Freeing (6 page)

Calling my mom was awkward, as predicted since we go long spans of time without speaking. She was a little surprised when I asked if I could come home for a visit. When they said it would be fine, and that they would be there, we decided I would leave at the end of this week and spend a few days with them.

Once that conversation was over, I ran down to the market on the ground floor of my apartment building. I decided to cook fajitas for Candace tonight. Cooking has always been my thing; I love it and find myself cooking for her a lot, since she is normally a bottomless pit. She’s a dance major at UW and spends hours in the studio nearly seven days a week, so she always has an appetite when I cook for her since her idea of cooking is grabbing an apple from her fridge.

As I’m slicing the peppers, I hear a knock on my door.

“It’s open,” I holler.

Her hair is still in a bun when she opens the door and walks in.

“Hey, you mind if I take a quick shower? I came straight from the studio.”

“Go ahead. Dinner will be ready soon.”

Walking into the kitchen, she kisses my cheek and says, “That smells so good. I’m starving.”

“Hurry up then.”

“Okay, give me ten minutes,” she says as she rushes off to the bathroom.

While she showers, I finish chopping the peppers and onions, and toss the sirloin into the skillet of hot oil. When I take the last heated tortilla from one of the skillets, I place it in the oven and look up to see Candace walking in, wearing a pair of my boxers and a t-shirt.

“What are you making?”

Turning off the stove, I pull out two plates as I say, “Fajitas. I made a lot, so you better be hungry.”

She laughs and picks out a bottle of wine for us. Once we have our plates made and drinks in hand, we make ourselves comfortable on the couch.

“So what’s bothering you?” Candace asks, catching me off guard.

“What are you talking about?”

“I see it in your face. I know you well enough to know when something is weighing on your mind,” she says and then takes a bite of her food.

What’s weighing on my mind the most is Mark, but I appease her with saying, “I called my mom today.”

“Really?” She’s surprised. She knows we don’t talk and barely even have a relationship. “What did you guys talk about?”

“Nothing really, but I’m going back home for a quick visit at the end of this week.”

Setting her tortilla down, she gives me a curious look and asks, “Why?”

“I haven’t seen my parents since last Christmas. We just thought it was time for a visit.”

“Are you worried at all . . . I mean, being back home when you guys are so distant with each other?”

Taking a sip of my wine, I say, “It’s not like it’ll be different than any other trip back home.”

“True. I just worry, that’s all.”

“I know you do, but it’s just a short visit to catch up.” I don’t tell her the real reason why I’m going because I’m not sure I’m ready to admit all of my insecurities to her just yet. I don’t even want to admit them to myself, but I hate keeping secrets from her; she’s my best friend.

“When do you leave?”

“I booked my flight for Wednesday.”

“You want me to drive you to the airport?”

“No, I’m just gonna leave my car there. Who knows if I’ll come home early or not, but if I do, I want to have my car.”

Setting her plate down, she shifts to face me. “What’s really going on?” she questions.

“Nothing, but I’ve told you about my parents. I just don’t want anything to keep me from coming back here in case I want to leave.”

Letting out a deep sigh, she says, “Okay, well, when are you supposed to be back?”

“Saturday.”

“I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me.”

Setting down my plate, I pull her next to me, and we lean back on the couch. “You know I love you, right?”

She doesn’t speak; she just nods her head against my chest.

“Let’s not talk about my parents anymore, okay?”

Looking up at me, she grins and says, “Okay. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I like that you worry about me.” I kiss the top of her head and promise myself that I will tell her everything when I can find a way.

The two and a half hour flight to San Diego felt like time was standing still. But as soon as the plane landed, it suddenly felt all too short. My father was already there waiting to drive me back to the home I grew up in. Mom had stayed behind, and when we arrived, we said our uncomfortable greetings before she went back to doing whatever she was doing before I walked through the front door.

Tossing my bag in my bedroom, I take out my phone to call Candace and let her know I made it. She can’t talk long, so we cut it short, and I tell her that I might be out of pocket for the next few days so she won’t worry if she doesn’t hear from me.

This house feels exactly the same. Nothing ever changes. It’s like my parents have been put on pause ever since Jace died five years ago. Like suddenly the world stopped spinning. I walk down the hall to her room and open the door. Everything is still untouched. Photos still displayed on her pinboard above her desk of her and her boyfriend. She really loved him. They had both been accepted to Cal State. She was so happy that they were going together, and I was happy that she would be less than two hours away from me. I close the door on those memories, head back to my room, and lie on my bed.

I miss her. I miss her so damn much. I think the reason I am bonded so tightly with Candace is because she reminds me a lot of my sister. Sometimes, I swear Jace gave her to me so I would always have a piece of her with me.

I swallow hard and slide off the bed. I’ve got to get out of here for a while. Packing up my wetsuit, I head downstairs and borrow the keys to my father’s truck. I load up my shortboard and head down to the beach. I need some space to clear my head.

I spend most of the afternoon in the water, but La Jolla is a small town, so it isn’t long before I run into some of my buddies I went to high school with. They’re home from college for the summer, and I don’t get home till late.

The next two days pass by with me dodging my parents. I fill most of my time at the beach, surfing, and hanging out with old friends. Last night, a few of us went to a local bar to hear a couple of bands play.

But now, here I am. I have six hours until my flight leaves to take me back to Seattle, and I feel no better about the mess I caused with Mark than I did when I got here. I find myself wandering down to my sister’s room. Walking in, I go over to her dresser and pull out a small photo album she had made of the two of us. She was going to take it to college with her. I look at these pictures every time I come home. I sit on the floor and lean my back against her bed. Flipping the album open, I look at a photo of her and I together on the beach. My eyes are the same light golden color as hers, and as her eyes bore into me, I wonder what she would tell me to do.

I just want to be happy; I don’t want to feel ashamed or embarrassed. Because I feel this way, I screwed up something that had the potential to be good. I know Jace would want me to be happy. She wouldn’t want me to be carrying around this secret. Maybe that’s it. Maybe this lie needs to end where it began.
Here.
My sister would want me to be honest with my parents, but it’s more than that. I think she would want me to finally be brave enough to be honest with myself.

What do I really have to lose by telling them? It isn’t as if we speak; we don’t. Ever since Jace died, I’ve been nothing but an afterthought for them, and they hardly even acknowledge me.

Coming out to my parents may be just the thing I need to do to erase this gray haze I’ve been living in. The reality of being
out
with my parents might be my defining moment . . . my freeing moment.

As much as the thought of having that conversation with my parents terrifies me, I think it’s time that it happens.

I focus in on my sister’s eyes in the photo, and I know she’d have my back no matter what, but I fear that telling my parents could possibly be the end of my family. They are all I have, and I’m pretty sure when I get on the plane to go back to Seattle, I will be going back to the only thing I have left in the world—Candace.

My mind is in overdrive, dreading and fearing what I am about to tell my parents. I think about Mark; honestly, I can’t stop thinking about him. I want to call him. I want to explain why I did what I did.

Standing up, I walk over to the dresser and slip the album back into the drawer. I turn around and stare at her bed while I try and muster up all the strength that I feel is failing me in this moment. Jace would tell me to do this. She wouldn’t want me to hurt, and right now, that’s all I’m feeling. For many reasons.

My stomach is in knots, and I feel sick as I start walking out of the room. Making my way down the stairs, I feel like I am losing control with each step I take. What they say or do is completely out of my hands, and I’m scared. I don’t want to hurt them, but I don’t want to hurt myself more than I already have. I hate feeling the shame and embarrassment. I hate the lies. I hate that these feelings caused me to hurt a really decent guy who didn’t deserve my shit.

When I walk into the living room, my mother is reading a book on the couch next to my father, who is working on his laptop. Taking a deep breath and trying to grab on to any shred of courage I can find, I sit down in one of the chairs that’s across from where my parents are sitting.

Looking up, my mother acknowledges me and says, “Hi, dear.”

“Hey, Mom. Umm, listen . . . I need to talk to you guys about something,” I stammer out, and I can’t believe I am about to tell them this. My hands are shaking and my heart is beating at an insanely rapid rate.

“Is everything okay, son?” my father says as he closes the lid to his laptop.

“Yeah, I mean, no.” I take a second to try and compose my thoughts, but they are all over the place, and I can’t seem to find a coherent one floating around my head. “It’s just . . . something has been bothering me, and I think you should know.”

My mother sets her book down on her lap and focuses on me. “Is everything okay at school?”

“Yeah, it’s not that. School is fine.” I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. I know the words I need to say, so with my head down, I repeat them over and over in my mind, trying to force my mouth to actually speak them.
I’m gay. I’m gay. I’m gay.
Lifting my head up, I look to my mother. “I’m gay.”
Fuck! I take that back. God, why did I just tell them?

“I’m sorry, what?” my mother says with her brows cinched together in confusion.

God, don’t make me say it again.

“What did you just say?” My father speaks in a tone that’s none too friendly.

Looking between them, I swallow against my dry throat and repeat, “I’m gay.”

“Is this your idea of a sick joke?” my father says with harsh intent, and I know what’s coming. I knew they wouldn’t be happy. I knew I’d most likely lose them. But the reality of it feeds the anger within me, and I can feel it boiling inside.

“No, it’s not a joke.”

“I don’t understand. You’ve always liked girls. In high school, you were always dating,” my mother says.

“I know, Mom, but I have always liked guys more.”

“Enough,” my father snaps. He stands and begins to quickly pace back and forth across the room, rubbing his head and staring at me with fury. Stopping in front of me, he seethes, “No son of mine is a faggot. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I’ve heard enough.”

His words sting. “I had to tell you; I’m sick of lying about who I am. I needed you to know so that I can stop hiding.”

“But, you haven’t actually . . . well, I mean . . .” my mother can’t get her thoughts out when my dad butts in.

“God, of course not, Sharon!”

His condescending tone is fueling me to throw it all out there. Standing up, I snap. “What? Kissed a guy? Slept with a guy? Yes.”

“Get out of my house,” my father demands in a low stern voice.

I look to my mother, who is sitting there in shock. With her eyes fixed on me, she shakes her head and says, “Listen to your father.” Tears begin to fall down her cheeks as she stands next to my dad and continues, “I thought losing your sister was bad, but you . . . knowing that you’re going to hell, come in here and shame what’s left of this family . . .”