Jason

I’m in my kitchen, shuffling through junk mail after work when I feel my phone vibrating in my back pocket.

Mom. Great.

I toy with the idea of letting it go to voicemail, but deep down I must hate myself, because I answer it instead.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Hi, honey, how’re you doin’?”

“Good, good. Busy at work. What’s up with you guys?”

“Well, your Dad and I were wondering if you’re coming home for the picnic.” My parents host a huge neighborhood picnic on Memorial Day at their place outside of Dallas, complete with water skiing and lots of Lone Star beer. Not exactly my scene, but I try to make an appearance every two or three years because, well,…guilt.

“I’ll have to check my calendar, but I’ll let you know.”

“You know we’d love to see you, Jay. I repainted your room over Christmas, and it’s all ready for you.” She laughs nervously, and I feel like shit.

“It sounds great, Mom, really. I’ll try my best to make it.”

“Oh, honey, that’d be wonderful. Do you think-“ she pauses, and something in her tone immediately sets my jaw on edge.

“What, Mom?”

“Nothing, just…do you think you’ll be bringing anyone?”

I hold my breath for a moment, then let the air escape slowly from my nose. Don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t say anything.

“I won’t be bringing anyone,” I say, my voice low and even.

“Not that we mind, we’re just running out of room since your dad built his home gym. But I tell ya, he has lost so much weight, he had to buy all new pants for work, and his cholesterol-“

“Mom, I don’t mean to cut you off, but there’s someone at the door. I’ll call you this weekend, okay?”

“Well, sure, hon, I’ll talk to you soon. Love you!”

“Love you, too,” I say before ending the call. Then I pull the bottle of scotch from the liquor cabinet and pour myself a stiff drink.

***

My parents are Baptist, conservative, and Texan, so I wasn’t expecting them to jump for joy when I told them I was gay. However, it’s been almost ten years, and my father has yet to speak directly to me since I broke the news. There were no dramatic fights, no bitter tears, no attempts to enroll me in conversion therapy. In my father’s eyes, I simply ceased to exist. I know I should either confront him or break ties with them, but I can’t bring myself to abandon my mother, and the pathetic part of me can’t quit hoping that my dad will come around one day.

I drink my first scotch neat, but add a bit of water to the second. I try to distract myself with the basketball playoffs on TV, but I can’t concentrate. Then I try to do some work, but thinking about work makes me think about Rose, which makes me think about Knox, which makes me think about how I found myself on Knox’s doorstep the night after I came out to my parents. I remember how he held me, and fed me peanut butter and graham crackers, and showed me clips of Arrested Development to make me laugh. And he told me that I was incredible, and once my parents were over their initial shock, they would remember that.

At some point I fall asleep on the couch, and some combination of liquor, nostalgia and loneliness has me dreaming about Knox, something I haven’t done in years. 

We’re kissing, long and slow and hot, like we used to in the dark shadows of my dorm room, only in my dream it’s not then, it’s now, and we’re not boys anymore, but full-grown men. Knox is hovering over me, whispering my name over and over, gently fluttering his fingertips over my chest, my abdomen, the inside of my thighs, the curve of my shoulder. I’m begging him to touch me harder, faster…more, but he’s relentlessly slow and soft, gently nudging me towards the brink of unimaginable bliss.

“Please,” I beg. “Please…”

I’m a trembling mess of nerve endings, and when he leans down to place feverish kisses against my neck, I grab his hand and move it over my erection. He’s teased me for so long that his touch makes me come almost immediately with a low, hoarse groan. As I gasp through the aftershocks, I finally admit to myself that I’m stupidly, hopelessly in love with him.

And then I wake up.

Well, shit.