1. Ryan #2
“Oh, I… okay, sure.” Arnaud and Bob were already in the room I’d just left. Taft nodded, quiet as usual, lowering his foot back down to the floor after giving his shin a rub. “Sorry, I… sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Taft replied before he also pushed into the empty room to emerge with four chairs.
I slid down the hall, my pulse slowing slightly, Finn at my side chattering about colors that reflect moods and how expressing one’s emotions via oils was wonderful therapy.
I picked up what he was saying as the Copperheads came thundering along behind us, chairs clattering into each other, the French-Canadian goalie shouting something about battles on the ramparts.
I just wasn’t sure I could do art therapy on top of my narcotics recovery group.
Spoons were required for such things. Add in the fact that I’d be packed into a small room with several big hockey players—one who broke my nose—and the mere thought made me queasy.
Within moments, the chairs were stacked neatly in the supply closet. Then we all stood there, outside an old wooden door, like a pack of dimwits, the discomfort of the moment making the air thick and unpleasant. And that could not be blamed on Trucker or his bean burrito.
“So, we’re all going to get some coffee and donuts if you’d like to join us, Ryan,” Finn said to break the painful silence.
How nice that he remembered my name. I’d only met him once or twice at the arena when he was waiting for Walker after a game.
He always talked to me about how sharp Walker said his skates were.
I would thank him then hustle off to the skate-sharpening area before his boyfriend could emerge from the locker room.
He tried. Guess the teacher in him made him more prone to trying to solve problems with students or grown men, as the case may be.
My gaze flew to Taft. Something about him always drew me in, but I couldn’t ever figure out what it was.
He was quiet like me. Maybe that attracted me to him.
Generally, I wasn’t interested in loud, aggressive sorts.
They set me on edge. I’d been roughed up—and punched in the face—too often by big, loud men.
While Taft was taller than me, he wore his physicality in a lean way.
He was built for speed on the wing. He seemed unsure of what to do or say.
Walker chimed in to do what he always did around me. Overcompensate.
“You should come, Ryan. They have the best bear claws,” he proclaimed. All the others agreed boisterously, aside from Finn and Taft.
“Thanks, I… my father is waiting for me to get home. There are cupcakes,” I managed to stammer out before taking a step in reverse.
“We don’t want to keep a man from his cupcakes,” Finn slid in to shut down whatever it was that Arnaud was about to say. “We’ll see you at the arena. Have a good night.”
“Yeah, thanks, night.” I watched Finn corral the art therapy gang as he would do with his tiny students. Out the side door they went. Taft paused in the doorway to look back, lifted a hand in a silent wave, and then joined his buddies. I waved back, but it was too late.
Feeling unsettled, I hurried to gather up the remaining cupcakes in a Tupperware container and make a dash for my car.
It was an old beater Toyota that I’d had since high school.
Thankfully, I’d been lucky enough—and it was pure dumb luck—to never get into an accident while stoned.
Granted, when I was lit, I could barely lift my arms or even have the mental capacity to figure out how to open the car door.
K likes to take you to places outside of reality.
When I split for NYC during my darkest days, I’d taken a bus while in a K-hole and stepped out into a city where I knew no one.
Which kind of fit the whole mindfuck of ketamine, which, instead of making you want to be with other users, made you withdraw into yourself more and more.
Unless you were looking to score, then you put on your prettiest dress, made up your face, and ventured out of your rented room to find an easy mark.
My first and last attempt to rip someone off landed me in the ER after meeting Walker.
That ending, and the agony that followed, got me into rehab real fast. Well, that and my father crying at my bedside while I was in the emergency room.
I’d never told him I was going. I just up and left one night.
Running. Hiding. Masking the pain. Like eye color and hair tone, I’d inherited a strong, addictive personality from my mother.
I’d talk to her about it, but she’d run off—like mother, like son—when I was ten and never come home.
Dad had been pretty circumspect about her leaving, telling me only that Mom was taking a small mental break to lift her spirits.
In reality, Mom was heavily into drugs—crack to be precise—and had bolted from the normal life she had found herself trapped in for years.
We were notified three years after her late-night departure that she had passed in a crack house in St. Louis.
Dad had never divorced her, so the authorities called us, obviously.
We’d buried her in a small plot in a local cemetery here in Rochester.
Dad went weekly to place flowers and talk out his grief for the first year.
I started getting high. Now we go to the grave monthly, but only Dad talks to her.
I’m still working out how I even feel about it all. Her, me, Dad, drugs, life.
Yeah, life got real deep sometimes. The one thing that wasn’t deep was cupcakes. Also, the grin on my father’s face when I walked in with a dozen homemade baked goods.
“Holy cow, Ryan, are these from your meeting?” He took the box with eyes wide as saucers, just like a kid who’d been handed a puppy. Dad had quite the sweet tooth.
“Yeah, it was a special meeting.” I toed off my sneakers and dug into my front pocket. The key fob was so clean and new, kind of like me in a way. “I’ve been one year clean.”
“I know. I bought you a present to celebrate,” Dad replied, placing the cupcakes on our tiny kitchen table, then handing me a small, wrapped gift. His dark eyes grew misty.
“Thanks,” I whispered, tearing the paper off like a madman, only to gape at the beautiful eyeshadow palette resting in my hands. My gaze flew from the makeup to my father. “What is… what…”
He reached out to place a hand on my thin shoulder.
“Ryan, I found your mother’s old makeup bag in your closet when I was putting the summer clothes away.
They were all nearly empty, and that was not how they were when she left.
I’ve seen the glitter on your eyelids when you think you’ve washed off the makeup that you like to wear in private.
” That horrid choking feeling that I got when things were twisting out of control started to throttle me.
“You know I’ll love you no matter what kind of clothes you wear or if you put on eyeshadow.
” I didn’t know that. Not really. I mean, I did, but I didn’t.
The little boy who’d been left behind by a person who should never leave a child didn’t know that.
“Are you a drag queen? I mean, that would be amazing. We both adore Drag Race.”
“No…” I choked out, staring down at the palette of blues, purples, and dark grays, then focusing back up to my father. “No, I’m not a drag queen. I’m…” He waited, smiling, his hands on my shoulders gentle, loving. “I’m gender fluid.”
“Okay.” He looked a little flustered. “I’ll have to look that up. I mean, I knew you were gay. Is that a new letter?” I sniffled and shook my head. “But hey, that sounds really great, son. Being fluid means you’re flexible, open, and growing. How wonderful to be that! More people should be fluid.”
I broke down then, gasping, racking sobs, as he pulled me into his arms. He knew. Dad knew. And he still loved me. And he would not leave me for being a different kind of son. We had a lot to talk about…
If only Bobby Blue Hair had a dad like mine, his week would have been far less shitty.