“I do. I write them down in a special journal. It keeps me accountable and ensures I don’t let myself down by skipping a day. So far, there are six hundred and forty-two consecutive entries.”
“So, today’s entry will say you spent time in this playhouse.”
I smiled at him. “Today’s entry will list all kinds of things, this included.”
“I think it’s remarkable that you do that.”
I spun the knobs on the fake stove built into the wall and said, “You just learned something about me. Now tell me something about you.”
“Like what?”
“What was the inspiration for this playhouse? Did you have one as a kid?”
“No. I wish I did, though. I would have spent all my free time there,” he said, with a note of wistfulness in his voice. “The reason I picked this particular design was because it reminded me of my sister Camille’s antique dollhouse. She never liked it, but I thought it was fantastic. I used to sneak into her room and play with it whenever I could.”
“What did you like about it?”
Wes considered the question. I was starting to realize this was a thing with him, pausing to think about what he wanted to say, instead of just blurting out anything like I did. After a few moments, he said, “Everything, really. I loved all the tiny things, the dishes, and books, and paintings on the walls. I also loved the fact that it was this perfect little world. It felt so…safe.” He looked embarrassed. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this, because I’d actually be mortified if you brought it up with my family. When my father caught me playing with it, he gave me a stern lecture about what was and wasn’t appropriate behavior for a boy.”
“I don’t think I’m going to like your father.”
“No, you probably won’t. Please try to get along with him, though. I’d prefer to avoid a lot of drama.”
“Don’t worry, I’m great at killing people with kindness. The worse they are, the thicker I pile it on. If your father is truly horrible, prepare for a kindness bloodbath.” He grinned at me, and after a few moments, I asked, “Out of curiosity, how does your dad feel about the fact that you’re gay?”
Wes turned his attention to the cuff of his shirt, which he began adjusting and readjusting. “My parents make a big show out of appearing supportive, especially where their social circle is concerned. Warren and I both came out in our early twenties, and we did it very publicly, so they couldn’t sweep it under the rug. To avoid embarrassment, my parents had to claim they were open-minded and accepting. In truth though, I know they’re disappointed, and if they could flip a switch and make us straight they’d do it in a heartbeat. Warren refuses to believe it, but to me it’s obvious. Maybe that’s because I’ve always been a disappointment to them, so I know exactly what it looks and feels like.”
“How could anyone be disappointed in you? You’re every parent’s wet dream!”
“I’m really not.” He shifted a bit so he was leaning against the wall of the playhouse and said, “Anyway, enough about them. What’s your family like?”
“As shitty as yours, but in a different way. Here’s a pathetic little story that pretty much sums it up.” I moved from the chair to the floor and said, “My parents divorced when I was seven, and they both ended up getting married again within a year. My mom married a guy named Bob, and they had two more sons. Meanwhile, my father and his new wife moved to Georgia and had three more kids. I barely heard from him after he moved away, so I started to think of Bob as my dad. But then, one day when we were at my brothers’ peewee baseball game I overheard him talking to another parent. Bob was saying how proud he was of his sons, and the lady asked him how many kids he had.”
I looked out the playhouse window at the soothing blue and white waiting room, and after a few moments, I continued, “He said he had two. At that point, he’d been married to my mom for eight years. That meant he’d been my dad longer than my biological father, but as far as he was concerned, I was nothing to him. If I’d been tough and athletic like my half-brothers, maybe Bob would have felt differently about me. But I was always small and kind of effeminate, and he hated that. He was always telling me to toughen up and ‘act like a man,’ which is such a dumb thing to say to a child.”
“I’m sorry, Ash.”
I tried to tell him the same thing I always told myself. “It was a long time ago, and it doesn’t really matter. Not anymore.” Then I pulled up a cheerful expression and said, “Anyway, that was a long way of saying I’m not close with my family. I moved to California as soon as I graduated from high school and still keep in touch with them, but our relationship has basically been reduced to calls on birthdays and a card at Christmas.”