Chapter Nineteen
“TAD! HONEY, you made it, thank goodness! I was so worried. You know I’ve been hearing on the news about parts being stolen out of rental cars right on the lots and no one realizing it until the car breaks down after it’s been rented—”
“I’m fine, Mom,” Tad says, getting an arm around her as she throws both of hers around him.
She squeezes him tight and he has to jerk away before she suffocates Hetty, who he can feel trembling in his arms.
“Oh, you brought the cat,” Mom says, like she didn’t see Hetty when she opened the door. Maybe she didn’t. His parents aren’t cat people. He always wanted one when he was a kid, but he was told over and over how allergic he was, even though magically he never seemed to be allergic to his friends’ cats.
“I didn’t want to leave her on her own again,” he says, defensive already. He’s not even inside. Great start. “I just got back from vacation.” She does okay on her own, but she gets lonely. Not that she would have been lonely with Lewis there—but selfishly, Tad wanted her with him. He doesn’t want to feel completely alone in his parents’ house.
Mom brushes back a few wisps of her red hair. She has it pulled into a severe bun. It’s her way of controlling the curls. When he was little, people cooed over Tad’s curls, and how he obviously took after his mother, and wasn’t his hair beautiful? Then he got older, and one time in the grocery store—he’ll always remember this because he was standing next to a teetering pyramid of apples while Mom picked out the brightest red ones, and he kept thinking how good she was at it—anyway, he was standing there, and a grandfatherly man said to Mom, “Your boy looks like a girl with that hair.”
After that, Mom always kept his hair short.
“That’s right, your vacation.” She stands aside to let him in. “Oh Tad, your hair’s getting so long . ”
Instinctively, he raises a hand to the back of his neck, where, yeah, his curls are spilling messily. I’m growing it out , is what he should say. What he wants to say.
Hetty digs her claws into his forearm and he hastily tucks his other arm around her again. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s hard to get an appointment around the holidays.”
“I could bring you to the mall? Your father likes that new Sports Clips place next to Penney’s.”
“Um,” Tad replies. “Maybe.”
He can’t say No, that sounds horrible—I like it cut a certain way, and I like my hilarious stylist in Chelsea with his stories of throwing bricks at cops at Stonewall and his revolving collection of stilettos, and he gets that I’m quiet, so he’s okay just telling me his stories without me making small talk, and the Sports Clips people will expect me to chitchat with them and I’ll freeze up and they’ll think I’m rude and probably give me a bad haircut on purpose.
“Thanks,” he adds, in case Mom can see through his skull to his Gay Thoughts—and all the other thoughts that are just pathetic.
As he starts down the hallway to his childhood bedroom, Mom calls after him, “I’ll go on the phone app and see if I can get you in today. How’s that?”
He pretends he doesn’t hear her as he walks into his old bedroom.
Every time he comes back, he expects the room to smell the same—like fabric softener and detergent and the soft smell of coffee from his high school job at Dunkin’ Donuts, plus Teenage Boy, aka feet, sweat, cum, and Axe body spray. Gross.
It doesn’t, of course. It smells like a plug-in air freshener with a name like Turquoise Waters or something. The space is a neutered version of his bedroom. Some of his posters of soccer players are still up (he didn’t like soccer, but he did like the players’ legs and asses and shoulders and chests, and… well, yeah), and his bed is still there, with a navy blue comforter he picked out when he was fifteen and terrified by the fact that he was getting erections from Rihanna music videos—not because of Rihanna, but because of her male backup dancers. God, that sweaty, cut guy from the Russian Roulette video….
Obviously a navy blue comforter would make him less gay.
“Here you go, Hets,” he says, setting her on the bed. She jumps down and slinks underneath it, not that he blames her. He wishes he could do the same.
It takes him longer to bring Hetty’s stuff inside than his own. All he has is a duffel bag, but Hetty has her litter box, her food and dishes, a selection of toys, several of her favorite blankets, and a calming diffuser that he replaces the air freshener with.
Once he’s washed and filled Hetty’s dish with water and given her fresh food—and a few more treats—he closes his bedroom door to give her peace and quiet, then pads out to the kitchen.
He has to pass the horrible Reagan painting on the way. No one can see him, so he flips Reagan the bird. He has fantasies about setting the thing on fire.
Mom’s setting food out on the counter. “Are you hungry? I was going to make chili for dinner, but I know you never stop to eat on that drive. I have salami and ham, and some provolone, or I could make you a grilled cheese if you want—”
He’s only been a vegetarian since he went to college, but of course, his parents never remember.
“This is fine,” Tad says, grabbing the provolone and some wheat bread.
In his pocket, his phone buzzes. If it’s Lewis, that was a long delay between the heart and his response. But also, he can’t expect Lewis to be tethered to his phone waiting for Tad to text, especially when Tad told him not to text too much.
He realizes he’s clenching his jaw and makes a concerted effort to relax. “Is Dad home?”
Mom laughs. “Oh, he’s in the basement watching the Ohio State game.”
“Still mourning the fact that Walt didn’t take the athletic scholarship to play there?” Tad asks, constructing his sandwich.
“Your father has his passions,” Mom says, but even she sounds a little exasperated. Tad snickers. “Eat your sandwich, then go say hello to him.”
Why can’t he come up here and say hello to me?
Tad has whole conversations in his head with his parents—a rich alternative relationship where he says what he means and they respect him for it, even if they don’t always agree.
For example, in his head, Mom responds, He should come up here and say hello to you, but he won’t, and it’s just one of those things. If you talked to him about it, maybe he’d understand how you feel.
“How was your drive?” Mom asks.
Tad shrugs. “Uneventful.”
“There are so many trucks on the freeway,” she says with a shudder. “There never used to be so much traffic. I don’t know how you stand living in the city with all those cars.”
Does he miss the quiet of Watertown sometimes? Sure. Would he trade that quiet a million times over, again and again, to live in a place where he can be himself, where he can be surrounded by people like him, where he can see men wearing makeup and dresses, where there are gender-neutral bathrooms, where nonbinary isn’t a joke, where he can meet the eyes of a person with a purple faux-hawk and the sides of their hair buzzed and exchange a smile because no matter how different they are, they have their queerness in common? Yes, obviously yes.
When he needs quiet, he goes camping.
His phone buzzes once, then again, then a third time. Mom gives him a sly look. “Someone’s popular.”
He snorts. “Yeah, that would be a first.”
“I bet you’d do just fine on those dating apps. Is that what the messages are from?” When he stares at her, wide-eyed and horrified, she scoffs. “Oh, Tad, don’t look at me like that. I know about Tinder.”
“Um, why would that make me feel better?”
She laughs. “Your brother met a very nice girl on there.”
News to Tad, but then again, he and Walt don’t talk much. “Walt has a girlfriend he met on Tinder? Interesting.”
Maybe it’s presumptuous to call the woman a girlfriend, but he’s not going to say the phrase “fuck buddy” to his mom, even though, honestly? A fuck buddy is more Walt’s speed. Walt’s never managed to maintain a romantic relationship for more than a couple months. It’s so annoying, because Tad was in one for three years , and he can’t even rub it in Walt’s face, because he’d have to come out.
Then again, I was in a relationship for three years, until my SO dumped me isn’t really that great of a brag.
“You should download it, honey.”
“That’s okay. Not really my thing.”
She gives him a pleading look. “I know being so shy made you a late bloomer, but you’re almost thirty.”
It hasn’t even been half an hour and she’s already giving him sad puppy dog eyes about him Never Finding Anyone. Great.
“I really don’t like dating apps,” he says, which is 100 percent true.
“But it would make it easier if you could connect with someone online first,” Mom says eagerly. “Then you wouldn’t get so nervous when you met them in person.”
Goddddd he wishes he could tell her that actually, no, it doesn’t help, and he knows from experience. But he doesn’t want to fudge the truth and say he’s tried and failed, because it will bring even more pressure for him to settle down with a Very Nice Girl. Like Walt’s apparently doing.
“I’m not sure that would help,” he says.
“You never know until you try!” Mom looks like she thinks they’re capital C Connecting.
“No, I’m pretty sure—”
His phone buzzes again, and Mom looks smug. “I don’t know what else could be making your phone explode like that.”
“Blow up,” he says absently. There isn’t anything on his phone that would send him so many notifications, except texts. And Tad asked Lewis not to text him a lot. It seemed like Lewis would respect that, but maybe he isn’t? And now Mom’s looking at him like she wants him to whip his phone out and see if any of her imagined Tinder matches for him look like Nice Girls.
He shoves the rest of his sandwich in his mouth, then says around the wad of multigrain bread and provolone, “Gon’ g’ say ‘i t’ Da’.”
She swats at him lightly. “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
Making a zipping motion over his mouth, he heads for the basement stairs. Halfway down, he pulls his phone from his pocket.
The alerts were texts, but they’re not from Lewis. Tad pushes down the stupid throb of disappointment at Lewis doing exactly what Tad asked him to do. No, the texts are all from Callie, his boss.
Did you go up to visit your family for Thanksgiving?
You didn’t ask if I could take care of the plants?
I didn’t kill your plants, did I?
Tad I’m not banned from plantsitting, am I?
You should have said if I killed a plant!
I’m sorry!
But do I need to go over and take care of the plants?
Tad rolls his eyes and smiles. You didn’t kill a plant. I’m visiting my parents but don’t worry about going over, someone else volunteered to do it
Three dots immediately appear, bouncing as Callie types back. Then they disappear. And appear again. And disappear. And now Tad’s starting to worry about what she’s going to say.
Finally, her message appears. Someone else?
There’s a lot more typing. Tad can’t stand halfway down the stairs forever, so she better hurry up and say what she has to say.
Sweetie, it’s not John, is it?
No!!!
GOOD. I would have gone over there and kicked his ass out
No John. You don’t have to worry about that
Ok but now you got me curious. Who’s there?
This wouldn’t have anything to do with you staying in Nevada an extra week, would it?
Tad feels the besotted smile on his face and tries to wipe it away. Mom’s already on the prowl to find him a girlfriend; the last thing he needs to do is look like he already maybe has one.
I met a guy in Vegas and he lives in NYC too. He’s taking care of my plants
This plant? , followed, mortifyingly, by an eggplant emoji.
OMGGGGGG you’re my BOSS
So what happened in Vegas didn’t stay in Vegas
O
M
G
Seriously boo I’m happy for you
It’s just casual. We’re not like seeing each other or anything
Suuuurrre all my hookups definitely offered to stay at my apartment and take care of my dog. That’s totally something a fuck buddy does
He just got out of a bad relationship and he’s not looking to start another one. And I shouldn’t even be telling you this because it’s none of your business!
I’ll let you get back to the fam. Can’t wait to meet your new bf!
He leaves her on read. If he keeps fumbling his replies to her, he’ll end up telling her they aren’t boyfriends, they’re husbands, and then he’ll be forced to tell the whole sad story.
Before he continues down the stairs, he pulls up his conversation with Lewis. Just seeing their texts makes him smile.
Doofy, smitten smile. Again. Still Not Pierce Household approved. It probably looks too gay.
Shoving his phone back in his pocket, he makes himself move. As soon as he opens the door to the basement, he can hear the TV blaring commercials. That’s football—ten seconds of gameplay, five minutes of ads for fast food, the Toyota-thon sales event of the century, insurance, and that whackadoo pillow guy.
“Hi, Dad!” He has to raise his voice over the TV.
Dad glances over his shoulder. His face lights up. “Tad-o!” Bracing himself on the arms of his favorite recliner, he heaves himself to his feet. “When did you get here?”
The Pierce men don’t hug each other, so they just do that manly shoulder-slap/handshake/half-hug thing. “Maybe half an hour ago?” Tad says. Ugh, he has to cut it out with the uptalk. It always comes out more when he’s here, like he’s constantly asking permission to take up the space he’s in.
“Your mom get you something to eat? You’re looking scrawny.”
Tad folds his arms over his chest. Dad has always been a big man, and Tad’s height comes from him—Tad could look him in the eye by the time he was fourteen. But all Dad’s broadness went to Walt.
“Yeah, I ate,” he says. There’s no point in getting into an argument about how he’s not scrawny, he’s lean, and he’ll never be able to bulk up like Walt.
He knows, because there was a period of high school where he spent a truly insane amount of time in the gym and making himself drink protein shakes.
But! He gave his first blowjob because of all that gym time, to a closeted senior boy who fled Watertown the minute he graduated—which was good, because it meant he wasn’t going to let slip what he and Tad did on the shoulder press machine.
“How’s the game?” Tad asks.
Dad waves a beefy hand. “Boring. Say, how was Vegas? Walt just said you all got drunk and lost a bunch of money. And you decided to go camping?”
Tad laughs at that summary. “Walt lost a bunch of money. I just got drunk. And uh, yeah, there’s some good camping in Nevada, so, you know. When’s the next time I’m gonna be down there, I figured.”
“That’s my boy,” Dad says proudly. Tad feels his chest puff out. They’re so different, Dad and him, but this is the one thing they’ve always connected on. Walt liked camping, but Tad was the one who fell in love with it. “Where’d you camp?”
“Humboldt-Toiyabe,” Tad says. “Not the part close to Vegas, but the bit closer to California.”
Dad whistles. “Pretty remote out there, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. It’s amazing.”
All of a sudden, Dad’s expression gets stern. “You know better than to go camping in that kind of place by yourself. You could’ve broken your leg and died of thirst out there!”
“Oh! Um—” Shit. He should’ve lied about… something. His brain scrambles for something, anything to get that disapproving, disappointed expression off Dad’s face. “Well, I wasn’t alone. I went with”—god if he says he went with his “female” hookup “Louise” he’ll never hear the end of it from Mom; she’ll demand they devote his entire visit to tracking her down—”uhhh, a guy. This uh, dude. That I met in Vegas.”
Dad looks surprised. Uh, yeah, no duh. Tad made a friend and then they went camping together? Is that more or less plausible than Tad getting married and going camping with his new husband?
God—wait. Did he tell Walt he was going camping with his fictional female hookup? He can’t remember. He was so hungover and still kind of wrecked from the sex. Queasiness roils his intestines. He’s kept his sexual orientation from his family for fifteen-odd years, but suddenly he feels one slip-up away from outing himself, and this isn’t the way he wants to do it.
That’s what he always thinks— this isn’t the way I want to do it . The truth is, he doesn’t actually have a “way he wants to do it.” He’s never been able to envision what it would look like to come out to his family, and he’s never really tried. Maybe a little when he was a teenager, a few halting fantasies about everyone hugging him and telling him they’ll always love him.
Yeah right.
“Good thing he didn’t turn out to be an axe murderer, huh, kiddo?” Dad says. “He didn’t go all Brokeback Mountain on you up there, did he?”
Tad lets out an awkward laugh that sounds like it should be admissible in a court of law as a confession of guilt. “No.”
Dad doesn’t seem to notice. Of course he doesn’t—it doesn’t fit into his worldview that Tad’s gay, so his weirdness is just Tad Being Tad. “You wanna watch the game with me and tell me about your trip?”
As much as he’d love to talk about camping with Dad, he can’t bear to carve out the beating heart of the week he spent in Humboldt-Toiyabe. How can he talk about the trip without mentioning the furnace warmth of Lewis holding him through the night, or how Lewis kisses so carefully and slowly, like Tad is precious? How can he excise the night they lay outside the tent on their backs as the fire burned down to nothing, and Tad pointed out constellations with one hand while he clasped Lewis’s with the other?
How can he pretend he didn’t start falling in love?
Bile burns his throat, and he thinks for a second he actually might vomit. “Actually,” he chokes out, “I really need to get my hair cut. I think I’m going to go to the mall with Mom to Sports Clips.”
Disappointment flashes across Dad’s face so fast that Tad’s not sure he really saw it. “Good idea,” Dad says. “You don’t want other guys thinking you’re a woman, right?”
“Right,” Tad says with a forced laugh. He flees before he can make it even more obvious that he’s not the straight bro Dad expects him to be.