Sure, it needs some work, and it’s not cosmetically the greatest car around, but it’ll be reliable. I won’t have to take the Toyota and deal with Mom’s pestering me about it. If I weren’t giving her cash, I genuinely think she’d make me walk to work.
As I pull into the driveway of our house, I take in a deep breath. The chances that one of her drinking buddies picked her up before I got off are high, but it’s never a guarantee.
Right now, all I want to do is change out of my work clothes—newly issued—and head to the gym.
And for the fifteenth time today, just as I doevery timeI think of the gym lately, I think of Atticus. I think ofhimputting me on my back.
Which is immediately accompanied by the embarrassment of how hard I came while riding his fingers. By the thrill of remembering his touch, and the constant conflict I feel surrounding it.
Listen, I’ve never directly faced homophobia in Port Orford. In fact, Kim isveryqueer.The difference is, I’ve heard plenty of times in the men’s locker room how hot it is to imagine two women together, yet how gross it is to see two guys kissing on TV.
The double standards go hard, but no one’s casually thrown around any slurs or made it clear I’d be disowned. And Mom already dislikes me on a good day while she assumes I’m straight, so it’s not like I would be devastated if she hated that I’m not.
My fear of being queer has nothing to do withacceptanceand everything to do with how I view myself. I already struggle with my inability to make decisions or take charge of my own life, and adding a sexuality crisis? It just makes me feel like less of a man.
I’msupposedto take after Dad. He was hard-working, manly, and everything young boys aspire to be. My entire life, I have primed myself to take after his image, and I’m pretty sure getting fucked in the ass isn’t something he’d partaken in before his untimely death.
I just want to be a simple guy. I want to be able to decide what I want for dinner without the anxiety of choice, and to marry a kind girl and settle down in our shitty little fishing town.
I can’t very well bethatman if I’m constantly fantasizing about getting fucked by the rich guy who lives just outside of town.
Only, when he called the other day, I crumbled. As if just the sound of his voice is enough to force me into submission. And I was right—hanging out with him did make this predicament a bit easier to stomach.
You see, if Atticus is a great guy, someone who makes life easier for me, then maybe it’s not so bad? Maybe I can come to terms with not being the man I’ve been modeling myself after since birth?
If someone as wonderful as he thinks this is okay, surely it can’t bethatbad, right?
For thehundredthtime, I consider calling him. It’s been a few days since I saw him, since I promised to call. But every time I move to pick up the phone, I panic.
Either I spend all of my time in his presence, so that I can forget about my own fears and concerns, or I cut him off completely—that is what I keep telling myself.
Atticus isn’t going to let me crash at his place, right?
That only leaves one option. Cutting him off.
So, again, I resist the urge to call. He can find better, anyway.
I grab my lunchbox from the passenger seat and head inside, the weight of my fucked up reality weighing on my shoulders as I unlock the front door.
As I step inside, I’m hit with the overwhelming smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke.
Mom is lounging on the couch, a man sitting at her side as he smokes. I think his name is James. I’ve seen him around a bit, but I’m unsure if that’s correct.
“Cameron,” she greets me coldly.
“Hey, Mom,” I reply, glancing between the two of them. “I’m just going to head to my room and—”
“Not so fast,” she interrupts. “You got paid today, right? It’s Friday.”
Oh, shit. I did get paid today, and I totally forgot to pull out cash.
“Ah, yes. When the bank opens in the morning, I’ll grab you some cash; don’t worry.” My tone is placating and slightly panicked.
Her gray eyes narrow. “Are you a fucking idiot?”
James—I think—snickers.
“N-no?” I stutter out.
