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“Your dad’s a real dick.”
Except that. Like a dam bursting, I’m laughing before I realize it. And it works, popping the tight bubble of tension that had started choking me.
“I’m not going to argue with that. Although my mom says he’s a new man now.”
“She still sees him?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I like long stories,” she says. “Some people actually pay me to listen to them.”
So I spell it all out, because if she’s willing to trust me with her secrets, then the least I can do is offer up my own. Even if it’s the long, sordid history of my childhood.
Bee, as always, listens.
Christ, she’s beautiful. Not because of her soft pink lips or her curious brown eyes, but this, the way she gives sogenerously. Making one person the sole source of her attention, granting an audience, caring about the answers.
“And none of your family took you in?”
“No. We called my aunt, my dad’s sister, but no one answered. I asked a few years later if Mom ever heard from her. Turns out she didn’t even bother to ask what was wrong.”
“That’s so fucked up. What did she think you could possibly be calling about at one in the morning?”
I shrug. I’ve long stopped trying to work that out.
“Luckily, Mom had a friend a few towns over who took us in.” I stare down at my hands. Hands that have twisted in anger, that have hit pillows and doors and steering wheels when the pressure got to be too much. Back before I discovered therapy. Hands that could still hurt someone if I’m not careful.
Bee’s ankles look so delicate, the skin soft and smooth under my palms.
“And you haven’t seen him at all since?”
I shake my head.
Bee curls closer, placing her hand on mine. “I’m sure your mom will understand if you don’t want to see him. From everything you’ve told me, she cares about you more than a birthday party.”
Bee’s right. If I told my mom that I couldn’t do it, couldn’t be in the same room as him, she wouldn’t even hesitate.
It probably goes against some kind of toxic masculinity code, but I adore my mom. Like ground worship. This woman deserves the world. She was the second person to accept me when I came out (Aiden wasfirst). She’s warm, kind, a dreamer, a philosopher, an oddball.
My mother is a free spirit. A Pisces through and through. All heart and—don’t tell her I said this—too many unfinished projects. But it never bothers her. She revels in the discovery of interests. In the pursuit of passion.
Bee has that same spark.
“How did you know you were bisexual?”
If I had a dollar for every time I’ve been asked this question, Bee never would have needed to chip in with the deposit. But she isn’t asking to question my credentials or because she wants to hear all the sordid details. No, Bee’s simply doing what she always does.
Searching for the story.
I really want to kiss her right now.
“It took a while. I noticed other guys but wrote it off as a man crush, you know? Wanting to be like them, not be with them. Then I realized I was getting off to the guys in porn just as much as the women, and it became clear that it was more than that for me.”
As most queer people can attest, the lack of bi rep in media as I was growing up made it pretty hard to know how I identified. In the end, I fumbled my way through. It was difficult and lonely, but it wasn’t until I stopped trying to fit anyone else’s definition of my sexuality that I found peace with it.
“It’s not an easy journey, but I like who I am. I won’t hide and I’m not ashamed.”
“I know I’ve always been a little in awe of you, but you really are the most incredible man I’ve ever met,” she says, and even in the dim light of the club, I can see her blush deepen.
