Chapter Eight
Sam’s mom pulled a sky-blue sweater from the J.Crew clearance rack and held it up to Sam’s chest. “This one’s definitely your color!”
Back when he was younger, Sam and his mom had been really into color matching.
There was a set of tapes she’d ordered from the shopping channel that they watched religiously, taking notes together on the couch.
The videos featured a woman with a voluminous perm who layered swatches of fabric across the shoulders of smiling models to show how different color shades could complement a person’s natural skin tone.
Sam’s undertone was cool, while his mom’s was neutral.
It had proven such a formative influence he often recalled certain rules when he shopped—opting for a dark fuchsia over a butter yellow because the latter washed him out.
Sam grimaced as he gave the sweater a once-over. “I bet it’s polyester.”
His mom checked the tag. “For nine ninety-nine, it could be made of recycled tires for all I care.”
They were in Grand Island, which was a forty-minute drive from Oakdale and the closest place with a decent-sized mall.
He used to come here with his sister and later with friends, trawling through the DVD racks at the music store on the basement floor.
It felt weird to be back and even weirder to be here with his mom.
But she’d knocked on his door that morning and asked if he’d like to join her for some retail therapy.
He knew she was going out of her way to spend time together, and what could be more conducive to bonding with your gay boomerang son than a trip to the mall?
“After this, let’s get pretzels,” his mom said, placing the sweater back on the rack and flicking through the remaining hangers with military precision.
Sam’s phone pulsed in his hand, and he glanced down to find another unsolicited message from his sister: It’s been two months. Time to get back on the horse. For M&D’s sake.
“Who is it?” his mother asked, catching his scowl.
“Georgia.”
“Oh, what does she say?”
“Hi. Hope you’re having a wonderful day.”
His mother tittered and shot him a knowing look. “Sounds like our Georgie.”
She picked out a lavender cardigan and a printed flower skirt for herself and motioned for Sam to follow her to the fitting rooms. After she pulled the curtain closed behind her, he took a seat on the bench across from the cubicle and waited.
“It’s so nice to have you along,” she said through the curtain. “You have a real eye for fashion. Your father never knows what to say.”
“Mom, you know that’s a stereotype.”
“No, it’s not, Samuel. I’ve seen your wardrobe. You’re very discerning.”
He opened his mouth to protest, but she was right.
He was particular about his clothes. He cared about style and fit and looking good.
His thoughts jumped to Connor, who hadn’t been far from his mind since the previous evening’s unexpected revelation.
Connor gave the impression that he didn’t care how he looked, in his overalls and faded tees, but Sam had noticed the crisp polo and fitted jeans he’d worn to the football game.
Not flashy, yet clear he’d made an effort.
Connor’s admission had come as a shock. He’d never given Sam reason to believe he was anything other than your average card-carrying heterosexual.
Sure, sometimes Sam’s pulse skipped when Connor looked at him, but finding straight men attractive came with the territory.
He felt a pang as he realized how much work had to go into maintaining that impression.
It had been a big part of why Sam had come out in high school—pretending was too painful.
Yet the almost defeated way Connor had revealed his truth made Sam wonder whether Connor’s decision to remain closeted was less a choice and more a product of his surroundings.
His mom emerged in the floral skirt and gave a little spin. “Well?”
“The fit’s okay, but I don’t like the pattern.”
She examined herself in the full-length mirror at the entrance to the fitting rooms. “It is a bit bold.” She returned to her cubicle, and this time when she spoke, her voice was cautious. “How are things going with Louise?”
One of his parents’ requirements, after he moved back home, was that he have weekly calls with a therapist. Louise was a little dowdy with her earth-tone kaftans and sensible frames, but she was nice enough and seemed to genuinely care about Sam and his struggles.
He knew why his mom was asking this here, with the barrier of the curtain between them.
It was easier to broach the tough questions without having to make eye contact.
“Fine,” he said. “Things are going well.”
“That’s great. Do you feel you’re making progress?”
It was such a mom question. As though the way through the dark forest was straight and linear. “In some ways,” Sam replied. “She’s helping me set healthier boundaries and get more comfortable with saying no.”
“And have you been practicing?”
“What?”
“Saying no.”
“Well, if this trip is any indication...”
His mother pulled back the curtain, her face sad.
“I’m kidding, Mom. I wanted to come shopping with you. Love the lavender, by the way. Come out here and give us a twirl.” She did, less enthusiastically this time. “Let’s get the cardigan,” he said, standing. “Pretzels are on me.”
Later, as they sat across from each other in the food court, with coffee and warm pretzels, his mother fiddled with her napkin. “It was wrong of me to ask earlier. Your conversations with Louise are private. It’s none of my business.”
Sam knew why she’d asked, though. Because back when he was an angsty, pimply kid, she had been his Louise, full of advice about how to ignore the haters and stay true to himself. He had confided things to her he’d never told his sister or his dad. She had been his rock.
Then when he left home, that connection had faded.
He’d gotten good at shutting her out—treating her calls as a chance to brag about his success and breeze past all the parts of his life that weren’t so great.
He had friends and lovers and an entire community of people just like him to help Sam discover who he was, even if they didn’t always have his best interests at heart.
He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “Thanks for inviting me out, Mom. And you can ask. Just be okay if I might not want to tell you.”
She nodded. “That’s fair. It really is lovely having you home, Sam. Even just for this time. I know it won’t be long before you’re itching to leave and get back to all your friends.”
Sam forced a smile. There was no itch. Not even a tingle.
He thought of the piercing panic he’d woken to each morning in Austin.
Work had gotten so all-encompassing that he’d neglected most of his other friendships.
Which was probably why he’d clung so tightly to Felix despite feeling more and more like his plaything.
Sam chugged from his bottle of water and swallowed the pangs of paranoia. He hated E, but Felix refused to party without it. “It’s like being sober at an orgy,” he’d say with complete seriousness.
They were at Cat’s Eye, a new club that had opened on Sixth Street.
It was packed, and Sam had to squeeze through a wall of bodies to get to the bar for drinks.
In the process, he’d lost sight of Felix, who had been doing a shitty job as his trip sitter, so here he was, stumbling about in the dark, looking for any sign of Felix in his black-leather vest and neon-green armband.
He felt a hand on his ass and another slide around his waist, sending his anxiety spiking.
It was as though a giant beast had him in its grasp, ready to swallow him whole.
Sam made it to the corridor that led to the toilets and was able to breathe again.
The space was littered with men in twos and threes who’d taken their dance-floor groping somewhere more private.
He took several deep breaths and was about to plunge back into the crowded club when he saw a flash of fluorescent green.
Felix had his arms wrapped around a petite white-blond boy, who was sucking his face like he was running out of oxygen.
A numbness crept over Sam. It took a moment for him to realize he wasn’t angry, merely defeated.
He stepped over to where they were pressed against the wall, and Felix looked up, catching his eye.
He disentangled himself and gave Sam a serene smile.
Felix had a way of pulling people into his orbit.
He had a face for TV, with straight, white teeth and tousled brown hair that flopped across his forehead, giving off an effortless charm that belied the hours he spent in front of the mirror.
He was both clever and flippant, and when he’d set his sights on Sam, it had made Sam feel like he’d been plucked from the crowd at a concert.
They’d met at a work event, and Felix spent the evening whispering in his ear, leaving him dizzy with attention.
When Sam finally got up the nerve to ask for his number, Felix grinned and leaned in to kiss him full on the mouth. “I’ll find you.”
In the beginning, Sam found it unbelievably sexy that Felix was the one who did the calling and the deciding.
So thrilling, in fact, that he couldn’t put his finger on when he’d given up all agency.
He knew he had a bad habit of being attracted to men who made him work for it.
He’d always equated hard work with desirable outcomes, so by that logic, the more work he put into a relationship, the better it would be.
“There you are, babe,” Felix said. “Thought you’d disappeared on me.”
“Who’s this?” Sam asked. The kid was looking at him with blank indifference, already bored with the conversation.
“A friend.”
“Can I talk to you for a second?” Sam asked, narrowing his eyes.
“You’re kinda killing my buzz right now.”
“See ya,” the blond boy said breezily, swanning past them into the club.
Felix’s expression hardened. It was the same look he got when Sam had the audacity to question any of his various excuses.
“We haven’t talked about other people,” Sam said.
Felix laughed. “There’s always been other people.”
Sam’s throat tightened. “You didn’t discuss it with me.”
“I thought you knew.” Felix stepped forward and brushed Sam’s hair back from his forehead. “Come on, we can’t be everything for each other. That’s not realistic. Don’t you want to keep things exciting, keep things interesting?”
Sam didn’t think fucking other people was interesting. The idea made him roil with insecurity.
“Or are you just jealous I’m doing it without you?” Felix grinned and pinched Sam’s cheek. “Do you want to take him home, like the other time?”
Sam’s stomach lurched. He’d only tried it once, at Felix’s insistence.
The man’s eagerness to bring in a third should have clued Sam in.
Why did I think it would end there? Sam should have said no from the beginning.
But he didn’t want to be that guy—the square, the prude.
So he went along with it and hated every minute.
He’d felt nauseous when the other man touched him and had struggled to hide how much it hurt to see Felix with someone else.
“No,” Sam said. “But I think we need some ground rules.”
Felix’s eyes glittered. “You know, Sam, I didn’t want to say this, but before you demand complete fidelity, maybe you should consider why I’ve had to look elsewhere.”
Felix’s words struck Sam hard in the chest and buried beneath his skin.
Every flaw, every harsh criticism of himself circled in his mind.
Considering Sam’s many shortcomings, it was a wonder Felix put up with him at all.
And here he was, demanding more. Is it fair to expect him to sacrifice his happiness on my account?
If the sex meant nothing, maybe that wasn’t the worst thing.
Felix had picked him. Sam was the lucky one. Right?
“Come dance, baby,” Felix said, peppering Sam’s mouth with soft little kisses. “Let’s not waste the E on a fight.”
Sam nodded woodenly. He let Felix take his hand and lead him through the throngs of people to the dance floor.