“I wanna know,” I say, knowing he’s right, that I don’t have the right to demand anything from him. He doesn’t owe me an explanation, or a background story. But I can’t fucking let this go.
He shakes his head again.
“Why did you hate high school so much?” I press.
“Kaden.”
“I know high school can be a bitch for some, but blowing off college? And your future, because of that? That just doesn’t make any sense. So, what—”
He slams a hand down at the coffee table, making me flinch and glares at me.
“You really wanna know?” he snaps, not waiting for my answer. “High school was the worst time of my fucking life! It was four years of a living fucking hell! Everything I did, everything I said was wrong. I was too gay, too feminine, too soft. I dressed like a fag. I acted like a sissy. I walked like a girl.Talked like a girl. My hair was too long. My legs too skinny. My jeans too tight.
“Every single fucking thing about me was wrong. And it all came down to me being gay. A fucking faggot! And I couldn’t change that, could I?” He huffs a laugh that’s not a laugh at all, his folded hands shaking, leg bouncing up and down. “So, I did what I had to do. I changed everything else. I stopped wearing tight clothes. I cut my hair, and dyed it. I changed my walk, how I talk, how I—” He shakes his head. “I changed everything.” His voice breaks, his nostrils flaring before he pinches his nose and drags a hand over his mouth.
It’s like a dam breaking, it downright pours out of him, and all I can do is just stand here and watch it happen.
“Oh,” he huffs again. “And the reason I didn’t go to college?” He looks directly at me with a weird-looking smile, eyes wide. “Is because I couldn’t get in. My grades were fucking rock bottom. I threw away my fucking future because I was just a fucking faggot loser anyway and I couldn’t go through another four years of that.”
He’s shaking so hard, his shoulders are jumping. Wringing his hands until his knuckles turn white.
“So, there you have it,” he says, throwing his arms out. “I’m as fake as they come. Nothing about this is real! I don’t even know who I am anymore.”
“Then stop—”
He scoffs, shaking his head. “You don’t get it.”
“Then tell me,” I say, shaking my head. “Fucking let me in!”
“I have let you in!” he shouts, standing up. “You’ve seen more of me than fucking anyone! Even Lou doesn’t know it all. You think I’ve told her that I get so fucking sad after sex that I’ve cried? That I feel like I’ll break unless someone physically holds me together? You think I want people to know that about me?
“You think I want people to know that I love musicals? That I used to wear makeup? That I’ve got a whole fucking box of tight fucking jeans, and crop tops, and shit? That I use ridiculously expensive skin care products? That’s what you smell on me, by the way,” he says, wiping his nose, nodding. “That smell right here?” he points to his neck, right under his ear, where he always smells like almond. “The one that turns you on? That’s the secret fucking skin care cream I don’t let anyone see. Sometimes my legs hurt so bad, and all I wanna do is cross them, and I hate fucking man-spreading but I can’t let anyone know that I’m a little faggot twink who likes to cross my skinny little gay legs.” He’s all out of breath, his chest is heaving, and his eyes are glassy.
He’s falling apart right in front of me, and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say.
So, I take a step forward and then another one. He shakes his head like he already knows what I’m about to do. But I don’t stop until I wrap my arms around him.
“Stop,” he says, trying to push me away. “Kaden!” His voice breaks on a sob, and it fucking hurts seeing him like this. Hearing it all. And I’m fucking helpless in this. I don’t know how to help him.
He shoves me, trying to fight me off but I hold him tighter until he melts against me, clutching my hoodie and hiding his face against my shoulder. He’s shaking so hard, I feel it in my bones.
We stand there for I don’t know how long. His breathing evens out a bit, and he’s hugging me back. He’s still shaking though, so I don’t let him go.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper against his hair.
“Don’t,” he shakes his head. “Don’t do that. I don’t want your pity. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.”
“I know.”
“Then stop.”
I don’t answer that, and we stay quiet for a moment longer. And then he lets go, wiping his face as he turns around. He walks into the kitchen, fills up a glass of water and drinks it all in one go before he shuffles back to the couch, dropping down. He looks tired, like he’s just been to hell and back.
“I don’t know what to say, Seth.”
“It’s fine,” he says, shaking his head.
“Of course, it’s not fine!” I snap. “I can’t even… Fuck!” I rake my hands through my hair, tugging at it. Placing my hands on my hips, staring at him like he’ll have any answers. But of course, he doesn’t. It’s fucked up! All of it is so fucked up!
