"I just...thought," she said. “Mom’s intuition.”
Miller squeezed my hand under the table, and he almost cried again.
Dad, of course, had no idea about me. He asked if my mom knew, and all I could do was shrug.
My eyes sting now, in the privacy of darkness. I have a fucking dad who's not a fucking bigot.
What they said to us was fucking perfect. I think Dad's exact words were, "Be safe, respect each other. If you break up, nobody has to move out, so don't ask us for that. Be mature and figure out how to share the bathroom. I think if you break up, no post-breakup boyfriends at the house..."
Suzanne agreed.
They said they didn't want us hiding.
"You're both over-age, after all."
They didn't even fucking say "don't share a bed." Nothing like that. When we got up from the table, they both hugged both of us, and Dad murmured he was proud of me. Like he could tell I had wanted to protect Miller from them.
I can't even think about him saying that without getting fucked up. I feel so...old. And sad. Like, I should feel so free now, but it’s the total fucking opposite. I realize everything about me will always be marked by…what happened to me. Like that shit's all I am, and this with Miller, this with my dad and Suzanne being accepting—it's just playing pretend. Isn't real.
I can't have a real life like other people. How can I? I'm so fucked up. Every part of me is damaged somehow.
Then tears start to streak down my cheeks, and it hits me, the real gut-punch: I could have come here.
I went through all that shit when I could have simply moved in with Dad.
I didn't know.
I think about this comfy bed below me. I think about where I was. It seems wrong—so fucking wrong—that my dad doesn't even care I’m gay. My whole life could have been different.
I shut my eyes and try to focus on the weight of Miller's arm around me. Miller wants you. Your dad loves you. Everything's okay, Ezra.
I'm just...fucking sad. Christ.
I tell myself that it'll go away.
I stay awake till almost 3, and I look down at my arm, at what Miller drew. I want to do something like that for him. I let myself sleep, but set my phone alarm a little early. Miller is a heavy sleeper—unless I wake him up. By the time the alarm goes off, we're both on our backs, so I'm able to slip out of the bed and grab a pen out of his desk drawer.
I pick a smooth, pale spot on the inside of his forearm, near the crease of his elbow—where he left my already-fading infinity sign—and draw an angel with big wings, a halo, and some freckles.
The tickling of the pen's tip wakes him. He looks down and grins. All I can think is that he isn't mine to keep. There’s no way to believe all this…mirage shit. Life’s not that good.
I fight with myself in my head about it. Desperate to believe…but I can’t.
Dad and Suzanne are nice to us on Sunday. Suzanne cooks pancakes, and after that, Miller and I go out on the boat.
We end up in its belly on a blanket, looking up at the trees that hang over an isolated little inlet.
"I can't believe that's how it went down," he laughs.
"I know. Seems too good to be true."
"But it's not, angel. I promise. It's not."
Peace.
It's not the thing I thought it would be. It's not out of reach or unrealistic. Doesn't involve a different life, or turning into someone else.
It's...really small stuff. Like, I still have nightmares—this week, almost every night—but he's always right there. Miller. When I wake up, I see him, I feel his arms around me, and I come out of it. Leave it behind.
Football season's winding down, and it's been great. I can't deny that. What I like the most, though, isn't all the scouts and scoring touchdowns. (Although I do like that shit). I love the little stuff that's the same every game. Like all the rituals our team has—putting Pop Rocks in Brennan's locker—and the dumb halftime jokes. Walking out of the locker room to see Miller, and how we always race to my Jeep and drive straight to the old baseball fields.
Every Sunday, Suzanne makes us pancakes. At some point, she adds chocolate chips, and I liked them, so for a while, every Sunday they would get more chocolatey—with chocolate syrup and then whipped cream, and then those chocolate flakes those lunatics put in their "smoothies." I call them chocolate deathcakes, but I can't help eating four or five, covered in syrup.
I've been bulking the fuck up—even more than before. Miller and I work out on his bench in his room every other day, and I've got at least twenty pounds of muscle that I didn't have when I moved down here. Miller's gotten thicker, too. And tighter. He’s been working out with the team.