Riding With Brighton(75)

I can’t believe that, before Brighton showed up last night, I was even considering doing that. Lying never solves anything. Band-Aids don’t really fix anything; they just cover shit up.

And then there’s the fact that it’s Monday morning, which would suck anyway, but it’s worse now because I’m about to face my future. At least the future I will have to live for the rest of the year until I can get out of here. I really need to run that dorm idea past Brighton.

I take one last look in the mirror, and I smile at myself. I know that kid.

Are you wondering what I’m wearing? You are, aren’t you? I have my dark Diesels on—the ones that make my ass look really good. The same ones I wore last week. And I’m wearing one of my old Hollister T-shirts… under the red hoodie I took from Brighton. Before I leave I’ll put my basketball shoes on. Because Brighton isn’t the man I want to be, but the man I want to be with. And I can still be me and be gay. So I’ll wear what I like and what makes me comfortable, and if I’m wearing Brighton’s clothes it’s only because they smell so fucking good and I like wearing something that belongs to him.

I take one last deep breath, then head downstairs to the kitchen. I stop in my tracks for a moment, a little stunned by the sight. My mom and dad are sitting in the breakfast nook drinking coffee.

Mom came back.

And she’s sitting there, drinking coffee like she is every morning. Which is good. I think.

I regain my composure and try to act nonchalant as I grab an apple and a protein shake out of the fridge.

“Good morning,” my dad says with a smile. My mom tries to smile, but it looks more like a wince.

“Hey.” I kiss my mom on the cheek and pat my dad on the shoulder and then join them. This is the closest I’ve been to my mom since I came home from Brighton’s. “Oh, crap,” I mutter when I see the piece of paper sitting in front of my mom. It’s the note Brighton left for Mickey when we left her studio. I haven’t read it, but it’s what Mickey gave me before I left Brighton’s house. The thing she wanted me to have. The thing I stuck in my back pocket and totally forgot about.

“I found it on the kitchen floor under the stool,” my dad tells me. “I read it before I realized it was private.”

“Is it?” I ask him. “I never got around to reading it myself.”

He shrugs. “Yeah… I would say it was meant to be private, but I read it. And then I left it on the kitchen counter and your mom read it too.” He pushes it over to me.

I look between the two of them, unsure if I really want to read it in front of them. My mom forces a small smile, which, at this moment, feels huge. So I pick it up and read it.



Hey mom. When you go downstairs to check on me in the morning, Jay’s gonna be in my bed. I know. I know. I have a younger brother and sister to think about and they don’t need to think that it’s okay to have lovers in their childhood bed. If it makes you feel any better, he’s not my lover, I mean, if we’re being technical. But if we’re being real, let’s face it—I’m totally gonna make out with him whether it’s in my bed or in my truck or in a tree. We’re eighteen. And we’re guys. And he’s here with me. He’s not some rando on the Internet or a mostly stranger living an hour away from me. He’s here. With me. And I don’t want him in the next room over. That’s just stupid, and you know it.

So right now I’m gonna go down in my bed and hold him and sleep with him. Like, literally sleep with him. You know my bed can be made out in anytime, day or night, right? It doesn’t have to be during the middle of the night. We already made out there. It’s too late. But right now I just want to sleep. With Jay. Because I like him, and at the moment a room away is too far away.

I know you still love me even though I didn’t follow your rules.

And I still love you even though your thinking is illogical.

BTW, it’s 6 a.m., which is why I’m rambling. I’m exhausted. If you love me, you’ll let me sleep in.

Your baby boy,

Brighton



PS—Jay really likes your art.



It’s not until I’m done reading Brighton’s note that I realize I’m smiling like a total idiot. And that my parents are watching me… read a note about me and Brighton making out. The smile drops swiftly off my face. I force myself to look up. I’m a pussy, so I choose to look at my dad.

“There’s more,” he says, twirling his pointer finger, indicating I should flip the page over.

I take a deep breath and flip it over. I’m relieved when I find that the note on the back is written in a feminine script. I glance at the bottom and see Mickey’s signature. And then I read it.



Jay—

I wanted you to have this. It makes me really happy. It shouldn’t (Brighton is such a little shit), but it does. But I feel like it will make you even happier and be a reminder of this milestone day in your life. So I’m giving it to you, because even though I hardly know you, and even if I never get to meet you again, there is one thing I know for sure—I want you to be happy. You deserve to be happy.

Watching you go through what you did last night—seeing you accept yourself right in front of my eyes—was an amazing thing to witness, and I’m grateful I got to be part of it. It was hard for me, as a parent, to watch you question whether your parents would accept you or not. I truly believe in my heart that they will. Until you have children of your own, you can’t understand the special kind of love that parents feel for their children. It’s a kind of love that makes you put yourself second. It’s a kind of love that demands that the object of your affection is happy and safe, even if it means that you yourself don’t get to be happy. It’s a selfless, all-consuming, gigantic love that I know your parents have for you. It’s clear that you are a special person and anyone would be blessed to call you a friend or, more importantly, part of their family. I’m glad Brighton met you.