Two Boys Kissing(23)
Harry knows the answer, but he has to ask, anyway.
Do you want to stop and talk to her?
Craig shakes his head slightly, their lips still touching.
No. We’re going to do this.
Meanwhile, Harry’s mother has brought her own phone over to show Craig’s mother the thousands of comments that have been left in support of Harry and Craig so far. There are close to four thousand people watching, cheering them on.
“I know you don’t know me,” Harry’s mother tells her, “but we definitely have something in common.”
This time when she offers her hand, Craig’s mother holds it, squeezes it once before letting go.
It is hard to stop seeing your son as a son and to start seeing him as a human being.
It is hard to stop seeing your parents as parents and to start seeing them as human beings.
It’s a two-sided transition, and very few people manage it gracefully.
It’s sometimes easier with aunts.
Ryan’s aunt Caitlin gives Avery and Ryan some pink lemonade and some freshly baked oatmeal raisin cookies. Countless times, Ryan has sat at this kitchen table when the world has felt like too much for him, when he’s wanted to sit inside a house that fully felt like a home. We’ve all done this—created our mix-and-match families, our homemade safety nets. This table, he thinks, has seen so much of his anguish. But now, with Avery, it’s witnessing the opposite of anguish. The table’s presence makes it more real, because it makes it more a part of Ryan’s life.
Caitlin is the girl we would’ve let ourselves be paired with, if we were going to be paired with a girl. After years of trying to rise in the world of corporate insurance, she quit and is now going for her library degree. Her sense of humor is indistinguishable from her sense of self. And her love for Ryan is the most unconditional love he will ever feel. It is unfreighted by expectations, untempered by motives. All she has to do is like him, and love him, and both are things she does well. Her responsibility to him is completely voluntary, and that’s what makes it matter.
Avery wants to make a good impression, and is too nervous to realize this won’t be hard. When Caitlin asks how they met, he turns it into the longest story in the history of humankind, telling her everything short of the amount of gas that was left in his tank after the drive home to Marigold. Halfway through, he knows he’s talking too much, but Ryan and Caitlin don’t seem to notice it as much as he does, so he goes on. When it’s over, Caitlin asks, “And this was how many weeks ago?” It’s Ryan who smiles and says, “This was all last night.”
“It makes sense,” Caitlin says. “With some people, the minute you start talking, it feels like you’ve known them for years. It only means that you were supposed to meet sooner. You’re feeling all the time you should’ve known each other, but didn’t. That time still counts. You can definitely feel it.”
Avery knows he should be trying to get Ryan away, should be trying to get him alone, get him close enough to kiss. Time is quietly ticking down to the moment he’ll have to leave—he promised his mother he’d be home before dark. But he is enjoying the company, the lemonade, the cookies. He feels it’s probably wrong to think of this as more worthy than kissing and making out. But right now, it is.
“Do you want to see some embarrassing photos of Ryan dressed up as Britney Spears for Halloween?” Caitlin asks.
How can Avery say no?
Meanwhile, Cooper has been chatting with Antimatter for almost an hour. As far as Antimatter knows, Cooper is a nineteen-year-old student at the local county college. He’s majoring in finance and has two roommates, one of whom is a drunk. Antimatter doesn’t question this, and says that he’s just gotten his own place and is working as the manager of a coffee shop. He’s a painter, too, but there hasn’t been much money in that so far. Cooper used to want to be a painter, and finds himself telling Antimatter this. Antimatter asks what happened, and Cooper says he lost interest. Story of my life, Cooper tells him. Antimatter responds, Story isn’t over yet.
Cooper is a little interested and a little bored. To up the ante, he sends a shirtless pic to Antimatter, and Antimatter responds in kind. He’s got a great body. Cooper asks him if he wants to meet up. Antimatter says sure—maybe after dinner? Cooper wonders what dinner plans Antimatter has, but doesn’t ask. He just says that’d be fine. He suggests the Starbucks he’s sitting in. Antimatter says that will work, as long as they don’t have to drink the coffee. Cooper, who’s already had three, is okay with that.
Now that the date is set, Antimatter says he probably should go do some IRL things.
But before I go … what’s your name?
Drake, Cooper answers.
Hi, Drake. I’m Julian.
Cooper can’t help it—he liked him better as Antimatter.
But he doesn’t cancel the meet-up. It would be stupid to cancel over something as dumb as a name.
When you have been dead as long as we have, you begin to see all the angles that existed in your life, especially the ones you were too blind to see at the time. You have plenty of time to chart the paths of your major and minor mistakes, and to have a newfound sympathy for the mistakes other people make. At times, we were helpless, it’s true. But other times we were heartless. We screwed ourselves up, screwed other people over, said words we didn’t know would hurt, said words precisely because we knew they would wound. Even after what we went through, no retroactive saintliness can be granted. We understand our fuck ups more now from a distance, but that doesn’t make them any less real.