Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
CALLUM
If there’s one upside to running a little late, it’s, well, running.
For once, I’m almost too warm in my porous jacket, and I shed it as soon as I step into the chaotic WMU Student Health Center.
I bumble around the second floor for a while, searching for the counseling offices before I finally find them on the other side of a glass overpass.
Some signage would have been useful.
Checking my phone for the time, I let my pace slow when I confirm that I’ve made up for my post-gym, post-shower tardiness on the way over, and I knock on the door to room B207 after a quick check-in on the Health Center app.
Anita Young, my assigned counsellor, opens the door after a few seconds. “Hi, you must be Callum,” she says after I enter. “Please, have a seat.”
I settle into the green beanbag chair across from her desk and immediately sink way too far into it.
What a way to make a first impression.
With my cheeks burning, I unfold myself and plant my legs on the floor to keep myself vertical.
“Sorry,” I mutter, keeping my gaze low.
“No big deal.” Anita’s voice is soft, and when I tilt my head back up, she’s smiling gently at me. “Trust me, you aren’t the first person who’s done that. I keep asking this place to give me another real chair, but you know how slow admin can be to move things along.”
I let out a quiet sigh of relief. Not that I was expecting Anita to be judgy, but it’s good to know that she isn’t overly clinical.
Besides, she’s affirming. The little pride flag decal above her desk certainly isn’t lost on me. If I’m going to get any kind of benefit out of coming here, I know I need to open up, which hasn’t happened in years.
“Okay, you were triaged rather quickly based on your intake questionnaire,” she starts, pushing her long black hair back, “so let’s get into it. Have you had any kind of counseling or therapy before?”
I shake my head.
“And do you have any questions about the paperwork you filled out?”
“Nope, I think I’m okay.” The intake form was pretty basic, asking me for basic medical information questions, some of which I didn’t have clear answers for.
Anita nods once before giving me a quick overview of how all this works.
I get two sessions a month with her for six months, before dropping down to one indefinitely.
Everything stays in this room, other than if I’m at risk of harming myself or anyone else, and while I’m not sure if that’ll make it easier for me to spill my secrets, who knows?
After a pause, Anita looks up from her tablet. “I know you answered this in the intake form, but what are you hoping to get out of our sessions, if you decide this is a good fit for you?”
Where do I even start? Become a functioning person? Erase the first nineteen years of my life and start fresh? Learn how to talk to people without clamming up?
Finally convince myself that I’m not gonna wake up back in Wisconsin tomorrow?
“What I put on the form, basically,” I say. Sheesh, that’s not helpful at all. “I mean, I’d ideally like to be normal.”
Or at least the version of normal that I wasn’t raised to be.
“What does normal look like to you?” Anita asks.
My mind goes to Ian, and I remind myself not to make a habit of it. In this case, though, it seems appropriate. He’s a normal guy—casual, collected, funny.
Cute.
Really, really freaking cute.
Come on, that’s rude.
“Sociable, I guess?” I say instead. “I don't really speak up that much.”
The scratching of Anita’s pen on her tablet is the only sound in the room for a couple of seconds. “Being a quieter person isn’t anything to be fixed, Callum. There’s nothing abnormal about that.”
“I know, but I think I’m more than just quiet. Besides, I’m already so different from everyone else, here and in general.”
“In what ways do you think that?”
Again, I’m at a loss for where I can even start with answering that. But I'm in my head pretty much all the time anyway. All I have to do is take my mental voice and put it into my real voice.
“Do you mind if I ramble a bit?” I ask.
“Go right ahead.”
I don’t ramble; I say the first two words that come to mind.
“I’m gay.”
For the first time I’ve said that out loud, ever, my voice comes out a lot stronger than I would have expected. I do my best to not stare directly at Anita, even though I’m desperate to see how she reacts, so I keep her in my peripheral vision.
And she nods. She does that a lot.
“Thank you for telling me,” she says. “Is that the first time you’ve told anyone?”
“Yes.”
“Is that something you’re struggling to accept? As part of being ‘normal,’ that is.”
Surprising myself, I manage to smile, even though this isn’t a topic I thought I’d be happy to discuss.
“No, honestly. It’s been six years since I suspected, and I’m at the point where it is what it is.
” Pausing, I wait for Anita to say something, and when she doesn’t, I fill the silence.
“I didn’t come here because of my sexuality,” I clarify, bending the truth a little. “I’m here because I need to…”
Anita still doesn’t reply. She probably wants me to finish my sentence. Discomfort brews in my stomach, but I power through it. After all, if I stayed in my comfort zone, I wouldn’t leave my room. Ever.
“I need to undo what my parents taught me,” I get out.
Anita nods. “And what exactly is it that your parents taught you, that you’re trying to reverse?”
“To be quiet,” I reply.
Jeez, I’m going in circles.
“Okay.” She thinks for a second, clasping her hands together. “That’s quite a bit to go over here, especially for a first session, so why don’t we focus on your goals. Could you name one or two outcomes that you’d like to work toward as we move through our sessions, should you choose to continue?”
My mind goes back to how I froze up when I met Nick and Ian, and how poorly I handled their joking during our group project meeting. Like, seriously. I could have tried to engage.
I sigh. “Maybe…be more confident. And learn how to be friends with people.”
“That’s a good start, and you’re already ahead of most people who seek help. Why is it, do you think, that you need to learn how to be friends with people?”
“I was sheltered,” I say. And I leave it at that.
The rest of the session is super logistical. What treatment might look like. Who to call and where to go if I need anything urgent.
If my parents could see me, they’d sneer. Or spit in my face. Or something else I don’t particularly want to think about.
Yeah. I don’t feel any better after this, but I don’t feel worse, either. I’ll keep coming in case I eventually do. I just want to breathe.
Hopefully undoing nineteen years won’t take another nineteen.
As I push the door open on my way out of Anita’s office, my palm leaves a streak of stress-induced perspiration behind. God, that’s disgusting.
As quickly as I can, I wipe the marks off the metal handle with the cuff of my sweater and dart into the nearest bathroom to scrub my hands clean.
While drying the wetness off under the weak puff of an ancient hand dryer, my eyes drift to a clear bowl sitting next to the sink.
Like every other public bathroom at this college, it’s full of condoms, which I figure is a nice touch, but it’ll be ages, if ever, before those are of any use to me.
Still, something, possibly the lack of anyone else around me, compels me to make a closer inspection.
Huh. The bowl is split in two.
Condoms in one half, packets of lube in the other.
My breath hitches as ideas intrude my mind. I could use lube on myself. I never have, given the hell that would break loose if anyone found sex supplies in my room at home, but I can guess it’d feel way better than spit or shampoo.
Even the thought makes my dick stir.
I’m ridiculous—I can't keep myself in check over something so basic. Still, I can't get the thought out of my head. The post-workout buzz I always get isn’t helping my self-restraint any more than it never does.
I grit my teeth and pull my sweater down to cover myself. The last thing I need is to broadcast my lack of control to the whole college.
After an unnecessary glance around to make sure I’m alone, I grab a handful of lube packets and stuff them into the depths of my backpack before making a hasty exit, trying not to look like I pulled a heist. My eyes stay fixed to the ground in front of me as I make the short, icy walk back to my room, and I lock the door behind me before unclenching my jaw and releasing a tense breath.
Here, it's just me.
I slip my jeans off and climb into bed, and I can't stop focusing on the fraying cuffs.
Yeah, I catch how other students stare at my stretched-out jeans and the shirts that catch under my arms, but can I blame them?
I’ve got to be the only person on campus who still wears stuff that's over a year old.
I'll have to wait until I get my first check from the library before I can get anything new, and even then, I'll only be able to afford some kind of imitation of what people here wear.
Kind of fitting for what I am—an imitation of who belongs.
The voice in my head pipes up. Shut up. You belong.
Sometimes I listen, sometimes I don't. I mean, WMU wouldn't have given me a full ride if I didn't belong, but the student body isn't responsible for admissions.
My wandering thoughts are politely interrupted with a chime from my phone.
Student Portal Updates:
Ian Scott has uploaded Draft Video 1.mp4 to HM2 Project Drive (Today, 12:37 p.m.)
I click the link I missed and watch the video, which makes me wonder if Ian is minoring in Creative Studies. He made my cheap phone video look almost professional, making the audio sharp, and applying some kind of filter to smooth out the static.
Just watched the video, looks good, thanks for editing it
Again, I remind myself not to add a period.
Ian Scott
Thanks man!
You’re the best