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Then again, maybe it would be better if I did. Because Jason was looking at his own future, and he needed to at least know the truth.
Being true to yourself was all well and good, but there were consequences. Heavy ones. That was why he’d shown up here, looking like he was about to die.
His parents didn’t accept him, and they wouldn’t. They’d given him an ultimatum: give up dating Vincent or get out. Adhere to their rules, repent for his “sins,” and pray to be forgiven. They’d given him pamphlets for conversion therapists, as if he was hooked on drugs and they were trying to get him into rehab. They told him they loved him, and in the same breath, called him disgusting.
Never in my life would I have thought I’d advise someone to keep their head down, but I’d told Jason to do exactly that. He was a smart kid, he had a future, he had potential. He could get somewhere in his life. He had a chance.
But he was giving it up. For us. For Vincent. For himself. He was brave as fuck and foolish as hell. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to cheer him on or tell him to get it together, but I didn’t have a leg to stand on. The things I’d give up for Vincent and Manson included my life, so who was I to tell him that he should keep trying to placate his parents?
“Sounds like we need a beer run, then,” Manson said, clapping Vincent’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s go to the gas station. I’ve got my fake with me. Rinse that bleach out in a couple minutes.”
Vincent lurched to his feet, leaving the blue dye on the counter and leaning down to give Jason a kiss before he and Manson left.
Jason’s hands were clasped in his lap, his leg still jiggling rapidly. He stared at a spot on the wall without blinking, his jaw working as if he were chewing on his own anxiety.
“Where do your parents think you are today?” I said.
“They don’t know,” he said. “I just left. Didn’t tell them anything. I packed a bag.” He swallowed, reaching a hand up to scratch his head before abruptly remembering he wasn’t supposed to touch. “I figure when I go back like this...that’s it. So I already got what I needed. Packed up everything that’s mine. I have most of the receipts so they can’t say I stole shit.”
He rattled off his plan like it was nothing out of the ordinary. He was a smart kid, far smarter than I could ever hope to be. He thought things through, but that didn’t mean his thought process was flawless. He was scared, but he was angry too. Fury gave him courage, but it also made him reckless.
The desire to protect him made me reckless too. He was too good, too pure. He didn’t deserve this shit; he didn’t deserve the hateful bigoted vitriol the world was going to throw his way.
“You scared?” I said. The way he was rubbing his palms together made it obvious. It was moments like this that made me wish I was capable of being comforting. I wanted to say something gentle, something that would help. But I had nothing.
He nodded quickly. “Yeah, I’m...” He twitched, sucking in a deep breath. “I’m fine. I talked to Vincent’s parents. They’ll let me stay with them. They were so damn nice...” His fingers tightened on his lap. “I’m going to pay them. They already don’t have much room.”
If I could have, I would have offered to let him stay here with me. But I wasn’t going to be able to hold on to this place for much longer. I was barely scraping by with payments as it was. Within a few months, I’d have nowhere to go either.
Jason flinched, pulling his cell out of his pocket. The incoming call was from his mom, and he stared at it for several long seconds before he sent the call to voicemail.
“Fuck ‘em,” I said. “You know what you want, and it’s none of their goddamn business. Let them fuss over it if they want. They can’t control your whole life.”
Empty words. Food and shelter, when leveraged, could absolutely give his parents control. But by the look on his face, I didn’t think he cared anymore. There was fear in his eyes but not in his voice.
“Fuck ‘em,” he murmured, scratching his cheek because he couldn’t scratch his scalp. He bowed his head, glancing at his watch as he said, “I think I need to wash this bleach out.”
“I got you.” The sink was too full and the bathroom only had a standing shower, so I led him outside. The lot was all dirt, a few crunchy weeds sprung up here and there. The scent of cigarettes and bacon fat wafted from the neighbor’s place as I turned on the spigot, then picked up the hose and urged Jason closer. “Bend over, close your eyes.”
He squatted down, squeezing his eyes shut and bending his head forward. Pouring water over his head, I scrubbed his scalp with my hand as I washed the bleach away. It ran into the dirt, muddy as it pooled around his shoes.
“Don’t be afraid of them,” I said. “This is your life. Your choices. This is you.” I rubbed some crusted bleach off his neck and paused, my fingers splayed over his skin. He didn’t move; he stayed exactly as he was with his head bowed.
When Pops died —it had been three months already, holy shit— I hadn’t grieved for him. There had been no sadness when I woke up one morning and found him dead in the shower, killed almost instantly by a heart attack. If anything, it was a relief to have him gone. Even though it left me in an impossible position trying to afford our bills, I didn’t care.
But doing this, helping Jason crack open the shell he’d lived in for so long, felt like a process of mourning. It was full of sadness for who he’d been, while clinging to hope for what he could be. It was a death, but it was a rebirth too.
His experiences were so different from my own. His upbringing had been gentle. It almost made what his parents were doing even worse. At least with Pops, he’d always been an asshole. I knew what to expect from him. My father had operated on the assumption that he could control people through fear and intimidation, so when I stopped being afraid of him, there really wasn’t much he could do. When I got strong enough to fight back, tohurt him back, things mellowed out around here.
None of that mattered anymore. With my father dead, my ties to my family were all but severed. The only one who remained, the only one who mattered, was Benji. But he wouldn’t be out of prison for years.
As I turned off the hose, I noticed movement beneath the trailer. A young cat, no more than six months old, watched me from the shadows. She meowed, sauntering closer when she recognized me.
“No, no, get out of here.” I snapped my fingers and flicked my hand at her, trying to discourage her. But she trusted me; I’d fed her and her littermates more than enough times for her to know that I was a safe person.
But it wasn’t safe for her here.
“Get!” I raised my voice, stomping my foot toward her and slapping my hand on the side of the trailer. It was sufficient to send her scrambling, tail puffed up as she fled.
