiele Raymond. I’m obsessed with you.

  Thank you to my dream editor, Maddie Caldwell, who made this book better in countless ways with her probing insights and light touch. I’m obsessed with you, too.

  Thank you to Karen Kosztolnyik, Jordan Rubinstein, Carolyn Kurek, Siri Silleck, Elizabeth Connor, Kathryn Kahal, and the rest of the Grand Central team, as well as Laura Cherkas for her thorough copyedit.

  To Michael Fabbri, Danielle and Pat Forquer, Ross Garner and Pat Hicks, Dana and Marisa Greechan, Taylor Oppermann, Carolyn Harbough, Perrie Hartz, Kara Moore, Kristin Robinson, Ashley Rissolo, Kelley Shea, Paul Stroup, Schuyler Vreeland, Adam and Natalie White, Mike, Timmy, Scott, Kelly, Matt, and the rest of the Hive: Thank you for everything.

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  Reading Group Guide

  John feels lonely while among others at his apartment, college reunion, and even sometimes at the Hive. Can a person be lonely if surrounded by friends and family? How does John ultimately overcome his feelings of being apart? Have you ever felt this kind of loneliness? If so, how do you try to overcome it?

  John juxtaposes two different time periods throughout the book: his childhood and his summer in Montauk. How do the two collide? In what ways do they show how much John has changed, and how do they demonstrate that he hasn’t? Are there any patterns or parallels that you see in John’s life through the comparison of the two?

  The book presents many different forms of intimacy, ranging from sexual to platonic. What kinds of intimacies help John with his loneliness? How does he fear his intimacy with others may change with his coming out, and is he right?

  Even though it is his memoir, John sometimes dives into the thoughts and struggles of other people like Kirsten, Ashley, D.Lo, and Colby, among others. Why do you think he includes their stories in his book? Did this inside look change your perception of anyone, and if so, how? Whose inner thoughts do we not get to see, and why do you think they were excluded?

  “Yesterday I was seventeen and now I was twenty-seven.” John and the other characters struggle with how fast life passes them, with some wanting to reclaim a bit of their youth at “adult summer camp” and college reunions. How does John try to resist speeding through life, and how does it affect him? Do you think it is ever possible to return to the person you were? Have you ever felt this way? If so, what did you do?

  In the beginning of the book, John speaks of his “master truth that shaped all the others” that love is instantaneous and effortless, but later he says that Matt became the “organizing principle” of his world. Does this represent a change in his understanding of love? How did this belief manifest in the first place? Do you have any organizing principles of your life like this one?

  John describes his anxieties as “a dark hand pressing onto my chest.” Other people in the Montauk house struggle with their own concerns, though for different reasons. How do some of the people in the book cope with these thoughts? What strategies are successful? Have you experienced these sorts of thoughts before? If so, how did you deal with them?

  The book begins with, “Our summer began in the winter.” It ends with, “Our summer begins in the winter.” How has the “our” changed? What else has changed, and what do you think this means for John?

  Many people in the book find meaning in patterns throughout their lives, like the number 11, red birds, and Ashley’s certainty that important people circle her life. Is it possible to see these patterns before they happen? How do these patterns affect the characters’ perception of their own lives? Do these patterns indicate a sort of predestination, or do you think they only occur because people look for them?

  By the end of the book, John has learned to embrace his new identity and come out to his loved ones. Have you ever felt like you had to hide a part of your identity from your friends and family? How did you deal with it? Did you end up telling them about it?