Between the Shadow and the Soul - 14. This Has to Stop

September 24, 2016

The three of us laughed uncontrollably. We were watching Monty Python and the Holy Grail while passing around our second fatty of the night.

Sitting on the couch, Kyle to my left with a bottle of water and Nate to my right, the two of us sipping beer, we passed the joint up and down the line without looking away from the television.

Despite the cool weather outside, Basketball Boy had removed his shirt the moment I started rolling the first joint. "Don't wanna go home smelling like weed," he'd said, his predictable explanation. I wasn't buying it anymore, at least not as a complete reason. He had ulterior motives and I knew it.

Of course he sat close enough to keep his shoulder against mine. He also kept moving his leg from time to time, rubbing it against me, though it might've been random, unconscious even. I doubted it.

I'm stressed enough to spit nails.

But you don't chew your nails.

Shut up!

"Dude, wait for it. The killer rabbit's coming!" Nate announced with hearty enthusiasm.

"Fetch the holy hand grenade!" Kyle said in a horribly fake accent. Which sent us into fits and giggles.

When Kyle's laughter caused him to lean against me more heavily, I accepted it with quiet resignation.

This has to stop.

Yes, you're right.

Then say something.

I can't yet.

Nate nearly fell off the couch from his raucous giggling as Kyle continued trying to quote the movie in his positively terrible accent. An actor he was not.

In the end we were too distracted by laughter at Kyle's antics to catch the scene with the killer rabbit and the holy hand grenade. But none of us regretted it or felt cheated.

When the credits started, Kyle stood and stretched, said, "I have to head home."

"Ah, man," Nate started as he put out the roach in the ashtray, "what time is it?"

"Almost eleven," I answered.

When I looked up, Kyle was looking down at me. He caught my eye, smiled, then headed to the kitchen to dispose of his empty water bottle.

"We have to do this again."

My best friend elbowed me and agreed, "You got that right. Too much fun."

"Mars Attacks! next time."

"Which is only good when you're stoned!" Nate declared.

Coming back from the kitchen, Basketball Boy stopped by the coffee table and asked me, "Can I put on some cologne?"

I took a quick sniff and felt chagrined. Other than the smell of the joints we'd smoked and the cologne-scented candles burning around the living room and kitchen, I couldn't detect any other scents.

"Right now you probably smell like Tommy Hilfiger's marijuana grove after a wildfire," Nate mentioned with a stoned snicker.

Again the three of us laughed and giggled and tittered like idiots. It was nice.

"Yeah, he might need a little something to cover the aroma," I finally admitted, then to Kyle: "Go on up. You know where it is."

"Which one should I use?" He sniffed dramatically as he gestured up and down his bare torso. "Which one's strong enough?"

"The only thing that'll cover this smell is if the fire department came and hosed him down with turpentine," Nate pointed out facetiously as he took his empty beer bottle to the kitchen.

"Use a little of the Claiborne Sport," I told Basketball Boy. "Not too much, though. It's strong enough to help but you don't want to make it obvious you're covering something."

Nate laughed as he asked, "Won't that already be obvious?"

"Uh, yeah. Like I left home not smelling like cologne I don't own but I came home smelling like cologne I don't own."

"You repeat yourself!" I interjected, clearly needing to mention the obvious.

"Who?" Basketball Boy asked.

"You," Nate replied.

"When?"

"What?" I was getting confused.

Dumbfounded looks abounded as we glanced back and forth between the three of us. Then another round of uproarious weed-induced laughing ensued.

Through my chuckles I gestured at Kyle and told him, "Go upstairs and put on some Claiborne Sport or we'll be at this all night."

He nodded despite his giggles before turning and bounding up the stairs. Somewhere in the middle he tripped and stumbled, then he bounced off the wall at the top as he made the turn toward the master suite. Which left Nate and I in stitches.

"Right," my best friend snickered, "because no one will notice he can't walk as long as he comes home smelling like cologne."

"And did you see his eyes?" I asked with as much shock as I could get through my dopey chuckles.

"Glassy and red."

"Think cologne'll cover that up?"

And thus erupted yet more merry chortles.

Back down the stairs he came. Realizing I had to see him out so I could close the garage door and lock up for the night, I dragged my sedate ass off the couch and followed Basketball Boy toward the kitchen where he'd dropped his jacket and sweatshirt.

Did he push his sweats down while he was up there? They're barely hanging on his hips.

That dirty-minded little scoundrel!

I knew I'd have to talk to him soon. His flirting was becoming less than subtle and more than tolerable.

I can deal with it just a little longer.

No progress is worth this.

It's not my progress I'm concerned about.

I kept reminding myself that as much as Kyle's newfound sexual interest disquieted me, being ill at ease was forcing me to focus on the blind spot, to see through it, to penetrate its depths.

So you are concerned about your own progress.

It's a secondary consideration.

I could hear Nate bounding up the stairs as Kyle and I reached the kitchen.

Spinning on his heals and stepping too close to me, he asked in a hushed tone, "Do you think the cologne worked?"

Huh? Of course it didn't! No one thought it would.

The question's rhetorical, you idiot.

Oh. Right.

I gave a cursory sniff before saying, "As long as you don't stop to chat you'll be okay." Then I scooted back a bit in what I hoped was a furtive way.

But he noticed. He looked foiled by circumstances. Something akin to disappointment coupled with resolve flitted across his face, then he grinned and said gently, "I gotta head out."

You damn sure got that right!

Oh hush already.

I stood silently as he put on his sweatshirt followed by his coat. Duly suited to face the chilled night, he thanked me for a great evening, told me he'd had a blast, agreed we should do movie night more often as long as we could find similarly silly entertainment, and thanked me for the cologne.

After assuring him Nate and I had enjoyed it as well, I walked him out before closing up the house for the night and heading to bed.

* * * * *

September 30, 2016

"Kyle's spending more time here since he broke up with his girlfriend," Nate declared as he sipped his beer.

Once I finished swallowing a bite of dinner I said, "I noticed."

And I had. He spent time with us watching TV, shooting the shit, getting stoned, even having the occasional beer. I figured if I was going to host a kid while he smoked weed, tossing in a beer from time to time couldn't make the situation any worse.

"We're promoting the delinquency of a minor," Nate had said facetiously the first time I'd offered a dark ale to Basketball Boy.

"No we're not," I'd responded. "He was already a delinquent when we met him. We're just giving him a safe place to entertain his demons."

He had dinner with us a few times each week. I took him places when I could. We still went to the gym together five days out of seven. I'd leave the office in time to pick him up at school, then off we'd go. Afterward, if necessary, I'd return to work.

"Not that I mind that he's here so much," Nate explained, carrying his empty dishes to the sink. "I like the kid. He's fun, cool to hang with, you know?"

"I think most of your pleasure has come from watching me squirm and fumble and stutter and otherwise wallow in misery."

"More like making a fool of yourself." Then he gave me a considering stare, eyes squinted just a bit.

"What?"

"What what?"

"The look."

"What look?"

"Come on, Nate. You know the look. The one that says you have something to say."

He gave a little flippant shrug, as if it wasn't all that important, yet he still said, "But you're doing better. A lot better."

"I'm glad someone's noticed."

"You've noticed, right?"

After a wee pause to set my dishes in the sink and give the question due consideration I admitted, "Actually, yes."

Inside my head as always, my best friend prompted, "But?"

"There's no quick fix. It'll take time before it's behind me."

"Meaning?"

"I guess I mean it's still up and down, still hot and cold, but I'm getting over it. I want Kyle around as a friend and I want to move on from what's defined me for so long. He's helped."

"Yeah, but sometimes you went into it kicking and screaming."

"I never assumed any of this would be easy. But something had to break, something had to change. Kyle just brought it to the forefront of my mind."

"Brought what?"

"The realization that it had to stop, all that crap I was carrying around and dealing with, all the fear and pain, all the denial, the self-deception. It had to stop."

And I had to know. Oh flying fuck I had to know what I'd hidden from myself so long ago that I'd actually forgotten it was ever there. What I'm finding buried beneath that damned blind spot is—

"What's going on in your head?"

My eyes snapped to his face, my expression one of undeniable surprise. Nate wasn't in my head like he'd been for more than twenty years. So much of the time he seemed psychic, able to read my thoughts, but this time he was on the outside looking in.

"Your ESP tuned to a different frequency this evening?" I asked with not a little skepticism in my voice.

"Hell no, G-Man, it's just your head's so full of gibberish that sometimes all I get is static." The levity in his voice couldn't veil the rattled worry beneath it.

He's flustered. I think that hurt his feelings, that he suddenly wasn't in my head.

There are some thoughts he needn't hear.

Has it occurred to you that you might not be the only one in denial?

Fuck me running...

Again Nate asked, "Really, what're you thinking? It looks important."

Waving away his question I replied, "Nothing, dude. Just thinking about stuff I have to do at work."

Liar.

"Liar," Nate echoed, but there was no venom in the accusation. Mostly it was disbelief and confusion. That and resignation, which was also written all over his face.

I'd shut him out somehow. I didn't know how, but somehow I'd cut him off from the flow of my thoughts. And it all had to do with the continued downfall of my blind spot.

Was Richard right about this? I flinched at the thought.

With the dishes properly stowed and the kitchen and dining room clean, I grabbed a beer and headed toward the stairs.

"Have you talked to Kyle yet? About the flirting?"

Near the bottom of the stairway I spun around. Nate was still standing in the kitchen, leaning against the bar, his face communicating his worry and disappointment. He knew something had changed between us, though he didn't know what or why.

"Not yet."

"Why not?"

"It's not time yet."

"What?" he nearly shouted.

"Trust me, Little Big Man, as much as it bothers me, it's actually helping. Little by little it bothers me less. I can't go my whole life being freaked out when something like this happens."

He considered me with eagle eyes, his scrutiny frightening for what he might discover.

"I thought you said it has to stop."

"I did. It does. And it will. Soon, I promise. For now, though, it's pushing me to tear down my blind spot, having to see into it and around it and beyond it. Besides..." I shrugged with the last word, like what else I had to say should be obvious.

"What?"

"I know what I'm doing."

"Fighting nausea and cold sweats and the very strong desire to flee, to run away, to escape? Yeah, I know what you're doing, too."

"Like I said, it's getting better."

"You don't learn to survive a fire by repeatedly burning yourself. That's the dumbest idea ever!"

"But a body learns to fight allergens through small repeated exposures. So there!"

Nate gave me a considered look before saying, "I'd call you selfish for misleading him like this except there's another reason, isn't there?"

"Yes." I let the word hang between us, a complete answer and a complete sentence that didn't clarify a damn thing.

"Something a little more altruistic maybe?" he prompted.

I huffed out a frustrated sigh, as though Nate should've already figured out the biggest obstacle. Then: "Kyle hasn't said anything about his sexuality. He hasn't declared a major, as it were, whether that be bi or gay or just confused teenager."

"And...?"

"If I bring up the flirting, it forces his hand, possibly before he's ready."

Nate was already nodding, a look of growing realization spreading across his face.

It was my turn to prompt when I asked, "Which means...?"

"He might not even be fully aware of what he's doing."

"Or he might not be ready to face it despite his actions."

"And rubbing his nose in it could do some serious harm."

"That's the way I figure it." And, to my mind at least, that ended the conversation, so I turned back toward the stairs.

When my foot landed on the bottom step I heard, "You haven't been on a date in a while."

"Random much?" I responded sarcastically, pausing to look back at him. "I noticed that as well. And thanks for reminding me that my love life sucks right now. I'd almost forgotten."

Nate smirked, but it came with a hint of confusion. Again. I could see the concentration despite his efforts to appear relaxed and casual.

"I said you haven't been on a date in a while. I didn't say anything about your love life."

Get out of my head!

My brows knitted and my forehead turned into a wrinkled mass of concern. The conversation had veered too close to what I was discovering lay hidden inside my mind's shadowy realm, what I'd pushed into that place so long ago.

"Maybe Keigan will change the dating situation," I offered noncommittally. Without another word I headed upstairs.

* * * * *

October 3, 2016

"What a dreary Monday," Keigan groaned disgustedly.

"Huh?"

Motioning toward the windows facing the parking lot outside Starbucks he repeated, "I said, sir, it's a dreary Monday."

"A little rain does not a dreary day make."

"You like this weather, don't you?"

"This is Texas. We spend six months out of the year being hot and miserable. So sue me if I prefer it when the weather's anything but."

"To each their own, I guess..." His tone was playful, mockingly deriding even as his eyes twinkled and he used his coffee to hide his grin. But it wasn't wide enough to hide his dimples.

To each their own. That's it right there, isn't it? Here I sit with a gorgeous specimen of man and the whole time my thoughts aren't about the possibilities between us.

Once he set his cup down he asked, "So why aren't you dressed for work?"

"Long weekend," I grumbled before adding, "There's an executive leadership conference this week for the C-insert-letter-here-Os. No big deal, right? Happens once a year. Suddenly last Friday, in comes my boss telling me they have to have this, they have to have that, and they have to have it ready and there when the conference starts."

"When does it start?"

"About an hour ago."

"Ouch!"

"Right. And in New York City since that's so convenient."

"Damn," he said with a grimace.

"Right again. Once more we have evidence that the dumb fail upwards."

"Unrestrained capitalism at work."

"Precisely. The five things that define success in this system are appearance, appearance, appearance, who you know, and what you know."

"Cynical much?"

"Nope, just experienced." I took another sip of my coffee before adding, "No matter how hard I try to live by my professional credo, something like this makes me wonder if it'll ever stick."

Looking curious he asked, "What credo?"

"A simple rule that everyone should practice: Lack of planning on your part does not create an emergency on my part."

"How's that working for you?" he snickered.

"Not well, as this weekend demonstrates." Waving away the dour mood of the conversation, I brightened as I said, "Needless to say I burned the midnight oil with my department heads and most of their various teams, we got everything ready, then I shipped it up there with some employees to make sure nothing went wrong. In the end, lots of lost sleep and not a problem to be seen."

"I'm happy to hear it worked out. Sorry to hear of the trouble and the suck-filled weekend, but still happy it went well."

"Enough about dreary weather and dreary work debacles," I said dismissively. "What else can we talk about?"

"The theater."

"Could you possibly narrow that down a bit?" I asked with a smirk.

"Yes, Mr. Beaumont, I can in fact narrow that down a bit," he replied smartly.

"Snarky much?"

"Har har har, smartass." His grin belied his testy tone.

"If you're quite done avoiding your own topic, what specific theater or aspect of theater do you wish to discuss, Mr. Harrelson?"

He tried to bite back his chuckle but failed miserably, then attempted to make it a cough, which of course made me laugh.

"Be serious," he chastised with mischief in his eye.

"Right. Serious. Theater." I took a deep breath and rushed it out. Then: "Okay. I'm ready. Go."

Shaking his head as he grinned, he rolled his eyes before saying, "The theater we went to a week ago."

"When we saw Moonlight?"

"Yeah. What's the theater called?"

"I think it's Landmark's Inwood Theater. Or something like that. It's in the Inwood Village on Lover's Lane."

"I have to tell you, Greg, I loved that place! Martinis and a movie? Indie films on regularly? And all in an art deco theater? How'd you find the place?"

"Duh! It's a landmark, K."

"Oh hell, that was awful." Then he laughed with cheerful amusement.

"I told you the name of the place. You should've seen that coming."

"With you, yes, I should've seen it coming."

"As to your question, I grew up in Dallas, so it's the kind of place I heard about umpteen years ago, drove by countless times, and started visiting as soon as I was able and was aware of the kinds of films they showed. That it's such a cool theater with adult beverages was icing on the cake."

"Makes sense," he nodded.

Sipping my latte I recognized the close regard with which he watched me. A touch of concern in his eyes made me put my cup on the table before glancing down at my shirt, wiping imaginary dirt from it. "What? Do I have something on me?" Then I wiped my face for good measure in case the problem was there.

"No," he said a little too quickly.

I squinted in confusion. "Then what?"

"Nothing." Again too quickly.

"Not nothing. Clearly you have something on your mind. Spit it out before I'm forced to demonstrate my advanced interrogation techniques."

Waggling his eyebrows while donning a lascivious smirk, he gave a low yet audible moan before saying, "Don't tease lest you aim to please."

I couldn't help but laugh, though it was empty and almost mechanical. He caught it.

"Fine," he started, leaning forward a bit. Then in a more conspiratorial tone he asked, "Is something wrong?"

"No." Too quickly. Obviously I hadn't learned from his mistakes.

"Are you sure?"

I don't want to talk about this.

"Yes." Again too quickly. I was making a habit of dismissive responses.

"It's just that you seem... Well, I'm not sure. Preoccupied? Meditative? Brooding?"

I'm not ready to have this conversation.

"Just tired," I offered with a shrug that was more rejective than nonchalant.

"Are you sure?"

No, I'm not sure. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I'm fibbing. Blatant dishonesty happening here.

"It was a long weekend. That's all."

But that's not all, is it?

Of course not! Here I have this sensuous example of manhood sitting across the table from me and all I can think about is the fact that my emotions just aren't in it.

"You know you can talk to me about it if something's bothering you."

You wanted to know what was at the bottom of that mental abyss you called a blind spot.

Bah...

"I know. Really, though, it's just fatigue, both mental and physical. I'll be taking a serious nap when I get home."

Fuck! Why'd you say that?

The look on Keigan's face told me I'd made a mistake. On a few previous occasions when he'd mentioned needing a nap, I'd told him I was never one for naps because they messed up my schedule, that for me it was best to stay up until I could go to bed for the whole night. Throw in a nap and I'd sleep a few hours during the day but then I'd be up half the night trying to get back to sleep.

"Figure of speech," I lamely tossed out as an excuse.

His slight nod said acceptance while his squinted eyes and pursed lips called bullshit.

Distractedly glancing at his watch, his eyes widened as he muttered, "Oh shit," then he stood, pushing his chair in quickly before saying, "Sorry. I didn't realize it was so late. I should've been in the kitchen preparing to open at least thirty minutes ago. My employees will think I've abandoned the place."

I've never been more thankful for a simple timepiece.

"No worries. At least you don't have to drive anywhere in this 'dreary weather.'"

"I heard the quotes in that sentence."

"You were meant to!"

He smiled, took the last drink of coffee from his cup, then told me, "Gotta run. Thanks for a relaxing start to an otherwise dreary day."

"Catch you on the flip side, dude," I tossed back.

But as he walked away, he slowed to a stop before turning slowly to look at me, a myriad of thoughts trying to dominate his expression. Eventually the one that took control was reluctant acceptance.

Instead of saying anything, Keigan gave me a friendly nod and a smile that almost seemed disappointed. Then he dashed away before I could insult his taste in weather conditions or try to avoid his probing concern.

Once he was gone, I slumped in my chair as I finished my latte. I'd grab another before heading home.

"You idiot," I muttered under my breath.

This has to stop. If Keigan's noticed you can't get your mind in the game, you know everyone else is noticing. Especially...

"Yeah," I grumbled as I stood, "especially him."

* * * * *

October 8, 2016

"Can I talk to you about something?"

I looked at Kyle and immediately replied, "Sure. Grab your bag and bottle and come inside with me."

And so he did, following me from the garage into the house without a single word. Shoulders slumped and head bowed, he looked so meek and timid, a stark contrast to his normal in-your-face demeanor.

While I put my gym bag and water bottle on the bar in the kitchen, Basketball Boy proceeded to the living room where he dropped onto the couch with all the grace of a dead body.

I grabbed two beers from the refrigerator and opened them. Something told me he needed more than water at the moment.

Settling on the couch with him, turned in his direction, I handed him a bottle as I let my posture and expression communicate that I was ready to hear whatever he had to say. All I got for my effort was a blank stare and a fidgeting boy who couldn't decide where to put his hands or his feet, whether to cross his legs or leave them relaxed and casual, who repeatedly worked nonexistent cramps and cricks from his neck and spine.

"Not to rush you or anything, Kyle, but are you waiting for me to turn gray before you say something?" I said tongue-in-cheek, a friendly smile on my face.

His mouth opened, closed, opened again. Finally he sighed in defeat. Then took a healthy swig of dark ale. And promptly sighed again.

"Whatever it is, dude, you can talk to me about it. You know that, right?"

"Yeah," he replied with all the enthusiasm of a startled tree.

I gave him a few moments, waiting and watching, hoping he'd find the wherewithal to start the conversation he'd requested. Just when I'd decided I needed to push a little, he shrugged and said, "I think... I mean maybe... Well..."

Reaching over and giving his shoulder a light squeeze I told him, "It's all good, Kyle. Whatever it is you can just say it and we'll go from there."

"I know," he said with a shrug. "I feel like I can talk to you about anything."

"That's because you can."

"Then why is this so difficult? I keep thinking it has to end but it never does, so I decide to deal with it and it's even harder than I thought it would be."

"Some things just are. Difficult, I mean. Either we make them that way or the world makes them that way for us." With another squeeze to his shoulder I added, "Don't rush. Take your time. When you have the right words, that's where you start."

"I'm gay!" he blurted out, his eyes wide with shock, even embarrassment.

I couldn't muster a scandalized expression. He might as well have announced that shoes were made for feet.

With sincere support in my tone I replied, "I know."

His face puckered from top to bottom, clearly having expected a different response. "But... What? How?"

As I leaned back, I took a sip of beer before answering, "Call it gaydar, call it situational awareness, call it observational skills, call it whatever you want. The point is I suspected the night we met."

"What? Really?" His voice had gone up several octaves, his volume likewise increasing. After he puffed out an agitated breath, he lowered his voice as he regained control. "Seriously, though, you thought so when we met?"

I nodded. "Yeah. Little things you said and did plus an overall impression."

"Huh..." He looked as though I'd stolen his thunder, like he'd expected some other response to his declaration.

Not wanting the focus to be on how I might have known before he did I explained, "That's not really the point, is it? What you just told me is a big deal. Not because it's bad but because you're admitting a truth that can change the way people treat you, even people you think of as immune to whatever faults you might have."

After taking another sip of beer he mumbled, "I guess I know, at least a little."

"Knowing and experiencing are two different things, Kyle. The best you can do is be prepared. Because I assure you that at least one person close to you will probably react poorly to the news. And of those not close to you, the number will go way up."

Like his friend Duane?

I remember Teresa's concerns about him and his crowd.

"Like at school?"

"Yeah. Strangers will hate you because of who you are simply because they've been taught to hate what they don't understand or what they see as different."

"Like racists."

"Exactly."

"Shit..."

"Who have you told?"

"Just you."

I sat up and pulled him to me, not mindful of anything but supporting him. With my arms around him I hugged him tightly, stroking my hand across his back. His arms automatically encircled my larger frame as he leaned his head on my shoulder.

"Thank you," I mumbled into his ear, feeling a measure of emotion that was potent and memorable. "For trusting me," I added.

Then I grabbed his shoulders and gently pushed him away from me so I could see his face. Holding him in position, making sure he couldn't squirm loose.

"Thank you," I said again with more strength behind the words. "It's an honor and privilege to know you trust me enough to tell me first."

Ducking his head as a massive blush exploded over his features, even his ears turning red, he gave a little shrug. "You had to be first."

Huh? What? Why?

Releasing him and letting him settle back against the sofa's armrest, I leaned my shoulder against the back of the couch and looked at him, considering, then asked, "Why is that?"

"Well... I... You... I mean..." He shook his head, straightened his posture, sighed deeply, then tried again. "You're gay. I already knew that. And I knew you'd understand. Plus I have questions, need help knowing what to do, who to tell, when, how, what, all that shit."

There's something more. That was a lie of omission.

"Let me start by telling you that what you're doing is brave and meaningful. Never let anyone tell you otherwise. Whether you live your life out or selectively reveal your sexuality as you mature and gain experience and exposure is your business, so don't ever feel like you have to jump into this all at once."

Kyle watched me closely, absorbing my words, hanging on every syllable.

He needs this, you know. He needs you to help him, guide him, whatever. It's written all over his face.

Yeah, well, so is something else. Something we have to deal with if this sudden leap forward in his life is going to be at all successful.

"Let me also say that," I continued, "you're going to think this is a really strange question, but I have to ask for reasons I'll explain."

"What?"

"Are you sure?"

If confusion can be defined by a picture, it would look like Kyle's face at that moment.

Waving away whatever doubt he had about making this disclosure I quickly added, "You're fifteen going on sixteen in a month, you're in the throes or the end of puberty, it feels like your body's mutating into some kind of alien, a toxic mix of hormones continually floods your bloodstream, your emotions are probably in turmoil, and sexually you're all over the map, experimenting, wondering, thinking, fantasizing, trying. None of that's abnormal or unexpected and confusion is common. So I ask if you're sure because I want you to be certain that this is true rather than reactive."

He inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, that trademarked blank expression on his face again. At least that told me he was thinking.

I remained silent, watching him closely. Other than blinking and breathing, he didn't move. His eyes stayed locked on mine even though I wasn't sure he was seeing me so much as looking through me.

His mind might not be registering what his eyes are seeing. I happen to know from firsthand experience that a person can get so deeply into their own head that the outside world ceases to exist.

With the room hushed in a contemplative silence, Basketball Boy smiled.

So much for being too deep in his own head...

"What?" I asked.

"Did you think your body was mutating into some kind of alien?" he chuckled.

I had to laugh. Of all the considerations he might have pondered in those minutes doused with thoughtful silence...

"Well, actually," I started as I gained control of my laughter, "I did. Puberty for me started when I was eleven or so. At thirteen I was five six and weighed a hundred forty pounds. When I was fifteen I stood around five eleven and weighed a hundred fifty-five pounds and I had crops of hair popping up by the bushel. By the time I turned seventeen I stood six one—my current height—and weighed a hundred ninety pounds—my current weight, give or take—and my body had pretty much turned into what it is today. In all that time, though, my waist grew a whole two inches, from twenty-nine to thirty-one, even though my chest ballooned from thirty-one inches to forty-two. Oh, and my feet seemed normal but grew into water skis in the first few years, so I had these enormous clown pontoons flopping around at the ends of my legs for several years. At some point my arms grew but my legs didn't, so my knuckles dragged the ground. When my legs decided to catch up, it happened so quickly that I couldn't walk for months, always tripping and stumbling and wobbling on these giant stilts growing from my body."

He was laughing by then, trying to imagine me going through the awkward, gangling stages of puberty as all children do.

"So, yeah, Kyle, I was pretty sure I wasn't human, at least for a little while there, because no one part of my body seemed to be properly fitted to any other part of my body. At least until I hit seventeen, by which point everything had caught up with everything else and once again I looked like a human. But for a while there I wasn't real sure..."

After regaining his composure he announced, "The answer is yes."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"No doubts?"

"None at all."

"How long have you thought about this?"

"A couple years?" His face scrunched up again as he glanced at the ceiling, probably yanking out the old mental calculator to do some... well... some calculating. Then: "No, not two years. A little less, I suppose."

"How long have you suspected?"

"Even longer. More than a few years. Most of that was confusion, kinda like what you described; some of it was worry, thinking something was wrong with me; and the rest was knowing but denying."

"Ah, denial. I know how that works."

Kyle cocked his head to the side but I didn't give him a chance to ask the obvious question. Instead I preempted him by inquiring, "Do you intend to tell your parents?"

His hesitation was slight but noticeable.

"It can be difficult," I told him. "I came out when I was thirteen, as I told you, but I already knew my parents wouldn't care. I have a gay cousin and my father's best friend in college was gay. My parents always treated them like everyone else, asking about spouses or significant others, remembering birthdays, supporting them in their quest for equal rights, yadda yadda yadda.

"The point being that by the time I came out to my parents, it would've shocked the living hell out of me if they'd rejected me. There'd been too much evidence to the contrary for me to consider anything but acceptance. So when I came out to them, with a lot of Nate's encouragement and support, I did it assuming it would be 'oh, we already knew that' and then everybody moves on without thinking twice."

"Is that what happened?"

"Sure is. They both basically said, 'Gosh, we knew that years ago,' and my mom added, 'Now, what would you like for dinner?'" With a tickled smile I clarified, "In truth it was a bit more complex. They wanted to talk about bigotry and hate, about safe sex, about potential boyfriends, about bullying, about new rules for my bedroom door if I had a boy over, about a great many things, but the point is they not only accepted it with love and compassion, they were clearly prepared for it. That made it easy for me.

"The reason I ask if you intend to tell your parents is because I want you to know I'll support you and help if you want, even be there if you think it's best. But I'm also telling you you can rely on me, use my experience and knowledge, use my opinions, use my umpteen years of living this life to help you as you ease into it. Ask questions, ask for advice, ask for guidance, ask for help, cry on my shoulder or yell in my ear or pout on the couch while you escape from the world. However you look at it, I'm telling you I'm here for you."

Before he could say anything I offered an observation. "I don't know Gerald well enough to make an assumption but I think I know Teresa well enough to say your mom will support you."

Why'd you say that? If he asks if his mother has said anything, are you gonna lie to him?

Oops.

Instead he asked, "Are you going to tell Nate?"

"Absolutely not. It's not my story to tell. If you want me to tell him I can, but I think it's best if you do it. Part of coming to terms with your sexuality means coming to terms with how people deal with it. If you ever want to stop hiding who you are so you can be yourself, you have to tackle the coming out part with your head up and your eyes open.

"Besides," I added with a roll of my eyes, "I'm betting Nate already knows."

"What?" he nearly shouted.

"Calm down, dude," I chuckled. "Nate has better gaydar than anyone else I've ever met. If I picked up on it, you can bet he did."

There was fear in his eyes, even weariness, and a hint of reluctance kept percolating to the surface, bubbling amidst the other emotions he was feeling.

"Why does it have to feel like the end of the world?" he asked.

I grabbed his hand and squeezed it, letting support and affection flow from me to him, and I gave him a sympathetic look as I responded, "It feels that way because it's unfair. If a person's straight, they don't have to announce their sexuality to anybody. They don't have to worry about getting their ass kicked if they flirt with someone. They don't have to worry about violent confrontations if they hold hands with or kiss their significant other in public. They don't have to come out to anybody.

"So why do non-heterosexuals have to do it? Why do we have to fret and worry and make ourselves sick with terror every single time we consider telling someone we're not like most of the other children on the playground?

"You feel like this is a world-changing event in your life because the world has turned it into one when it shouldn't be anything of the sort. If someone sees you're married to a guy, instead of commenting about not knowing you're gay, they should respond the way they would if they saw a picture of you with a wife. You know, by asking something like 'Oh, is that your spouse? How long have you two been married?' But that's not how it works, at least not yet."

"I'm so scared."

"And, unfortunately, you should be. Not so terrified that you let it control you, but frightened enough to be watchful and mindful."

"Because somebody'll react badly, right?"

"You might never get beat up, you might never have your house vandalized or burned down, you might never fear for your life, but yeah, somebody will react badly. Maybe some friends will stop being friends—in which case they were never real friends to begin with—or maybe some family members will pretend you don't exist. There'll be bullying, snide comments, dirty looks, suspicion that you're up to no good if you're around children, all sorts of shit. Not a bit of it has anything to do with you, though, so remember that always. Every problem you encounter because of who you are is somebody else's problem, never yours."

* * * * *

Hours later Basketball Boy meandered home, emotionally drained yet enlivened, a bounce in his step, looking as though a tremendous weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Which had indeed happened.

"I should've said something about the flirting," I mumbled around my toothbrush.

No. That was totally the wrong time to deal with that. Let him tackle one obstacle successfully before you toss another one in his path.

It's deceptive. He probably thinks you're either blind or accepting.

I'll deal with it. Soon enough.

But it has to stop!

"And it will," I murmured before shutting myself up with mouthwash.