Chapter 38
LACHLAN
The lunch crowd is lingering when Isak and I walk into Emmanuel’s Deli late on Saturday afternoon. Channel five is playing some game show. I keep sneaking glances at Isak’s hand.
Reach out and take it. It matters to him. Get over yourself. Hold his hand.
But, shit. How do I … What will people say? Manny knows my uncle. I can’t … I can’t touch Isak here.
They’ll think I’m gay.
Who is “they”?
Everyone.
And are you?
Yeah. I am.
Why do I always have to go through this debate in my head? I admitted to Isak I’m gay. And, contrary to what bigots think, my sexuality doesn’t matter when I’m buying a sandwich—or doing virtually anything else that doesn’t involve actual sex.
Whatever. I’m coming to terms with being me.
“Two Originals, hold the onions, please,” I tell Manny, who brightens when he sees me. “And two fountain drinks.” I hand over my debit card before Isak has a chance to. “My treat.”
Isak purses his lips. Damn, I want to kiss those lips. “I’ll get the next one.”
I smile at him. “Not the filet mignon one, but you can pick the next place after that.” In fact, I very much like the idea of sandwich dates.
“You boys talking about getting sandwiches other than at Manny’s?” Manny asks. “I’m offended.”
“Oh, don’t be. You’re impossible to beat. We just want to make sure that we’ve properly tried all the sandwich places in town,” I say.
Isak nods. “Like a survey. To find the best sandwiches in multiple categories. We agreed to do it together.”
“He’s sandwich-worthy,” I add. Then I realize what I said and that Manny knows what it means.
He looks at us more closely. I’m not going to deny that Isak is with me, but I’m also not going to volunteer anything—anything more—that could get back to my uncle. Shit, this balancing act is exhausting as fuck. But all Manny says is, “I’ll call your number when it’s ready.”
I release a loud sigh. “Thanks.”
Isak and I look around the crowded restaurant. The only available table is a tiny one off to the side. We beeline over to it, and my knees knock his as we sit. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He looks around. “I love this place. I like holes-in-the-wall. They have charm. Character.”
“Agreed.”
He’s right here, and I want to reach out and touch him. I compromise by scooching my chair closer, putting us shoulder to shoulder.
Our number is called, and Isak watches the table while I get up to retrieve our food. I bring back a tray holding oversized sandwiches, two plastic cups filled with Coke, and a pile of napkins and set it down, then hand Isak his sandwich.
His eyes light up, because unlike Cheska, he knows a good thing when he sees it.
We both dig in.
After a few bites, Isak asks, “Can I record you singing ‘Malware’?”
That’s my main solo song. I scoff, my mouth full. I chew and swallow, then take a sip of my soda. “Why would you want to do that?”
“Because your version of it is magical, and I like listening to you.” His praise makes me go all gooey inside. “When we’re onstage, I can’t totally enjoy it, because I’m worried about my lines and making sure I don’t miss cues. But you sound amazing, and I’d like to have a copy for myself.”
“Sure. Fine. It’s a little weird.”
“You had on the original Broadway cast recording of Dogs this morning in the truck.”
“I’m not exactly Broadway caliber, but whatever, okay.”
He looks like he might be thinking about arguing, but he takes the win. We keep eating our sandwiches. When we’re finished, I ball up the paper wrapping and drain my soda.
“I want to take you on a date,” I tell him, super low. “Somewhere real. Not just to get a sandwich.”
“This counts,” he insists. “I’m good if we spend our time trying to find the greatest sandwiches. I’m serious about the contest. I know I’m going to find the best ones.”
I grin. That’s not a no. “We can get creative. I just want to hang out with you.”
Isak gets heart eyes. “Well, we don’t have rehearsal Wednesday.”
“Then it’s a date.”
He looks at me with a mixture of affection and trepidation.
“What?” I ask.
“This is still new. I’m still processing that you want to go out with me.”
“A thousand times over, I want to go out with you.”
“Okay.” He swallows hard. “Good. Where are we going?”
“I’ll figure that out.”
I insist on taking a photo of us before we get up from the table. I need to have pictures of him on my phone.
We leave the deli and go for a stroll down the street, watching people go to the post office and hair salon.
I like walking next to Isak out in the open. He’s wearing my hoodie from last night. Not sure if anyone’s noticed except me. But I love seeing him in it.
I reach over and pluck the Peaky Blinders–style hat off his pretty head.
“Hey!” he protests, reaching for it. I play keep-away, laughing as he lunges. Instead of maintaining course, though, he snatches my baseball cap and sticks it on his head with the brim in front.
I inhale sharply. “Damn, you look sexy in my hat.” Isak grins and spins it around backward, and I stare. “I definitely see the appeal.” I fit his hat on my own head, and his expression turns calculating. “What?”
“I like you in my hat.”
I open my phone and check my image. “Yeah, okay. It’s cool.” He looks good in mine, and it seems his fits me well, too. He doesn’t make a grab to retrieve his hat, and neither do I.
“Maybe who we are is just a matter of what hat we’re wearing,” Isak muses.
At home, Mom is sitting in her chair watching television. “Hi,” I say as I pass by, but she doesn’t acknowledge me.
So it’s one of those days. Okay.
I hear Quinton crying, and I go to my sister’s room. Q is sitting on the floor, kicking, and Ivy is yelling at him, “Just do what I say!”
The old thoughts start intruding in my brain: Mom’s self-medicating and checked out, my sister can’t deal with being a teen mom, I can’t show my sexuality to any of them, my boyfriend deserves better than my shit show of a life, I need to release the pressure I’m holding inside.
How many days until I can get out of here? I need to—
I take a deep breath and let it out. Then do it again before returning to my normal breathing pattern.
While I could go through the exercise of naming something good in my life (Isak, Isak, Isak, and maybe his mom, too), I’m feeling calmer. I look at the situation from a detached perspective.
Ivy’s at the end of her rope, but that’s not Quinton’s fault.
He’s a little kid. She normally doesn’t yell at him, so she must be extra stressed right now.
The typical reaction in my family to her emotional outburst would be to yell at her for yelling at her son, which is a chain I want to break.
So instead, I count to five. “Can I help?”
“No. Get the hell out of here,” she snarls.
I don’t move. “I can help you.”
“There’s no way you can help. He’s an absolute spoiled brat.”
I know for a fact that my nephew is not spoiled. He almost never gets his way. And something inside me breaks.
I can see it all, see what Isak sees: that I never had a chance.
If this is how we’re taught, how do we break the cycle? How do we keep our children from inheriting the crap that we went through, when it’s all that we know?
All we can do is try.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Taking a deep breath, I sit on the floor. Q looks at me in surprise. And he stops wailing, though tears are still dribbling down his cheeks. He hiccups. “Hey, little man,” I say quietly.
“Hi, Unca Laka.”
“Not having a good day?”
He shakes his head vehemently. Ivy is seething in the corner.
She’d ordinarily put a tablet in front of him to shut him up. But I feel like that’s teaching him the wrong lesson.
“I got him. Take a break,” I say quietly to Ivy. “You’ve got a lot on your plate. I’ll watch him for a while.”
Ivy studies me, her brow wrinkled. “What’s in it for you?”
I let out an unamused chuckle. “Peace and quiet.”
That gets a tiny smile. “Okay.” And then, “Thanks.” She squeezes my shoulder.
I play with Quinton until it’s time for dinner. By then, Ivy’s calmed down, and she bathes him and puts him to bed.
On my phone, in my room, I stare at the selfie I took in Manny’s, and then I exhale and text Isak.
Me
Can I come over?
Isak
Please
Mom’s working late so u don’t need to sneak in the window
Not that you’ve ever done that
Or that mom would care
Sorry I’m being goofy
Just come to the front door
Me
OMW