Riding With Brighton(22)

He’s right. I know he’s right. I mean, I definitely want him. That’s not gonna change. But then what? How is it gonna be in history class, guys from the baseball team to the left of me and Brighton to the right? The idea of anyone but Brighton knowing about this is not something I’m prepared to deal with, and I shouldn’t go there with him until it is.

But when the hell am I gonna be ready for that? It still feels like the answer to that question could totally be never. The thought of my friends and my family knowing is terrifying and literally makes me feel like I’m gonna vomit. Seriously, I can feel the little chunks creeping up in me, desperate to see the light of day.

On the other hand, the idea of never touching him, never knowing what it feels like to kiss him, makes me feel like I’m being kicked in the gut. But he’s right. He would be my dirty little secret. And he’s too good to be anyone’s secret. “You’re right, I’m sorry.”

“We’ve gotta come up with some way to punish you.”

Seriously, what the hell? Am I imagining this shit… blindfolds and punishments…?

“Holy crap, kid. Is that your thing—bondage? You dream about me tying you up and torturing you?” he asks, another easy laugh coming out of his mouth.

“God, no. You’re the one who keeps saying that shit.”

“I’m not saying anything. I was thinking like, you can give me five bucks every time you say the word sorry, or I could make you do something embarrassing like sing a One Direction song or some shit. You gotta stop saying you’re sorry.”

I’m laughing now too. God, I’m an idiot. “I’m not singing.”

“No, wait, I got it. Dancing. Every time you tell me you’re sorry, you gotta do a dance for me.”

“Hell no.”

“Hell yes.”

“No,” I tell him one last time, shaking my head and looking out the window. I’m distracted by a giant sculpture made of… made of all kinds of shit. I can pick out a bike and a chair…. Is that a mannequin leg or an oar? Then it all comes into focus. It’s a giant sign made up of the strangest letters I’ve ever seen that spell out THE FARM. “Holy hell. That’s crazy. Like, seriously, the craziest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“You have no idea.” As he pulls through the sculpture gate, a large field opens up in front of us, and sprinkled over it are giant sculptures.

“It’s a sculpture park?”

“Yup.”

He drives down a narrow path around the right side of the land, and a big old farmhouse comes into view. “A sculpture park on a piece of land that used to be a farm.”

“Exactly,” he tells me. “It was my grandparents’. When Grandpa passed five years ago, my dad donated the land to a group of artists he and my mom are friends with, and it’s been growing since then. There are five artists in residence now, living in the house, and a ton more who come here to help out and work. Abe’s in charge of everything.”

“That’s… awesome.” The first thing that comes into my head is the land my family had. So of course, I vocalize it. “When I think about how my dad gave up our land to developers when he could have done something like this….” I shake my head.

“That’s what normal people would do if they had a lot of property they weren’t using. This is my parents’ dream, but most people dream about having a nice house to raise their family in.”

“I don’t think it was his dream. It’s my mom who always wanted the big house.”

“Well, that’s beautiful, Jay. He did it for love. Anything you do for love isn’t wrong. It’s all good.”

“The thing is, she doesn’t seem any happier now that she has it.” Shut up, you whiney baby. He’s not your damn therapist.

“Is your mom unhappy?”

I take a minute to think about that. “I wouldn’t say unhappy. She’s always been one of those in-between people, you know? Fine. Okay. Whatever.”

“And what about your dad?”

“He’s a good man. He lives for us—me, Mom, and my little brother. And none of us are really happy. That’s gotta be hard. Living to make people happy, giving up everything for them, and never accomplishing your goals.” Seriously, jackass—not your therapist.

“That would be hard. You seem happy, though. I mean, I know you’re going through some shit, but you always seem happy.”

“I’m a lot like my mom. Maybe after today things will change, though. God, the thought of actually being happy and not just pretending to be happy is damn exciting.”

Brighton parks the truck in front of the farmhouse and turns to me. He wraps a hand around my neck and turns my face toward his. For a second I think he’s going to kiss me, and I’m pretty sure I go slack in his hand—which would be the limp noodle metaphor. “I’m happy for you,” he whispers.

All I can do is return his smile.

He drops his hand then and opens the door. By the time I climb out of the truck, there’s a beautiful woman jogging toward us.

“Oh my God, Brighton!” Squealing, she jumps into his arms, enveloping him in a hug. Jesus, the women really love him. “I have the best news,” she announces before hopping off him and shaking his shoulders. “The new artist showed up yesterday. And he’s hot. And he’s cool. And he’s so unbelievably talented. And… he’s gay. And… he reminds me so much of Harrison, minus all the insecure, paranoid bullshit.”