Date Me, Bryson Keller(55)

I dry myself off and get dressed in track pants and a T-shirt—my usual pajamas. I throw the towel in the laundry and head for my bedroom.

I startle at the sight of Mom standing there. “What are you doing here?”

I don’t notice what she’s holding at first. She turns then, and that’s when I see the strip of photos that I hid in my desk. Anger blooms in my chest over Mom invading my privacy and going through my things, but it’s soon swallowed up by fear. It’s the type of fear that seeps down deep into your bones and wraps around your heart.

    “What is this?” Mom asks. Her voice sounds hollow. It’s like she’s trying to make sense of something that she can’t really understand.

“Let me explain,” I say. My voice is a whisper. My eyes don’t leave the photos she holds. Since we took them on Thursday I’ve memorized every detail of them. “Please.”

Mom scrunches the photo strip in her hand. I start to make a move to stop her, but I fight the urge. The photos can’t be what’s important right now.

I open my mouth to deliver my monologue—the one I’ve been carefully crafting for years—but end up blurting out, “I’m gay, Mom.”

This isn’t at all how I imagined it. I’m not ready now. But maybe coming out is one of those things you can never truly be ready for because you can never truly know how anyone is going to react.

Mom stumbles back as if I’ve pushed her. She stares at me, tears in her eyes. It’s almost like she’s looking at a stranger. I break then. Tears spring to my own eyes. This is the moment I’ve been dreading my whole life. This is when everything changes.

“Impossible,” she says.

That one word destroys me more than a thousand would. My knees give out and I sag. If not for the wall at my back, I’d be on the floor—a puppet with my strings cut.

    Mom studies me like I’m some riddle she needs to solve. She reaches for the gold cross that dangles on her necklace. I can’t see this. I can’t watch her pray for me because I’m wrong, because I’m sinning.

I don’t want to see any of it. I can’t. I grab my phone from my nightstand and turn. Dad’s standing at my bedroom door. He reaches for me as I pass him. He places his hand on my shoulder. It’s all he can offer me.

And it isn’t enough.

I need words and actions to make me know that I’m still loved, that I’m accepted—to know that nothing has changed. I’m still the son that they’ve raised and loved for the last seventeen years. I’m the same person that they laughed with, that they hugged and kissed, that they cared for when I was sick.

I’m still the same son that an hour ago they were so proud of.

The only thing that’s different is they finally know that I like boys. It’s a small piece of me, and yet it is all they can see now. It is all they can focus on.

He lets me go and I stumble toward the stairs in a daze. Behind me I hear Mom sobbing. I wipe my tears from my cheeks as I race down the stairs. I leave the house and head outside into the chilly night.

I walk away from the driveway, and that is when it all hits me, crashes into me like a tsunami of emotion. Totally unavoidable.

I can’t hold any of it back.

    I rip at my seams and everything spills out: all my sadness, all my anger, all my fear.

I cry.

Alone.



* * *



? ? ?

Sometime later, when I’ve stitched myself back into the shape of a boy, I pull my phone out and send a message to the three musketeers group chat. No one answers, so I dial Donny’s number. It rings and rings. I try Priya and get the same response.

Of course they’re busy. It’s Saturday night. Not everyone’s night is a personal disaster. I check my phone again and find there are messages from Yazz and a missed call from Dad. My phone rings and I stare at Dad’s photo on the caller ID. It’s a family photo of us. In it we’re all happy. The sight brings tears to my eyes again. Home is not where I want to be right now.

I start to walk. I’m not sure where I’m going. Eventually I sit down on the curb. No one notices. I’m all alone.

My phone vibrates with a text from Bryson.

I’m sorry about what happened today. I’m worried about you. Are you okay?

Through blurred vision I type: Can you come get me?

His response is instant. My phone lights up with a call.

“Kai? What’s wrong?”

“I need you,” I say. My voice sounds as hollow and empty as I feel.

    “Where are you?”

“Oak Avenue. It’s the next street over from my house.”

“I’ll be right there.”

It doesn’t take long for Bryson to arrive. He doesn’t even bother to turn off the Jeep when he climbs out. “Kai, what’s going on?”

Tears spring to my eyes again and I struggle to blink them back. Bryson takes in my state. He studies my clothes, then my tear-streaked cheeks. From the look on his face, Bryson’s figured it out. He knows, or at least he has a pretty good guess as to why I’m out here on the street alone.

Bryson doesn’t say anything, though. Instead, he simply closes the space between us. He envelops me in a hug. He pats my back to soothe me. Even though my eyes are closed, the tears continue to fall. I cry in Bryson’s arms, and it is enough.