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At least, it’s always been fine.
Until now. Until…my promise.
The promise I made to myself when my internship ended last fall and I was ordered to move back home is a constant itch as incessant as a pebble in a shoe. It is both a liberating stream of renewed life coursing through my veins and liquid lead threatening to paralyze me in fear at any moment. I’m both grateful for and terrified for its refusal to be silenced.
I’m grateful there’s some courageous part of me finally willing to take the leap. Grateful that the chance to live the life I’ve only dared dream about in secret is fighting to be seen. And yet, ‘sensible Cameron’ knows it’s safer to remain invisible than become Cameron Fairway, ‘the gay son’. I’d rather remain invisible than become a spectacle.
My stomach churns at a mental picture of disgust on my family’s faces if they discovered my thousand-pound secret. In the grand scheme of things, what’s one more disappointment, some bold, optimistic version of myself reassures me. My heart, however, jolts into my esophagus as I hit the button for the sixth floor. I hate that me being me would be a disappointment to them. Elevators really do kick you in the throat.
Enough, Cam. That’s enough. You’ve still got plenty of groundwork to do before you even cross that bridge.
Right.
I latch onto that reminder, shifting Preston’s file in my sweaty hand. The world is my oyster. It’s such a ridiculous mantra that it makes me chuckle, but it’s true. I have a plan. It’s become more of an obsession, really.
He’s out there, somewhere—someone for me. He has to be. People fall in love every day. There’s no reason it can’t happen to me. There’s no reason I couldn’t have a Mr. Right. There’s no reason he can’t be a ‘mister’. As wonderful of an idea as that was to acknowledge, a quiet panic set in once I realized it.
I’ve never even flirted with a man. How in the hell can you find your Mr. Right if you can’t even talk to someone you’re attracted to? If I’m too terrified to even talk to a guy, I’ll never get a chance at everything else.
I want kisses, the kind that you remember in old age. I want my hand to fit effortlessly in someone else’s, like it’s an extension of my own. I want… well, I want it all. But if or when I ever do meet him, I don’t want to blow my chance with my inexperience. That’s why I came up with my ‘disaster plan.’ I need someone who can take the walking disaster that is Cameron Fairway and prepare him to be a confident gay man who will know how and when to make all the right moves.
When I finally found the courage to accept my truth wholeheartedly last year, though, what did I do with it? I wasted countless hours scrolling through dating apps. I could never hit the ‘Accept’ button, and then I finally realized why. You don’t know what you’re getting.
Sure, half of the men on there could probably supply me with experiences aplenty, but I’m not keen on being a sacrificial virgin for one night with a stranger I haven’t even looked in the eye. After all, Rome wasn’t built in a day. I want someone who will take his time, someone with manners, someone I’m attracted to so I can feel at least some of the things I’ll need to identify feeling with Mr. Right. I need a gentleman, not someone who’s trolling a hookup app or a bar for one night of fun.
Preston’s assistant, Trisha, looks to be multi-tasking beyond reason at the moment, typing at her computer, on the phone, and holding up an index finger to an inquiring worker. Heather did say to deliver the file to Preston, so I don’t see any reason to give Trisha one more distraction.
Through the glass partitions, I spot Preston hanging a photograph of himself at a car show on the wall behind his desk. I don’t think he needs another photo of himself, considering there are already a dozen others littering the wall. He was only promoted two days ago. Personally, I’d wait to get my feet wet in my new role before I started decorating.
Passing by Trisha’s desk, I rap on the open door. “Preston?”
His close-cut brown-haired head twists around, a look of annoyance on his face. When recognition sets in, his features relax. “Cameron. Hey. What’s up?”
“HR has a few documents they need you to sign for the promotion.” I approach his desk, extending my hand with the file for him to relieve me of, but he just frowns and stuffs his hands in the pockets of his pants.
“Oh. Just set them on the desk.”
That simple request proves difficult to fulfill. The surface is cluttered with fancy trinkets—a shiny new nameplate, a mahogany-framed desk clock, a leather-framed desk calendar. The rest of the surface area is occupied by a hammer and small nails, a large fruit basket, a model car, and an oversized cherry organizer stocked with high-quality pens and a phone charging port.
Carefully, I lay the file between the hammer and his model car. With a complete lack of paperwork in his office, save for what’s in my hand, I wonder if he’s spent his time making revving noises and rolling the model car around when he’s not hanging self-love photos. I hope Heather didn’t expect me to return with these documents signed.
“Um, congrats on the promotion,” I offer, feeling obligated to say something to this acquaintance I’ve never really known.
I have a lot of those in my life. Actually, pretty much everyone I know. The people I’ve seen dozens of times at my parents’ parties or when they’ve had them over to dinner. Classmates from my private high school where everyone scattered to the winds after graduation made any semblance of friendship that I thought I’d formed prove temporary.
College is supposed to be the time of your life, but all I remember of it, aside from immersing myself in my studies, was feeling like a third wheel whenever someone in the dorms actually invited me to tag along somewhere. Any modicum of acceptance or enjoyment I felt at being included was threatened by my imposter syndrome, a fear of losing what little social life I had if my secret was discovered. I should probably find a friend before I try to snag a boyfriend, but Brice, a guy from the chat forum I braved stumbling into last year, satisfies my need for a confidant and camaraderie.
He works from home and, judging by a few of his comments about his anxiety, I suspect he rarely leaves his house. His support for my confessions, however, has been comforting, if not always entirely helpful.
“You just need to find a sugar daddy,” he once told me.
My family has plenty of sugar, but I’m grateful to finally be making my own, even if it technically comes from my family. While I like the idea of being taken care of by a man, financially is not the means of care I pictured. Plus, I’d like to be able to contribute emotionally to a relationship as much as I receive.
Unfortunately, the building where I spend most of the hours of my day is filled with emotionally stunted men like Preston and Randy. Scratching his chin, Preston’s wedding band glints under the sunlight. That’s the other difficulty I’ve faced in my search.
Of the men at Fairway Foods who aren’t taken, how do I discern which ones may be attracted to men? Brice says I’ll just know by the way a guy looks at me, but I have yet to receive one of those looks, unless I missed it. Having an invisible ‘do not contact’ sign on your forehead probably doesn’t help.
“Are your parents having their big to-do for your dad’s birthday again this year?” Preston asks, rearranging his pens.
