CHAPTER 27 Charlie
CHAPTER 27
Charlie
T ristan leans forward to kiss his mother’s powdered cheek.
Despite the fact that I’m out and this isn’t a life-changing event for me, I still have an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach, and my mouth is dry. So I sip my wine.
“Hello, dear,” she responds. Then she looks at me.
And now the reason why we’re here. Tristan takes a deep breath. “Mother, this is Charlie Cooper. He’s a lawyer in Century City. And he’s my …” Tristan fumbles over the word. Friend? Partner? Boyfriend? We should’ve sorted out what he was going to say to her. Finally, he says, “lover,” and his mother blanches. “Charlie, this is my mother, Veronica.”
Lover’s a pretty bold choice, Tris. But he might as well get the point across plainly.
Recovering, she holds out a cool hand to me. “Pleasure to meet you.” She says it in a way that makes it clear that it’s not in fact a pleasure to meet me.
Fuck. Great. I still return the pleasantry and shake her hand. “Likewise.”
“Is this how you tell us you’re … homosexual?” she hisses to Tr istan, her voice barely audible over the conversations and holiday music.
He starts to redden and shrug and then remembers that he’s an adult, and this is what he came here to do. “Yes, Mother. I’m gay.”
She glances around, clearly unhappy, but also clearly good at playing the game of putting on a face in public. Watching it snap back into place is amazing. It also makes me never want to pretend to be anyone but who I am ever again.
I’ve been putting on a face for enough of my life. Caring what society thinks of me. Wanting the right car, right clothes, right job, right look. For what? So I can come to a fancy cocktail party and be looked down upon by someone who’d never recognize that people like me have just as much right to live as she does?
Fuck that.
But I can control my irritation. This isn’t about me, it’s about Tristan. He seems to be coming to the same conclusion, as he slings an arm around my shoulders and kisses my cheek.
I need to count my blessings. My mother and father have always been there for me. Sure, there were things I kept from them, but when I came to them with my troubles, they listened and did their best to help.
They weren’t like Mrs. Albrecht Graff.
Veronica narrows her eyes at Tristan. “Don’t bother coming to Christmas dinner,” she says, and spins on her heel.
Taking all the oxygen out of the room as she walks away.
Well, fuck.
I’m pretty sure it’s better to have no parents at all—poor Rowan—than it is to have ones who don’t support you.
Tristan looks like he’s been slapped. Which he has, in a way. I grab his hand. “Come on, let’s get some fresh air.”
He nods, and we hightail it outside into the pretty grounds. The buildings around us are lined with large white bulbs for the holidays, and the distant crash of the Pacific is before us. The air is cold, but California cold.
“Fuck,” he says, pacing in front of a park bench. “That did not go the way I wanted it to.”
“I’m so damn sorry, dude,” I say, and I fold him in my arms.
He holds me tight, his body shaking. Despite the rich fabric of his jacket and the warmth of his solid body, bigger than mine, part of me thinks he’s going to evaporate in a puff of smoke. I hold him for a long time. Finally, he mutters into my neck, “I didn’t think she’d be that prejudiced.”
“She’s horrible. Sorry, dude.”
Tristan sighs. “Yeah.” He steps away from me and looks out into the dark night, wiping at his face.
“How are you feeling? I mean, do you regret doing this tonight?”
“I do not regret it. Even though the worst thing happened—at least as far as her reaction—I still feel like I can breathe for the first time in my life.”
I give him a small smile.
“Still sucks that she reacted like that, though.”
“Do you think she’ll come around?”
“No. Fuck. My dad will be the same way.” He throws out his hands. “Can we go home? I did what I wanted to do.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Tonight kind of sucks all around. I wish I could fix things for you.”
“You can’t. But you were here for me, and that’s what counts. Let’s get you back to your boyfriend.” While my inner autoresponder says that Rowan isn’t my boyfriend, I’m pretty sure that he might be. We need to go back to Tristan’s house for me to get my car, though.
While Tristan drives, I text Rowan again.
Charlie
Hey, baby. I haven’t heard from you in a while. Is everything okay?
I’m being paranoid and overprotective. I’m sure he’s fine .
Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t after you.
Besides a few texts from Danny and Cam, my phone is flooded with notifications from Ad/VICE, as usual, and—as usual—I pretty much ignore them. In the beginning, I tried to respond to every comment, but these days there are just too many. I guess that’s a good problem to have.
Tristan invites me inside, and while I want to go home to Rowan, Tristan’s had a hard night.
“How are you doing now?” I ask, once we’re sitting in his living room with drinks. Whiskey for him, beer for me.
“I’m … pissed and hurt.” Tristan’s sprawled on his armchair, his jacket and tie off and his collar unbuttoned. He’s taken off his shoes, and he looks … diminished.
“I’d be angry, too,” I say, loosening my tie.
Tristan takes a long sip of his whiskey. “My anger feels useless, though. What good is it to be pissed off? I can’t do anything to change her.”
I sit forward. “I saw something that said that anger’s important, because it helps us identify injustices. It means we want to make things right.”
“Anger can’t actually make things right, though. It doesn’t fix a damned thing.”
“No,” I say. “But being angry acknowledges the fact that something’s broken. That’s valuable.”
“Maybe. I don’t let myself feel much at all most days.” Coming from Tristan—someone with whom I’ve never had a heart-to-heart—that admission feels huge.
“Maybe you should try feeling what you feel. Let yourself be angry. You have a right to be. I think, as a certified asshole, that it’s morally correct for you to be angry that your mother’s homophobic.”
He studies me. “You know, Charlie, you always refer to yourself as an asshole. But you aren’t.”
I scoff. “Whatever. I’m not the nicest person on the planet.”
“Just because you’re not all smiley and friendly doesn’t mean you’re not nice.”
I want to wave him off again. “Maybe,” I allow. “But what are you going to do about your mother?”
“Do? Nothing. What is there to do? She unvited me to Christmas.”
“Think about it, though. Is there something you want to say or do? If anger is a moral act—is vengeance?” I’ve clearly been spending too much time with Rowan.
Tristan snorts. “I’m not going to get even with my mother for being a closed-minded bigot.”
“Don’t you want to?”
“Well … yeah. Kinda. I’m tempted to donate all the money in my trust to an LGBTQ-friendly charity in her name.”
“That’d teach her.”
“But it’s more … I just want her to accept me. Aren’t parents supposed to be there for you and accept you the way you are?”
“In theory, yes. I’m one of the lucky ones, because mine did. My boyfriend—he’s an orphan. He has no idea who his parents are, and he grew up in a series of group homes.”
“I wonder if it’s better to have no parents than to have terrible ones,” Tris muses, echoing my earlier thoughts.