Chapter 10 #3
The praise should have felt dangerous. It should have reminded me that this was Adrian, the same person who'd been methodically undermining everything I'd been taught to believe.
Instead, it felt... good. Like recognition.
Like someone seeing something in me that I'd never been allowed to acknowledge.
"Your parents chose pre-law for you, didn't they?" Adrian asked suddenly.
The question came out of nowhere, cutting through my moment of satisfaction like a blade. I looked up from my notes to find him watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"Why would you ask that?"
"Because you're passionate about the law, but you seem surprised by your own passion. Like you never expected to enjoy this." He leaned back in his chair, still watching me. "And because everything about you screams 'following someone else's plan.'"
I should have denied it. Should have given him some story about always wanting to be a lawyer, about choosing my own path.
But sitting across from him in the quiet library, surrounded by legal texts and constitutional arguments that were starting to make dangerous sense, I found I didn't have the energy for another lie.
I didn't answer, but apparently my silence was answer enough.
"What did you want to be?" Adrian asked quietly. "Before they decided for you."
The question hit something I'd buried so deep I'd almost forgotten it was there.
A memory of being twelve years old in the public library—back when my mother still took me there for "educational enrichment"—discovering a book about ancient civilizations.
Egyptian pyramids, Mayan temples, Roman amphitheatres.
I'd been transfixed by the photographs, the stories of archaeologists uncovering lost worlds, piece by careful piece.
I'd checked out every archaeology book they had.
Read about Heinrich Schliemann discovering Troy, about Howard Carter opening Tutankhamun's tomb, about the mystery of the Antikythera mechanism.
For months, I'd dreamed of traveling to dig sites around the world, of brushing sand away from pottery shards and temple foundations, of being the one to uncover secrets that had been buried for millennia.
The fantasy had died in my father's study on a Tuesday evening in October. I'd made the mistake of telling him about my career aspirations during one of our weekly "guidance sessions."
"Archaeology glorifies pagan civilizations," he'd said without looking up from his sermon notes. "Cultures that worshipped false gods, practiced idolatry, lived in open rebellion against the Lord's commandments. Why would a Christian boy want to spend his life celebrating sin?"
I'd tried to explain—it wasn't about celebrating anything, it was about understanding history, about learning how people lived, about discovery and knowledge. But my father had that look on his face, the one that meant the conversation was over before it had really begun.
"Those civilizations fell because they turned away from God," he'd continued. "Egypt enslaved the Israelites. Rome persecuted Christians. The Maya practiced human sacrifice. Is that really what you want to dedicate your life to studying?"
The library visits stopped the next week.
"Too much secular influence," my mother explained apologetically, as if she hadn't been the one to encourage my reading in the first place.
My archaeology books disappeared from my room.
When I asked about them, I was told they'd been "donated to more appropriate homes. "
By Christmas, I was enrolled in additional Bible study classes and my father was talking about the importance of "practical career paths that serve God's purpose." Law was respectable, stable, useful for defending Christian values in an increasingly secular world.
I'd convinced myself I'd forgotten about dusty dig sites and ancient mysteries. But sitting here with Adrian, surrounded by constitutional law texts and legal precedents, I realized something: this was the first time since I was twelve that learning felt like discovery instead of memorization.
"Archaeology," I said finally, the word feeling strange after so many years of not saying it out loud.
Adrian's expression softened, and I saw understanding flicker in his dark eyes. "Because it would have meant studying cultures that didn't follow your father's version of Christianity."
It wasn't a question. Somehow, he'd understood exactly what I couldn't bring myself to say.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
"Jesse." Adrian's hand moved across the table, stopping just short of covering mine. Not quite touching, but close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his skin. "That's not a small dream to give up."
"It doesn't matter now."
"It does, though." His fingers shifted slightly, the tip of his index finger barely grazing my knuckle.
"It matters because you're sitting here building brilliant constitutional arguments for something you were taught to oppose, and you're doing it because some part of you still knows what discovery feels like.
Some part of you that they never managed to completely suppress. "
I looked down at my notes—three pages of careful analysis, questions, observations. My handwriting documenting arguments for marriage equality, for constitutional protection of rights I'd never been allowed to consider.
"We should get back to work," I said.
Adrian was quiet for a moment, then nodded. "Right. We still need to cover the equal protection analysis."
"We should probably call it a night," I said, my voice coming out strained and unnatural. "It's getting late."
Adrian was quiet for a moment, and I could feel him watching me. "Okay," he said finally. "Same time day after tomorrow?"
I nodded, still not meeting his eyes as I gathered my soggy notes. But as I packed my bag, I could still feel the phantom warmth of his hand under mine, could still see the way his pupils had dilated when I'd touched him.
And I knew, with terrifying certainty, that I wanted to touch him again.
We walked out of the library together, our footsteps echoing in the quiet evening. At the main entrance, our paths diverged—Adrian heading toward the queer fraternity house, me toward my sterile apartment.
"Jesse," he called as I started to walk away.
I turned back.
"You did good work tonight. Really good work." He paused, seeming to weigh his words. "I know this isn't easy for you. But you're handling it like the lawyer you're going to be."
He walked away before I could respond, leaving me standing under the library's entrance lights with his words echoing in my head.
The lawyer you're going to be.
Not the lawyer my parents wanted me to be. Not the lawyer who would serve their vision of God's purpose. The lawyer I was going to be, based on my own mind and my own choices.
I was halfway back to my apartment when my phone buzzed. Rebecca, calling instead of texting this time.
"Hey," I answered, still distracted by constitutional law and Adrian's unexpected praise.
"Jesse? Where have you been? I've been texting you for hours."
I stopped walking. Texting me for hours? I pulled the phone away from my ear to check my messages. Six unread texts from Rebecca, starting three hours ago.
How did your day go?
Want to grab dinner?
Jesse? Everything okay?
Starting to worry. Call me.
Seriously, where are you?
If you don't answer soon I'm coming over.
"Oh God," I said. "Rebecca, I'm sorry. I was studying and I had my phone on silent."
"Studying for three hours without checking your phone? That's not like you."
She was right. It wasn't like me. I always checked my phone. I always responded to her texts immediately. I never just... disappeared into my work without thinking about the people waiting to hear from me.
"I was at the library," I said, which was true. "Working on a group project for Constitutional Law."
Also true. But not the whole truth. Not even close.
"A group project? With who?"
"Another student in my class. We're partners for a debate assignment."
"What's the topic?"
I stopped walking entirely. How did I explain that I was researching arguments for marriage equality?
How did I tell my girlfriend—my girlfriend who expected to announce our engagement soon—that I was spending my evenings with Adrian Costas learning about constitutional protection for same-sex marriage?
"It's complicated," I said finally. "Constitutional law stuff. Boring."
The lie tasted bitter. What we'd done tonight wasn't boring—it was fascinating, challenging, intellectually stimulating in a way I hadn't experienced since.
.. maybe ever. But I couldn't tell Rebecca that.
I couldn't tell her that I'd spent three hours discussing legal theory with a man who made my pulse race, learning about rights she'd been taught to oppose.
"Well, be careful not to let it take over your life," Rebecca said, and I could hear the worry in her voice. "You've been distracted lately. Different. Is everything okay?"
Everything was not okay. Everything was falling apart in ways I didn't understand and couldn't control. But I couldn't say that either.
"I'm fine," I said. "Just stressed about schoolwork."
"Okay. I love you."
"I love you too."
Another lie. Or maybe not a lie, exactly, but not the truth either.
I loved Rebecca the way I loved my family, my church, the familiar patterns of my carefully ordered life.
But sitting across from Adrian tonight, watching his eyes light up as he explained constitutional principles, I'd felt something else entirely.
Something I didn't have words for and couldn't afford to examine too closely.
I hung up and continued walking, but slower now. The campus was quiet except for the distant sound of traffic and the occasional laugh from students heading home from late study sessions. Normal people living normal lives, making normal choices.
By the time I reached my apartment, one fact had crystallized with uncomfortable clarity: I'd lied to Rebecca. Twice. First by omission when I didn't tell her about my study session with Adrian, then directly when I downplayed what we'd been working on.
It was the second lie I'd told her in a week.
I sat on my bed and stared at the legal pad full of notes about marriage equality, constitutional rights, and the fundamental liberty interest in forming intimate bonds. Three hours ago, this had been an impossible assignment, a cruel joke that would force me to argue against everything I believed.
Now it felt like something else entirely.
I thought about Adrian's question: What did you want to be?
I thought about his praise: You're thinking like a lawyer.
I thought about Justice Kennedy's words about marriage embodying "the highest ideals of love, fidelity, devotion, sacrifice, and family."
And I thought about the look in Adrian's eyes when he'd talked about dignity and equal citizenship and the fundamental human need to form intimate bonds.
For the first time in my life, I'd spent an evening engaged in intellectual work that felt like discovery rather than memorization. I'd asked questions that came from genuine curiosity rather than dutiful compliance. I'd felt my mind working in ways it had never been allowed to work before.
I'd enjoyed it.
More than enjoyed it—I'd felt alive in a way I couldn't remember feeling before. Energized. Intellectually stimulated. Like I was using parts of my brain that had been locked away my entire life.
And that terrified me more than anything that had happened so far.
Because if I could enjoy working with Adrian, if I could find constitutional arguments for marriage equality not just comprehensible but compelling, if I could feel genuine intellectual passion for ideas I'd been taught to reject—then what else might I be capable of?
What other lies might I be ready to stop telling?