ZIGGY DROVE me up to Dallas the following weekend.
He said he had friends he was going to visit up there anyway, and whether or not that was true, I took him up on his offer.
I was still having a difficult time driving with my bad leg, and I always enjoyed his company.
And the excellent stash he was always happy to share with me.
Was he doing this out of friendship? Out of guilt for his part in what happened?
My guess is a little of both. Or a lot of both.
It’s not like we’d been friends before he got the fake IDs, and since I really didn’t know much more about him than I did the first day he took me out for a drive and pot and slushies, maybe it was mostly his guilt.
I did honestly like him, though, and enjoyed his company, even when we were stoned and were just sitting and listening to music.
Or when we were stoned and driving to Dallas.
Being with Ziggy generally meant being stoned with Ziggy.
Maybe that was the basis of our friendship.
Here’s the thing, though….
The closer we got to Josh’s place the more excited and nervous I was getting. I wanted to see him. A lot. But what if things were different in person this time? It had been a couple of months since Colorado. Had that been a fluke and would things change when the reality of me walked in?
I’d texted him we were almost there, and as we drove up to his apartment building, I saw him standing outside waiting.
He was smiling. I was smiling, and my good leg was bouncing up and down with excitement.
Ziggy smiled. “I’m guessing that’s him,” he said. “You done good. Well, good luck.” And with a quick fist bump, I was out of the car, trying to balance backpack and crutches while looking cool in the process.
Ziggy sped off.
And I was running, well, hobbling over to Josh.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi back,” he said.
And we hugged. Hard.
I didn’t want to let go. It was like I was clinging and holding on for my life.
He grabbed my bag, took my hand, and led me up to his place. It looked like I imagined it would. A small studio apartment. Books everywhere despite his best efforts to clean up for me. A fridge filled with beers and a countertop covered with nothing but protein powder and workout supplement stuff.
And one slightly spoiled banana.
A pile of used gym clothes had been shoved into a corner near his bed, which was just a mattress on the floor, and which I briefly considered burying my face in.
More books. Two computers at his work desk. A TV hanging on the wall.
And a picture of me that I texted him and he printed out and taped hanging off a shelf over his desk.
My heart skipped a beat.
“Well, this is it,” he said.
“At last,” I said.
He pulled me to him and kissed me. Softly at first, and then not so softly.
I was holding on to him and kissing him back.
His hands were on my ass.
It felt like the real thing. Like it was finally happening.
We broke it off and looked at each other. And kept looking.
“Before we get carried away,” he said, “let’s go grab some food.”
We went to a local taco joint he’d been telling me about for weeks. We consumed baskets of chips with my favorite green salsa, platters of tacos along with his favorite fresh squeezed fruit juices, and talked.
And talked and talked and talked.
He told me about his former boyfriend. “Nothing serious really,” he said. “Friends with benefits. We hung out. Played occasionally. Well,” he admitted, “more than occasionally.
“But he never spent the night. That was the rule.”
Josh said that spending the night was serious stuff.
Looking at me with those eyes when he said it.
And that crooked smile.
We went back to his place. And we made out. A lot.
Tongues. Hands exploring over clothes. Reaching under shirts to brush against skin for the first time.
I was so ready for something to happen.
I was so ready for it to happen.
He took off his tight Longhorns T-shirt, letting me see his chest with its light dusting of hair for the first time. The trail leading down his abs toward…. The trail I wanted more than anything to explore.
I obviously have a thing for trails.
He kicked off his shoes and took off his socks.
And here he was right—there was a faint whiff of foot odor.
Then his jeans. He was wearing black briefs.
I’ll never forget the way he looked in that moment. How sexy he was. How he looked to me.
And then he watched as I took off my clothes.
And saw for the first time just how damaged my body was.
The scar on my shoulder. The larger scar on my right side.
And then my leg. The scars and hardware and everything else.
And then I saw it. The look of horror and disgust that briefly flickered across his face.
He tried to cover it up, but it was too late. I saw it. I saw something like a light fade out in his eyes as well. And I felt my heart seize up and, in that brief moment, break.
He saw that as well.
He saw everything.
Everything was suddenly different between us, although we both, without saying a word, tried to pretend that nothing had changed.
He said hesitatingly, seeming to gather his thoughts, “You’re still only seventeen, right?”
I nodded.
“You know that while you’re, um, technically legal here in the great state of Texas… I think that maybe….
“I think we should wait. We shouldn’t jump into it.
“You’re special. I want this to be special.”
I tried to believe that was the reason why, but deep down I knew what was going on. I could see it in his eyes; I could feel it in my heart and guts.
He saw how disappointed I was. “Maybe I should leave?” I said.
“Wait… I didn’t mean…. You know I think you’re sexy as hell, right?
“I want to wait until it’s right. This is more than just sex. I like you, Collin. I like you a lot.
“Remember when I said that spending the night was the serious stuff? I meant that. Anyone can… you know, do it. But I want to hold you and feel you.”
He climbed into bed and held the blanket up, asking me to join him.
And I did. Awkwardly. But not ready to give up.
Maybe, I thought—or tried to convince myself, anyway—he was just surprised. Maybe it’ll be okay. Maybe we’ll be okay.
It has to be okay.
I needed it to be okay.
It had to be okay.
So we lay there and talked. Not really touching. But at least talking.
He told me about his parents and older brothers and sisters. About being the youngest son and the pressures he felt to follow his brother’s lead as an athlete.
He hated it, he told me. “I like working out, and I like being in shape”—he playfully flexed for me—“but I hated the competitive stuff, the team stuff. And I hated having to do it because I felt I was expected to do it.”
He told me more about telling his parents he was gay. He confessed that while they did make it easy for him eventually, at first his mother cried and his father told him they’d be happy to pay for a therapist if he wanted one. How his brothers were quietly okay with it and Tiffany thought it was the coolest thing ever to have a hot gay older brother.
And he told me about the time when he caught a couple of his teammates in the locker room, picking on this kid they thought was gay. “They were laughing and pushing him around and trying to shove him into an empty locker when I came and told them to knock it the hell off or else. They knew me well enough to know that I meant business, so they took off, and I stuck around to comfort the kid and tell him that if they ever picked on him again, he should let me know.
“I’ve never forgotten that,” he said. “Stand up to bullies and stand your ground, and there’s a good chance they’ll back down.
“Look,” he added, “there are always going to be assholes out there, and there will always be people who hate us because they think their religion tells them to do so, or because they’re actually gay themselves and the only way they can deal with it is to prove to themselves and their friends that they’re not by being tough.
“But that’s fine, they’re always going to be there. But in fewer and fewer numbers, because it is getting better. Because of people like you and me who are not afraid to stand up for our rights and to demand that we be treated with respect for who we are.
“Can you see that?”
“I can now,” I said. “I can.”
I told him about what it was like to have the world learn you’re gay before you were ready to tell them.
“I know Mom and Dad knew I was gay,” I told him. “And they knew that I knew. And I knew that they knew that I knew,” I added, laughing. “We just didn’t talk about it,” I said. “But then, we never really talk about anything.
“But what I hated, and still hate, was that people at school, the neighbors, and even random strangers learned that I was gay because it was in the news. It’s not like I’m ashamed of being gay or embarrassed or anything like that; it’s really none of their damn business. If I wanted someone to know, it was because I wanted to share it with them because it was a part of my life that I wanted to share.
“At least, that was how I felt then. Now, not so much.”
He said he got it.
“Now,” I told him, “I think it’s important that people know.
“It’s important that they know who I am. And it’s important for me to stand up, not only for myself but for others who are afraid to stand up on their own.
“I think I know—no, I know that’s what I want to do with my life. I’m not sure how, or what I’ll be doing, but I know I want to make sure that what happened to me doesn’t happen to anybody else, that hate and fear don’t win.
“What happened to me happened because I’m gay. I know that. And I want others to know it and to know that it’s not going to make me change. They’re not going to make me change. They’re not going to make me hide away.
“I’m going to be who I am, and that includes being gay.
“And that means helping others to embrace who they are as well. And to fight for their right to be who they are.”
Initially I had planned on telling Josh more about what happened that night, the stuff I hadn’t told anyone yet, while we were cuddling in bed after we’d done it, but after seeing how he had looked at me, I knew it wasn’t the time.
Even so, I did think about it briefly, wondering if playing the “sympathy card” might help. Maybe, I thought, if he felt sorry for me and all I’d gone through, he might be more open to, well, loving me again.
To making love to me like I wanted him to so badly.
Pathetic, I know.
Which is why I did decide against it. I fell asleep curled up on one side of the bed; he fell asleep curled up on the other. When I woke up, he was already awake, looking at me, like he was wondering what to do next.
He leaned over and gave me a quick kiss. “Let’s hit the road and see the sights.”
And we both quickly jumped out of bed and got dressed, each of us awkwardly trying not to look at the other.
We drove to Fort Worth to see the Kimbell Art Museum, and slowly wandered through the galleries. I found myself staring for a long time at Monet’s Weeping Willow. In his response to World War I, I saw a sadness whose spirit seemed to match mine; Josh seemed distracted and couldn’t settle on any one piece.
We left the museum around lunchtime and walked around the Stockyards Historic District to see if we could see any real cowboys and eat BBQ.
No cowboys. Definite yes on BBQ.
Then back to Dallas to check out the zoo and aquarium, wander around town, and finish up at the Sixth Floor Museum.
It’s in the building where Lee Harvey Oswald worked at the Texas School Book Depository; the sixth floor is where he waited to shoot President Kennedy out of a sixth-floor window.
It’s kept just as it was that afternoon, down to the boxes by the window on which he propped his rifle. Looking out the window, it’s all too easy to see what he saw looking through the sight of his rifle, to imagine the car driving by, to imagine….
My eyes squeezed shut, trying to stop seeing what I was seeing.
On a wall of the museum, the film showing Kennedy getting shot was showing on what seemed to be a continuous loop. I’d seen it a dozen times in school. It’s the one where you can actually see the moment the bullets hit. And the top of Kennedy’s head flying off. And his wife climbing over the back seat of the car trying to retrieve it.
I looked at Josh and started shaking. Uncontrollably. He ran over and asked, “What’s wrong?” Then he saw what I was seeing.
“Oh shit, I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have thought. I should have known.” And he held me tight until my shaking stopped while the others in the museum watched, not knowing what to do, or looked away, not knowing what to do, or pointed, or even giggled nervously.
I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t say anything.
It felt like everyone was staring at us. Josh looked lost. Pained. And, it hit me with a flash: he was embarrassed to be with me; I was embarrassing to be seen with.
Still, he did what he needed to do. Josh wrapped his arm around me and walked me out quickly, telling me it was going to be okay, to just put one foot in front of the other.
Somehow I made it back to the car. Josh helped me in, fastened my seat belt for me, closed the door, and got in on his side.
And we sat. Silently.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
“What? You’ve got nothing to be sorry about. Absolutely nothing. You got that?”
Much to my surprise, he sounded almost angry when he said that.
“I should have realized… I should have thought… I should have known… damn it… you know that I don’t want to ever cause you any pain. I know what you went through, and… I should have thought about it.”
And then, more silence.
I could see, I could actually feel him thinking. Thinking that he couldn’t do this. Thinking that he couldn’t handle this. Thinking that he couldn’t handle me.
He looked at me. “I’m sorry” was all he could say.
It was all that needed to be said, and we drove off in silence.
I bought him dinner, hoping that it would somehow make things better, that if I pretended everything was all right, it would be. I got him a green chili cheeseburger at his favorite place. With everything. And fries. And a chocolate malt.
I had the same.
We went back to his place without saying a word. He undressed and got into bed; I went over and lay down on the sofa, still dressed He didn’t ask me to come and join him.
And I thought to myself, this is my life now. I’m broken. I’m broken and damaged.
Permanently.
I tried to stop thinking about it. All I wanted to do was hold it together until I got home and could be alone in my room.
Alone.
Ziggy came by to pick me up the next morning, texting me shortly before he arrived.
I looked at Josh. “Keep in touch,” he said.
Trying not to cry, or to call Josh every name I could think of, I walked out.
After helping me get into the truck, Ziggy took one look at my face and handed me a joint.
“Looks like you need this,” he said. “Sorry.”
“Me too,” I said. “Me too.”
“Want to talk about it?” he said after we’d been driving for a bit.
“Nope,” I said.
“Cool,” he replied.
The rest of the drive was silence. Except for the music playing. And the thoughts and sadness and anger and self-hate going through my head.