Saugatuck Summer (Saugatuck, #1)(67)

His mouth twisted. “Do you want to know how many times I had to apply to get accepted to a decent art school? How long it took me to start getting shows? Fact is, if Robin hadn’t opened his gallery around the same time he hooked up with my best friend, I’d probably still be eating ramen noodles twice a day. I got lucky. But that’s the point.” His eyes shifted to me briefly before he looked back to the road. “Sooner or later, the opportunity to shine comes along, angel, and that’s when you get the chance to show people what you really have inside, show them the stuff that might not be obvious in a thirty-second audition. And you’ll never be in the right place at the right time if you don’t keep trying, no matter how many times you get rejected.”

“That sounds swell, but there’s a little problem with trying to feed myself until that magical day arrives.”

Fuck, when had I become so cynical?

“What about teaching? Or conducting?”

“You know how many schools are slashing art and music programs completely right now because of the economy? If I were to teach, it would need to be math or science.”

Jace’s knuckles whitened where he gripped the wheel, and his voice became a little sharper, more impatient. “Okay, you know what I think? I think somewhere along the way, someone hammered into you over and over that making a living was more important than actually living, and you finally bought into it.”

“Well, if I’d done that, I wouldn’t be sleeping on Robin and Geoff’s sofa like some hobo off the streets, would I? I’d be trying to make myself more masculine and understated so my family would keep bankrolling my education without trying to use it to pressure me to be what I’m not.”

I thought that would annoy Jace further—and really, why the f*ck was I arguing about this with him instead of enjoying our trip?—but he just smiled, a tiny curve at the corner of his mouth.

“See, that’s what makes me think it’s not anywhere near too late for you, Topher. You’ve stepped one foot outside that cage, but you just can’t quite drag the other one out. You’re not mediocre. You’re not anywhere close to it. Mediocrity has been wrapped around you like bandages until you don’t know how to unwind yourself from it. You can still be brilliant. You can do what you love. You can live and make a living. You just need to work your way through all the conflicting messages you’ve been given.”

He reached for my knee again, and I slipped my fingers through his, clinging. Something knotted and ached inside my chest, yearning to believe him. But I was so f*cking scared of disappointment again. I’d had enough of that for one lifetime.

“What messages?”

“They—and I don’t know who they are, family, teachers, peers, it doesn’t matter—told you perfection was absolutely paramount and that nothing less was even worth doing, while simultaneously telling you that you could never be perfect. It left you wondering why you should bother trying, even though your heart keeps telling you to do what you love. They told you success was more important than the endeavor, while convincing you it was impossible for you to succeed.”

Annnd once again he had me ready to just lay my head in his lap and f*cking cry like a lost little kid. I didn’t know what scared me more—that he saw into me with such complete clarity, or that he was trying to give me hope when I’d fought so hard and so long to kill it.

“How do you do that?” I whispered, swallowing thickly.

“Do what?”

“Know me so well.”

“You’re not the only one to have a shitty upbringing, Topher.”

My eyes widened at that. I’d assumed that, like Robin, he was one of those privileged guys from a liberal family who’d supported him wholeheartedly.

“What was your family like?”

His hand tightened on mine. “They put me in conversion therapy when I was fourteen, including two trips to residence facilities—one of which was pretty much a psychiatric hospital, and the other more along the lines of juvenile detention disguised as a summer camp. When I was sixteen—by which time I’d already tried to commit suicide once and nearly attempted it again but chickened out, which is a damn good thing because I’m pretty sure I would have gotten it right that time—I started pretending to be ‘cured.’ I had to give up studying art for the last two years of high school, and managed to f*ck up my knees playing football to keep up the charade.”

His face tightened, and I fell silent, not daring to interrupt.

“The day I graduated high school, I withdrew every dollar I’d earned or received as a birthday or Christmas gift from the bank. The account had their names on it alongside mine, see, so they could cut me off from my money if I looked like I might rebel. Then I gathered up every drawing and painting I’d managed to hide away. I went downstairs to my graduation party, and smiled and opened my cards to collect all the cash and checks. Then, in front of everyone they knew, I looked them in the eye and told them I was gay, I would always be gay, and that I was an adult now so they could accept it or they could lose their son.” He shrugged. “They chose option B.”

“Shit.” I didn’t even think about it. I just lifted his hand to my face and kissed it. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.”

“How—” I frowned, stroking his hand. “How did you survive? How did you get through art school?”