When Love Takes Over - 5. A Man Bun and a Poncho

I didn’t know what to think about Reed’s gift or the inscription. When I had arrived home, I was convinced that I was through with our relationship, and then Dad’s condition had absorbed my focus. But if I were honest with myself, I missed Reed and realized how comforting and supportive his presence had been over the years. Especially at night in my childhood bedroom, I yearned for his arms around me. His visit had only strengthened these yearnings, and yet I didn’t know if I could ever get past his dishonesty.

I would forgive him...Hell, I already had, but I couldn’t yet trust him. I did, however, find comfort in putting my watch back on; my wrist had seemed so naked without it. It served as a talisman during the long days in the hospital. While I was still uncertain as to my future with Reed, I was very glad that we had made at least some reconciliation. He called and texted me daily to check on me during my grim vigil, and I always felt better after talking to him. He even managed another, longer visit to Ruston. I was always glad to hear his voice, and the knowledge that he cared did ease my sense of being alone. I loved him, still, but I didn’t know if I could ever have the same relationship.

In fact, I was grateful to many people. Ben and his partner, and Patrick also kept close tabs on me and Dad; even Frank the cub surprised me by texting me. His texts started with a simple “woof,” but when I explained where I was and what was happening, he made it his mission to keep me cheered up. Considering his idea of an appropriately cheering message was to send me a text consisting of inspirational quotes superimposed over photos of hot men in various states of undress, I learned to open his messages only when others weren’t in the room.

Over the next weeks, Dad’s condition did not markedly improve, but he did stabilize. On the day he was finally cleared to visit the oncologist in Shreveport, they removed his catheter. When he attempted to use the restroom, refusing to use a bedpan and ignoring the nurse’s advice, he fell, hitting his head against the wall badly enough to dent the sheetrock. I had been the one helping him; he had insisted, and I foolishly gave in. It happened so fast. I’ll never forget the horror of seeing him sitting sprawled on the floor, his legs side apart, the glazed look in his eyes. I rushed to get a nurse, and he was quickly taken off for more tests.

They discovered a hematoma, but the doctor was uncertain if it had resulted from this fall or a previous one. More disturbingly, the scans had revealed at least one of his reasons for not eating; the valve in his throat was malfunctioning and food was going into his lungs. At this point, the prognosis was grim. Dr. Harris recommended that we forgo aggressive treatment and focus on providing hospice care .

After discussing matters with my stepmother, we had him moved to the nursing home portion of the facility and set up hospice care there. Ruby was a wreck. She seemed to have aged twenty years in the last few weeks of months. She had been staying at her former home with her daughter, and the three of us agreed that it would be best to make that move permanent. Ruby had never particularly cared for living so far from town on the farm, and even now before the final end, declared that there were too many memories for her there. I helped my step sister and her boyfriend move Ruby’s things to Ruston, glad for the distraction.

My days took on an unvarying routine; I’d wake up in what had been my old bedroom and have a solitary breakfast of a pot of coffee in the silent house. Ruby had never been much of a homemaker and, aside from converting what had been the guest room into her personal den, she hadn’t made that many changes to the house over the years. But still, with her ceramic rooster collection gone and without her ever present piles of thrillers she loved to read, the place seemed very empty. I’d then drive the 40 minutes into Ruston and spend the day sitting by dad, whose periods of lucidity were ever shorter. He had a constant stream of visitors.

I found it somewhat surreal chatting politely with visitors about mundane things like my life in New Orleans and the weather while we sat beside a dying man, but it was nice to see now many people cared for my father. When I was alone in the room with him, I kept regretting spending so little time with him since my move. My only visits had been fleeting and somewhat begrudgingly made.

As the holidays came and went, Dad continued to slip away. Over my protests (and I was so glad that they had ignored them), Ben, his partner Don, and Reed made the trip up to Ruston to spend Christmas Day with me. Ruby, though too distraught to stay long, and my step sister and her daughters also came by. The same friends and relatives who had already been by to pass their respects also stopped in, bearing treats and words of comforts. Their visits did comfort me, and I think Dad somehow also sensed their presence. In any case, early in the morning of December 26, he peacefully passed away.

While Don had to return to New Orleans for work, Ben and Reed stayed to help me plan the services. I made sure to include as many of Ruby’s wishes as possible, but except for choosing a few favorite songs, she left most of the decisions to me. I tried to make sure the services were more a celebration of life rather than a mourning, and I insisted on the flowers on the casket being John Deere green and yellow. As a farmer, my father had always had touch up paint for his tractors and equipment in those two colors. In fact, since those were the only two paint colors guaranteed to be in stock on the farm, I had, over the years, ended up with many, many items painted those colors. The ladies at the local flower shop ran with the idea, and produced a beautiful spray that not only included the requested yellow and green flowers, but a miniature John Deere tractor.

The funeral occurred only a few days after Dad’s death, and I was very grateful for Ben and Reed’s help. They were staying at a hotel in town, but came back to the house every evening to keep me company and to help clean and prep for the lunch planned for after the funeral. There was no need to cook; however, the good ladies of the community kept arriving in waves with cakes, pies, casseroles, and enough fried chicken to feed a continent.

The service was simple; one cousin, who after a wayward youth had become a pastor gave the service. Dad’s cousin Red, who gave the eulogy, did inject some degree of lightheartedness into the proceedings since his speech mainly consisted of telling us how my father had gotten the nickname “Tomcat” in his youth. Let’s just say it involved sneaking nursing students out of a dorm via ladder. The soloist further contributed to the levity by walking down the aisle of the chapel with the back of her black dress tucked into her white Spanx. Embarrassed, she recovered to give a beautiful performance of the classic country hymn “Will the Circle Be Unbroken.” Then, on a clear December day, under a beautiful blue sky, my father was laid to rest beside my mother.

The rest of the day passed in casserole and reminisces, and, at least in my case, nips of bourbon from the rather large flask I had filled that morning, feeling the need for some liquid courage. By 7 or so, the house had cleared out, the food was put away, and the dishes washed. Ben had gone back to the hotel and Ruby had gone back to her daughter’s house. I had drained the flask and had graduated to drinking Maker’s Mark straight from the bottle; Reed had stayed to keep a concerned eye on me, but I was holding up well, I thought, considering. I was just so tired, but not ready to sleep. I’m not sure when he put me to bed, but I woke up sometime before dawn.

It took me a minute to get my bearings since Reed had put me in my father’s bed instead of the twin in the computer room. When I felt someone stirring beside me, I had a moment of horror flashing back to my morning of shame at the Ritz, but I suddenly realized I had my clothes on, I remembered last evening, and that the person beside me was someone I knew well, my former partner..

I relaxed, but quickly tensed when I felt Reed moving beside me. His strong arms suddenly wrapped around me and pulled me to him. Even through my clothes, I could feel his hard chest and even harder dick pressing against my back and ass. It felt like it had been forever since I had felt a lover’s touch, and I shuddered as his lips moved by my ear.

“I love you,baby,” he rasped in a low, sexy voice. “Let me make you feel good. Let me help you forget.”

His hand started moving underneath my shirt, stroking my hairy torso. I moaned and leaned back against his shoulder. Almost every part of me was aching to surrender, to let go, to go back to what I used to have. It would have been so easy to do it. So easy to turn in his arms and kiss him and tell him everything could be like it used to be. But I knew that would be a lie. I wasn’t the same, and I couldn’t pretend it was. I still loved him and had forgiven him, but I wasn’t ready to go back.

I pulled away and got up from the bed. He left me go, falling back with a sigh. I went toward the kitchen, expecting him to follow me, but he didn’t. Discovering it was close to 5am, I decided to make coffee. I’m not sure how much later it was when he finally joined me, but the first rays of sunrise still hadn’t made an appearance. I was sitting on the sofa in the living room, well into my second cup of coffee which I had fortified with a stiff shot of bourbon. Maybe 5 am was a little early for a shot of bourbon, but I had just buried my father and turned down my first shot at sex in what seemed like forever. I figured I had earned it.

“There’s coffee in the kitchen,” I said.

“No thanks,” he replied. He curled up on the sofa in a fetal position, his feet hanging over the arm, his head in my lap. His eyes were closed, and he looked sad and exhausted. Without thinking, I started smoothing his dark, silky hair and rubbing a finger on the furrows between his finely drawn brows. He let out a sigh, but his face did relax. He looked like Errol Flynn in some pirate movie after a particularly grueling battle.

“I never went to Dallas that day, you know,” he said, head still in my lap, his eyes still closed.

“Dallas?”

“The trip I was taking the day we fought…” he paused, “...the day you left. I went to the airport, but I just sat through the boarding. They keep calling all the zones, they made the announcement for the final boarding, but I couldn’t leave. Not like that. I went back, but you were already gone. I tried calling and texting...but I couldn’t reach you….I couldn’t find you.” he started crying and put his hand over his eyes. I continued stroking his hair.

“I knew I had fucked up, but until I walked in and you were gone….” his voice was strained through the tears “...I didn’t realize just how bad. I saw the watch, and you wouldn’t answer, and I knew it was over. I knew I had thrown it all away.”

“What about John?” my voice was surprisingly steady. Honestly, with everything that I had happened in the past few months, I didn’t have any anger left. Actually, I didn’t have much of anything inside me these days; I felt like an empty vessel. In fact the only thing I was feeling when I asked the question was a mild curiosity.

“John?” he said, pulling up. He settled into the opposite corner of the sofa with his feet pulled up to him, his arms wrapped around his knees.

“ You said you loved him. Or at least thought you loved him.”

“I feel so bad about how I treated him. I had convinced myself there were feelings there.”

“But now you don’t think so?” I said, having a soothing sip of bourbon spiked coffee.

“Honestly?” He sighed, lowering his chin to his knees, “I think I was lying to myself. I didn’t want to admit I was just getting my rocks off, so I told myself that it was something more than sex, that it meant something. At any rate, even though it was too late, in the end I chose you.”

“Look,” he said, uncurling himself from the sofa and moving to kneel on the ground in front of my with the kind of graceful movement that had always taken my breath away, “I was a fool. What we had...have...is special. It’s just, I don’t know, the last year or so, we seemed to be drifting apart. You seemed so distant, and every time I tried to talk, there was always some dinner we had to go to, or you wanted to talk about work and not us, or you were already three bourbons in by the time I got home. He made me feel special. Hot. Wanted.”

I couldn’t say anything. Considering how often over the last two months, hell, the last 24 hours I had medicated myself with Maker’s Mark, I couldn’t complain. I did like to go through life comfortably numb, distracted by unpleasantness with a joke, a good meal, a good book, a fun project, or a cocktail. I put down the spiked coffee, suddenly sickened by it.

“Well,” I said, “I guess we’ve been like Scarlett in Gone With the Wind and throwing away happiness with both hands.”

“We don’t have to be.” He looked up with shining eyes. “We can have it again. What we had.”

I wanted to say yes. To fall in his arms. God, did I want to. But I was too tired. Too drained. I didn’t have the energy to start over. I only had enough in me to exist, barely.

“I can’t right now. I don’t have it. I’m empty.”

“Are you saying never or just not now?” Reed pressed.

“Not now, but …”

“Then, I’ll wait,” he said rising to his feet.

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

“It’s not your decision to make,” he said, leaning down and kissing me. Then he left.

I spent the rest of the morning sitting there on the sofa drinking unspiked coffee. I had poured the rest of the bourbon down the sink. I didn’t even think. I just sat there sipping the hot liquid, thinking about nothing in particular. I don’t know how long I would have sat here in a fugue state if the doorbell hadn’t sounded. I was so startled I spilled the last of the coffee down my shirt. Considering it was the same one I had slept in and that the coffee joined some stains left by last night’s casserole supper, it didn’t seem like that big of an issue.

I walked to the door, staggering a little because my joints had stiffened from sitting so long, and wondering, in the words of Dorothy Parker, “What fresh hell is this?” Luckily, it wasn’t actually a fresh hell, it was Ben, stopping by to say goodbye before heading back to New Orleans. Saying he wanted to go ahead and get on the road, he refused my offer of refreshments. Considering that with my shaggy hair, untrimmed beard, sunken eyes and stained shirt I looked more like Rasputin than Martha Stewart, I can understand why he was doubting the current state of my hosting skills.

“Look, I just wanted to say goodbye before I left, and find out when you’re headed back to New Orleans.”

“I’m not sure. I have some estate stuff to settle. That will take a couple of weeks at least. After that…” I made a vague hand gesture.

“Well, I understand if you don’t want to work with Reed, but I have plenty of clients who would be thrilled to work with you. I’m pretty sure that if you don’t want to go independent, I can get you a consulting position at the firm.”

“That’s great, but I’m really not sure what I’m doing after I’m finished here.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure you knew there were options. And I know everyone says this, but I really mean it: if there’s anything Don or I can do for you, please let us know.”

“I appreciate it, “ I said, giving him a hug.

“Oh,” he said “I almost forgot. Reed wanted me to give you something.” He ran back to the car, opened the door, and grabbed a large manilla envelope off of the seat. I gave him a final hug and a final goodbye, and then he was gone. I was alone. Completely alone.

I actually felt more peaceful than sad about that though. The solitude felt good, and the brief talk about working for his architectural firm and clients had sparked something in me, something I hadn’t felt in a while. Hope.

I walked back inside, examining the envelope curiously. I wasn’t quite ready to open it, so I set it aside and made another pot of coffee and a breakfast of leftovers. After eating, I poured a fresh cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table to open the envelope. It contained a sheaf of papers clamped together, a sealed envelope with my name written on it, and a handwritten letter.

I started with the letter. It read:

Dear Brandon,

All I can say is that I am sorry for what I have done and how I have behaved. Not only in regard to John, but other things. I realize that I have never fully expressed how I felt about you. Not in loving you, but considering you my full partner in life and in business. Though I feel, it is too little too late, I want to do as much as possible to rectify that situation. First, I have enclosed a check for your portion of the profit on the sale of the Uptown house. I was only able achieve my selling price because of your design work.

I have also had paperwork drawn up making you an official partner in the business. I have had my portion signed and notarized. To make the partnership take effect, you need to do the same and mail it to my attorneys.

I, of course realize that you may not want to work with me, and there is a provision that will allow you to be a full, but silent partner. I am also willing to offer you a cash buyout for your portion; however, I will be blunt. Currently, most of our capital is invested in a project in the French Quarter, the Degas Cottages. However, I anticipate completion and sale of that property to be finished by the fall. With the projected profit, if you wait to be bought out until after that sale goes through, I will be able to offer you a buyout price of approximately $1,500,000.

I, of course, hope that by then you will again be my partner in life and work. However, I will do as you wish.

I love you,

Reed

I sat there stunned for a minute, then I opened the smaller envelope. It was a certified check for $250,000. Again, in the space of a moment, my life had changed. Just that morning, I had felt like a husk, but now I was filled with possibilities. The $250,000 plus the modest estate my father had left me after his legacy to Ruby was a decent nest egg in and of itself. Since the farm had been in the family for over 150 years, he had left it solely to me. When he had retired, he had put most of the acreage in a government program where he received a subsidy to grow trees. It was less than $10,000 a year, but it was enough to pay the bills, including taxes for the farm. With the check from Reed, the farm was safe, I didn’t have to consider selling it.

I hadn’t really thought a lot about the farm over the years, but it was a piece of me, and I was pleased that it was now secure. If I settled back in New Orleans or even Dallas, it was close enough that I could use it as a country retreat. And no small part of me was pleased and excited that Reed had recognized my contributions to his success. As for the partnership and the buyout….that was a bit too much to contemplate just yet.

I still hadn’t made my mind up about Reed, but with $1.5 million, even after taxes, I would have options. Lots of options. I made some mental calculations; fall was about 9 months away. If you can gestate a baby in nine months, maybe you could grow a future. I made a decision; I would stay here through the summer. The house and grounds needed some work, and I had enjoyed the peace and quiet. Our closest neighbors were over a mile away, and solitude felt good right now.

I looked around the dingy room. The house was a small, modest ranch house built in the late 1960s like many of the homes around here. There was a great room, consisting of open kitchen, living room, and dining area, large utility/craft room, and three bedrooms with two and ½ baths. It still had the original honey pine paneling, poured epoxy floors, and formica countertops, but the bones were good.

At some point, my mother’s simple early American furniture had been replaced and augmented by various garage sale finds, so the furnishings were pretty fleabitten. Plus, both Dad and Ruby had been pack rats, so there were stacks of old magazines, paperwork, etc. Still, a bit of elbow grease and some paint, and it could be a retreat. Besides, I needed a project, and decorating was my favorite kind. I wasn’t going to do anything extreme. I still needed to pay taxes on the house profits, and the buyout money was still hypothetical, so I didn’t want to spend a lot on fixing up the house. But it was in good shape, with a recently replaced roof. The appliances were also relatively new and in working order. And there were a lot of cheap fixes, including a good scrubbing, that would make a huge difference.

First things first, though. I needed to go the bank and the lawyer’s office. I decided to use the local ones Dad had used instead of driving all the way into Ruston, and both had available appointments this afternoon. After a quick shower, I headed to town where I was able to deposit my check and sign my paperwork. After that, I turned south to Ruston to pick up paint, primer, and supplies.

I spent the first week or so just cleaning out crap. I brought bags and bags of clothes to Goodwill. I hated the dinette set, but it was in excellent shape, so I brought to a consignment shop in Ruston where I traded it for credit on a simple, rusting iron bed frame and a long narrow wooden table that reminded me of the one from the Weasley farm in the Harry Potter movies. My only other purchase was a new mattress. I wanted to move from the room I was using to the master, but the current mattress was too big to fit the iron bed and in shitty shape to boot. I was able to sell on Craigslists the various recliners, sofas and loveseats that dotted the large room that created when my stepmother had the wall between living room and den removed. But still, there were stacks and stacks of magazines to be discarded. Desk drawers to go through. Hall and linen closets to purge. But after a lot of hard work, empty spaces emerged.

The guest room had already been empty when Ruby took her things, but I managed to clear everything out of the master as well. I moved one small chest that had been my mother’s into the room’s walk in closet, put the matching dresser in the guest room, and the hope chest in the living area to use as a side table. I kept the twin in the computer room, which I planned to use as an office, moving in my father’s massive wooden desk from the utility room. I had plans to strip and refinish it.

I had sold, given away, and donated everything that was in decent condition. I had recycled as much as possible, and I had made innumerable trips to the parish dump. Still though, before I could completely clean things out and start fresh, I was left with piles of debris. One of the good things about living so far in the country is that the trash burning laws didn’t apply to our farm. In fact, one of my regular chores as a child had been to bring the trash out to burn in one of the metal barrels my father had for that purpose. I couldn’t imagine the parents of my acquaintance sending their 8 year old out with a box of matches to purposefully set something on fire unsupervised. Probably for the best as I had spent one summer with a nasty burn mark on my thigh from getting too close to the hot barrel.

On a crisp, clear day in January, I dragged the last piles standing between me and priming out to the area my father had used for burning, where three almost empty barrels stood in a spot of bare earth. I had a water hose handy, a lawn chair, a book, and a thermos of coffee. I really wanted a large Solo cup of bourbon and Coke, but I hadn’t had anything to drink since the morning after the funeral. I had decided to give the whole charity thing a try, but I wasn’t really loving it. Oh well.

I was making good progress on my trash and my book, evidenced by the large plume of smoke rising to the sky when I noticed a truck driving up. It was a large four door one, pretty new, big and butch, but not one of those ridiculously large ones that make me think the owner must be compensating for a tiny penis. It pulled up to the house, the door opened, and a man got out.

A hot man. Even from a distance, I could tell he was hot. Not young, but with one of those tight bodies that scream military man. As he walked closer to me I realized who it was, though I hadn’t seen him in over twenty years. Chance Bruce. He was a couple of years older than me, but three years ahead of me in school since my parents had held me back from starting due to a childhood illness. He, his older brother, and parents had been our closest neighbors, about a mile up the road. We had played together a bit as kids, but his dad’s farm had been a much bigger operation, and Chance had started working full time there after school and during the summers as a preteen. And three years behind him in school had seemed like much more.

Still, he had always been really nice to me in high school, and I know he had helped shield me from hardcore bullying.

I had always thought well of him. In fact, I had a vague notion we were friends on Facebook, though I couldn’t really remember seeing anything he posted. Even before I saw him shirtless on that memorable May afternoon, Chance had definitely been my vote for the cutest boy in school. He had had a nice body then, though not as impressive as the muscular one he was sporting now, with thick tawny hair that had been almost the same color as his dusky tan complexion which had really set off his most striking feature, bright, clear aquamarine eyes,

He still had the tan, but the tawny hair was definitely not as thick. However the close crop he had chosen to deal with its thinning only emphasized the chiseled planes of his face and those incredible eyes. He was wearing a plaid flannel shirt tucked into worn jeans and looked like walking sex.

I, of course, looked like shit. I still hadn’t bothered to trim my beard or get a haircut. In fact, to get the hair out of my face, I had actually pulled the bangs and top into a man bun like some tragic aging hipster wannabe. Hell, I lived miles from most people and wasn’t expecting to be seen until my weekly trip to the Piggly Wiggly for more frozen pizza. I had also complemented my man bun with tattered jeans and a mexican blanket I was using as a poncho. A poncho for God’s sake. Mr. Sex was walking toward me, and I had a man bun and a poncho.

“Brandon?” he said, a questioning look on his face. I didn’t know whether to be upset he didn’t recognize me or relieved he seemed to realize this wasn’t how I normally looked.

“Hi, Chance. Long time, no see,” I said, trying to be casual as I unwrapped the pancho. I wasn’t as successful in my equally casual attempt to remove my man bun. In fact, the elastic caught in my hair, causing a knot, which in turn caused me to yelp.

“Here, let you help,” he said, stepping closer. I quivered in humiliation standing there as he untangled my hair. He smelled so good….woody and spicy and manly. Oh my God, I thought. Did I even shower today? Yesterday?

“There you go,” he said smoothing my hair down and handing me the elastic. “I saw the smoke and wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

“Just burning some trash.”

“Sorry about your dad. Mom and I would have like to have gone to the funeral, but, you know…”

“How is your mom? Still in the hospital, I suppose.” Miss Pauline, a tiny birdlike woman in her late 70s had fallen in a parking lot and had broken several bones, including her shoulder and pelvis. She was still in the hospital in Shreveport, and would be there indefinitely.

“How do you know about Mom?” he asked surprised.

“Are you kidding? I’ve been back here for weeks. I know everything. Dad had a constant stream of visitors and everybody who walked in the door had some gossip. The intelligence gathering in the town is amazing. The CIA and KGB are nothing to these people. Hell, I haven’t lived here in years, and I know Miss Pauline fell at a rehearsal dinner in Hot Springs where her son’s sister-in-law was getting married.”

“That is impressive,” he admitted.

“So how is she?”

“Getting better. Terrorizing the hospital.”

“That sounds like Miss Pauline. Would you like some coffee?”

“Sure.” He followed me toward the house. “I'm actually surprised you’re still here. I figured you’d be headed back to New Orleans as soon as possible after the funeral.”

“Well, I have some stuff to take care off first.”

“Where’s everything?” he asked as he walked in and noticed the empty room.

“Just doing some redecorating. But there are still bar stools.” I gestured to them as I walked to the kitchen to start a fresh pot of coffee.

“I can’t stay long,” he said as he took one. “But I’m glad I caught you. I don’t want to come off like a vulture, but I’m interested in buying some of Mr. Tommy’s equipment. I’m planning on doing a bit of farming, and Mom sold most of our stuff when my father died.”

“Sure. I can’t really do anything until the succession is final, which should be in a couple of weeks, but I don’t see why not.”

“Cool. If it’s okay, I’ll stop by tomorrow afternoon when I have more time and I can show you what I’m interested in and we can discuss price.”

“I’ll be here most of the day, so that good. Here, let me give you my number.” We did the number exchange, and I poured him a cup. He also took his black, which was a relief, as I had neither sugar nor milk, something that had not occurred to me when I had offered coffee.

“One more thing. It’s still a ways away, but do you have any plans for the Mayhaws?”

“Mayhaws?” I’m sure my face looked as blank as my mind. Mayhaws…..who the fuck were the Mayhaws?

“Mayhaws. You know, the berries. The ones you make jelly with. Your dad has a bunch of Mayhaw trees. They’ll be ripe in a couple of months.”

The light clicked on. It had been years since I had thought about Mayhaw jelly, though it was delicious. “I really need to let Ruby have first dibs, but if she’s not interested, sure you can have them. But will your mother be up to making jelly by then?”

He laughed. “For a gay guy, you’re thinking in stereotypes. I’m the one who will be making the jelly.”

“You cook?”

“That’s what I did in the navy. I started out cooking on ships, but I was working on banquets and big events by the time I retired.”

Something he had said earlier registered. “How did you know I’m gay?”

He gave me a pitying look. “Are you serious? You just told me how good the intelligence is here. Even if you hadn’t come out at a university only 30 or so miles away, you’ve brought your boyfriend here on multiple occasions. You even held hands at the funeral. Besides, you’re friends with a lot of people from high school, including me, on Facebook. And, dude, your Facebook is really gay.”

I opened my mouth, and then closed it. I had never, since coming out, been ashamed of being gay, but I had really thought I had been discreet during my visits home. But come to think of it, there had definitely been a particular inflection when people visiting dad had asked about my friend. “Touche’” I said.

“So how is your boyfriend. Is he okay with you staying up here?”

“Well….it’s…..it’s complicated. I guess officially we’re….I don’t know…...separated?”

“That’s a shame. Well, I need to be heading on.”

As I walked him to the door, I had a brainstorm. The new mattress was coming tomorrow, and if Chance helped me load the old one in my pickup, I could drop it off at the dump and avoid the hefty removal fee from the mattress store..

“Before you go, could you help me with something in the bedroom? I promise it will be quick.”

Chance turned and gave me an odd look with a raised eyebrow. “Exactly what kind of bedroom problem are you having, and what makes you think I can help you with it?”

It took me a second to catch the double entendre of both his and my questions, and I blushed so hard it physically hurt. And then, I started freaking out a little. I mean this was where I was raised, and I didn’t think it was some sort of bastion of homophobia, but I couldn’t pretend being gay in the rural south didn’t have its potential dangers. What if he really thought I was propositioning him? Was he one of those straight guys that snap and beat up queers and then claims the gay panic defense?

“Dude,” he said noticing my distress. “Are you okay? Is something wrong?”

Forcing myself to calm down, I explained I needed help with removing the old mattress, and it only took a few minutes before it and the box springs were secured in Dad’s old pickup.

“Thanks,” I said.

“No problem. I do want to know though, what happened in there. You were fine, and then I made that bedroom crack, and you looked like you were about to freak out.”

I blushed again. Embarrassed, I haltingly explained myself. He actually laughed, which put me at ease.

“I can assure you that I don’t as a general rule go around beating up people, gay or otherwise. Besides,” he said, his eyes twinkling as he leaned closer to me, his deep voicing dropping to a husy whisker, “who ever said I was straight?”

He laughed again as my jaw dropped, and then turned and walked to his truck.