Branson
School is officiallyout for Thanksgiving break, and Luca and I are getting ready to head out. We are driving to Bellingham today to stay with our parents for the long weekend. It’s only Wednesday, but most professors canceled their classes today, so we get to leave earlier than we originally planned.
I’m excited to see my mom and Andrew. They came to visit the first weekend of school, but that was months ago, so it’ll be nice to spend some quality time as a family.
Thanksgiving is usually a big ordeal in our house. My grandparents come down from Canada and Luca’s grandparents fly in from Arizona. His uncle typically drives up, too; he and wife number three live in Bellevue with her two kids. I’ve only met her a few times. They met my senior year of high school and got married last year, during my freshman year at WSU. She seems nice, but she has a close relationship with prescription pills and wine.
My mom goes all out with the full Thanksgiving spread each year, including turkey and ham, mashed potatoes and gravy, homemade stuffing, cranberry sauce, homemade rolls, and several different pies. She has always enjoyed cooking and hosting dinner parties; I absolutely get my extroverted behavior from her.
I’m finishing bringing my duffle bag downstairs when I see Luca come in from outside. He must be loading his jeep up with his stuff for the weekend. We decided it would be smarter for us to take his Wrangler versus my Audi. We have to drive over the mountain pass, and the weather can be questionable this time of year. His ride handles the snow and ice better than mine, so it was an easy choice. Plus, he said he wanted to try to go mudding while we’re back home.
“The Jeep’s unlocked if you want to toss your stuff in. I’m going to take a piss real quick before we head out. I’ll meet you out there.”
After we hit the road, I flip through my Spotify to find some music. Music has always been a huge part of my life. There isn’t a single memory in my mind where music didn’t play some role—playing in the band for fun with Weston and Knox, putting on headphones, blaring music and working out, expressing feelings that are hard to vocalize. Music says it all for me: happy, sad, angry, there’s a song for it.
I settle for one of my favorite songs, DiE4u by Bring Me The Horizon, and it pours out through the speakers. Luca starts doing finger drums against the steering wheel and we both zone out and listen. We easily have a five-hour drive ahead of us, longer if the weather is bad.
We stop at a gas station, right before we hit the pass, to use the bathroom and grab reinforcements. Luca grabs a bag of Cheez-Its, some gummy worms, and a blue razz Bang, while I grab potato chips, some chocolate, and a mocha.
Road snacks are great—road head would be better, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers.
The pass is horrendous. It snowed several inches overnight, and it’s still falling. It was a good call to take the Jeep. The snowplow trucks come through here frequently, and there are plowed piles of snow easily over three feet tall on the shoulders. Milky white clouds float around the snow-hooded mountains on either side of us, with cars pulled off on the side of the road to put chains on their tires. The flakes coming down are thick, making seeing in front of us next to impossible. The only thing that would make this situation worse is if it were dark out.
We take turns choosing songs for the remainder of the trip, singing to them loudly as if the dash was our audience. Once we make it over the pass, we fall into easy conversation about life, school, and this weekend. Call me a masochist, but I can’t help the question that falls out of my mouth, “So, what’s going on with you and Courtney?”
“What do you mean?” His confused eyes meet mine quickly before returning to the road.
It’s stupid even having this conversation with him. They’re obviously together and that’s that. After we fell asleep together the night of the party, feelings blossomed inside of me, whether I’m willing to admit it or not.
“You guys good? The night of the party, I just got the impression that you didn’t really know why you guys are still together.”
“We’re… okay, I guess. Haven’t really talked much since the party. Kind of usual for us.”
“Right on,” I grumble, awkwardly nodding my head.
Looking ahead, I can feel his gaze on the side of my head. He’ll look at me, look back at the road, then look at me again. The air is stuffy and thick with tension, as if he wants to say something, but isn’t sure. Finally, he says, “How… uh. Never mind.”
“No, man. Say it. How what?”
Sighing, he runs a hand over his face before bringing it back to the steering wheel. “Have you always known you were gay?”
My head snaps to his, and I’m met with the side of his head. He won’t look at me. This is the last thing I thought he’d ask me. Have I always known I was gay? Where the fuck did that come from? “Pretty much, yeah. Girls never held my attention the way they did with most of my friends. Guys did. It was pretty easy to figure out.”
“Do you think it’s like that for everyone?” he asks. His left knee is bouncing up and down and he’s chewing on his bottom lip. Fuck! What I’d give to bite that bottom lip myself.
“Probably not. Some people know right away, others don’t figure it out until way later in life. Why?”
“Oh, uhm. J-just curious. No reason.”
He turns the music back up and the conversation dies. Putting us both out of our misery, I rest my head on the window and pretend to be asleep for the rest of the drive. It only takes about another half hour until we arrive. He slaps my arm to wake me as he’s climbing out.
Based on the cars in the driveway, my grandparents are already here. There’s a two-bedroom, two-bathroom guesthouse, complete with a living room, in the backyard, where both sets of grandparents will stay while they’re here. Luca’s uncle, if he comes, won’t spend the night. He lives close enough that he always drives to and from the same night.
Walking into the house, we are engulfed in the delicious scent of Mom’s baking. She always makes the desserts the night before. Helping her in the kitchen during Thanksgiving and Christmas are some of my favorite memories from my childhood.
When I was really little, like five or six, I can recall the baking and cooking being a family affair. My dad and I used to work side by side, acting as assistants to my mom. One year stands out the most in my memory. My grandparents couldn’t make it for Thanksgiving, as they both caught the flu the week of. My mom was sad about them not being able to come, and she didn’t know if she wanted to bake all the desserts and make the whole dinner for just us three. My dad told my mom to go rest for a bit and he told me he wanted us to surprise her.
While he and I had helped her several times over the years, we had never done the full spread ourselves. We ended up baking a couple of pies successfully—apple and pumpkin—and the ham turned out okay, but the mashed potatoes were soupy, and our rolls didn’t rise.
We were both covered in sweat and flour, and half of our dinner didn’t turn out right, but when Mom came into the kitchen and saw what we had done, I’d never seen her look so happy. She burst into tears and hugged us both. We all ate our semi-gross dinner together and spent the rest of the night watching Christmas movies next to the fire with hot chocolate.
I remember falling asleep, lying on the couch with them both in the living room, feeling so happy and so loved. It’s memories like that, that sometimes make me feel guilty for not being sad about Dad being gone. We have many more good years than bad years, but the bad years heavily overshadow the good ones.
Memories of pill bottles, syringes, and fists flying still haunt my dreams from time to time.
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