22
When I woke the next morning, the light in the room told me I’d overslept. It must have been late morning. And I had to get up. I had to—
What?
Work, I guess.
But maybe I didn’t have to. Because the tour was over. And yeah, there were still things to finish on the house, but there wasn’t a deadline now. And God knew I hadn’t had a day off in forever. And it was Noah’s birthday.
That was when I realized that Noah wasn’t in bed anymore. A light showed under the bathroom door, and the shower was running.
For a moment, I lay there. My body felt loose and warm and run down all at the same time, and I closed my eyes, like maybe I’d fall back asleep until Noah came out of the shower, warm and smelling sweet, and we’d just…see what happened. It was his birthday, after all.
But then my phone vibrated, and instinct took over. I picked it up.
Patriotboner commented on your post.
And there, in the notification, was a snippet of the comment: I knew he was a faggot.
I stared at the screen. The shower was still running, this white hiss of noise.
Below that notification was another.
RuralEagle commented on your post: This tracks.
And below that was another.
BlueNana commented on your post: Ignore the haters, Howie. We love you! I’m so happy! Love is love!
And below that was another.
LibertyBellMama commented on your post: Why can’t I find one account to follow on this stupid app that isn’t trying to destroy traditional families?
I opened the app. And I watched my number of followers drop.
That white hiss seemed to have crawled inside me. Was filling up my chest inch by inch.
I tapped on the notifications, and they took me to the post I’d made the day before, the one that had showcased the house just before the holiday tour began.
There wasn’t anything in there.
No pride flags.
Nothing in the caption.
No Noah.
And under that, a half-thought floated: I’d been so fucking careful.
There were more comments. More of the same.
Why’s everyone saying he’s gay? What’d I miss?
Why does anyone even care?
People are so fucking stupid
But then, a reply:
Over here, and then a link to Noah’s account: @noreynoldsrn.
I tapped the link.
Noah’s most recent post was a series of images, and I swiped through them in slow-motion—or what felt like slow-motion.
Me kneeling next to the Christmas tree, doing something with one of the branches.
Me covered in sawdust as I tried to shim one of the doors.
Me pretend-scowling at Noah over a takeout box.
The final image was just text: Second Chance Homes - Wahredua, Missouri. An LGBTQ owned and operated business.
In my head, like the words were coming through ice: Si would like that.
Below the images, Noah’s caption read, I just wanted to share a few photos of the work Howie has done this year.
He’s one of the most talented people I know, and I’m so proud of him.
If you know anyone who needs help with home repair—from small jobs all the way up to full rehabs—please reach out.
You can see the amazing work he did on a historic home by checking out his account here. I love you, Howie!
And then, following that, a series of hashtags: #couple #couplegoals #myhusband #lovehim #mylove. A weird noise slipped out of me at the end, and part of me recognized that it wanted to be a laugh, when I saw #trophywife.
The bathroom door opened.
I looked up as Noah stepped out. He was naked, arms folded against the cold, and he started to smile at me. Then the smile died. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
“What is this?” I asked and held out my phone.
“What is what?”
“This.”
He came closer, and his face flickered when he was close enough to see the screen. The uncertainty—the concern—disappeared. In its place came the old, familiar fight-me look. “I posted that last night. Why?” And I could hear the challenge in his voice when he said, “What’s wrong with it?”
“You know what’s wrong with it.” I got to my feet. I found a pair of joggers. I pulled them on.
Noah was frozen for a moment. Then he broke into motion too—stepping over to pull on his underwear. His cheeks were red, but he had goose bumps up his arms and across his shoulders. “No,” he said. “I don’t. What’s the problem?”
I made a sound that was kind of like a laugh and shook my head.
“I’m proud of you,” Noah said as he pulled on his pants. “I think it was a nice post.”
“Oh yeah.” I grabbed a sweatshirt. “I know you do.”
“You don’t give yourself enough credit, Howie. You’re so talented, and people need to know—”
“Don’t do that!” I stabbed a finger at him. The sweatshirt was still hanging from one hand. “Don’t!”
“I’m sorry,” he finally said. His eyes were wet. “I’m sorry I upset you.”
I angled my body away from him. I couldn’t look at him. And I couldn’t stop the words that just kept coming. “You tagged my professional account. God, Noah. What the fuck were you thinking?”
“I’m sorry. I said I’m sorry.” But a moment later, he asked, “But can you just tell me what I did that was so wrong?”
“This!” I held up the phone again. “You tagged my professional account with this!”
“What? You don’t want them to know you’re married? Is that supposed to be some kind of secret?”
“No, it’s not a secret.”
“You don’t want people to know about me.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“No, you’re just furious that I said you were my husband online.”
“It’s my professional account, Noah! Being married has nothing to do with it.”
He was trying to turn his sweater right-side out, and he made a scoffing noise.
“It’s work,” I said. “What don’t you understand about that?” He still didn’t say anything, and that white noise finally reached my head, and I snapped, “I don’t show up at your work, bend you over, and fuck you in front of the patients, do I?”
A rapid series of clicks came from the window. White flurries tapped the glass; it was starting to snow.
“Wow. Real nice, Howie.” He pulled on his sweater. When he spoke again, his voice was like ice, but the red in his cheeks was almost purple now. “I’m sorry. I forgot how embarrassing it is for people to know you’re gay.”
“That’s not what this is about.”
“I forgot how awful it is for people to know you have a husband.”
“You always make it about this, Noah. Give it a fucking rest.”
“That’s not what it’s about? Then what’s it about, Howie?” He laughed, pushed a hand through his hair, hipshot and barefoot and tiny and still somehow making me feel like I was the small one. “God, nothing has changed, has it? I thought—” But he broke off, shaking his head.
“What’d you think?”
He shook his head some more. He bent to pick up his socks.
“What’d you think?” I asked. “You’re so fucking smart. You know what everything is about. What’d you think?”
“I thought things were different. I thought you’d changed.”
“What the fuck do you want to change?”
But he just sat on the bed and pulled on his socks.
“What’s so awful about me? Why am I always the fucking bad guy?
You want to talk about nothing changing?
Not one fucking thing has changed. You’re right.
Because what I want, the way I want things to be—none of that fucking matters.
The only thing that matters is what Noah wants.
It has to be the way Noah says. If it’s not, it’s wrong. ”
“I’m not doing this with you.”
“Noah doesn’t like the sofa, so we’re getting a new one. Noah doesn’t like that color, so we’re painting the bedroom for the third fucking time this year. Noah doesn’t like how I dress, so fuck me, I’m getting a new fucking wardrobe.”
He grabbed his shoes and stood. “This was a mistake.”
“You’re the problem. You.” I was still standing there, still holding that stupid sweatshirt in one hand, and I stabbed a finger at him again.
“I didn’t want to get divorced. I didn’t want to call it off.
I loved you then. I love you now. I do everything you want.
All I do is try to make you happy.” It was strange, confusing, to say try instead of tried.
Like a part of me couldn’t tell if this was then or now.
If we’d done this all before. If we were just doing it all again.
“I play nice with your friends, even though half the time they’re raging bitches.
I try to learn about the stuff you care about so I can talk to you about it.
Whatever you want to do—go back to grad school, apply for a new job, paint the fucking bedroom—I’m on board.
Jesus Christ, Noah. I stand up to your fucking family for you. ”
“Fine,” he said. “I’m the problem.”
I laughed in spite of myself. “Fuck you.”
“Do you know something, Howie? You’re right.
You do a lot for me. And that—that means a lot to me.
” His voice broke. “There’s nobody in my life who’s ever made me feel the way you do.
Who’s ever treated me the way you do. But have you ever thought about the fact that maybe—just maybe—you should be trying to make yourself happy too? ”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means why do you put yourself through this? You’re miserable when we go anywhere in public—”
“Jesus Christ.”
“—you don’t want to kiss me—”
“This again. This. The same fucking thing over and over again.”
“—you don’t want to hold my hand—”
“Why is it such a fucking problem that I don’t like doing that in public? There are all sorts of gay guys who go out in public and aren’t grabbing each other’s asses and sticking their tongues down each other’s throats.”
“But it’s everything, Howie! You don’t want people to know we’re together! One time you called me buddy!”
Even through the heat of the anger, the memory of that moment made me cringe. Somehow, though, my mouth kept moving. “I don’t understand why I’m such a bad guy when I just want to act normal when we’re in public.”
A little laugh escaped Noah. And then he said, “Well, there you go.”
“What?”
“Normal.”
“What?”
He just nodded, as though seeing me clearly for the first time. “I’m sorry, Howie.”
I folded my arms. I was suddenly aware of the cold in the house, my skin tightening against it.
“I’m sorry you hate yourself so much. I really am. But I can’t fix it for you.”
“Fuck you. Get the fuck out of here.”
“And I’m sorry I can’t—I can’t do this. I spent a lot of my life letting people make me feel like I was invisible. Like I didn’t matter. Like I wasn’t worth anything to them.”
“I said get the fuck out of here!”
“I’m not going to do it again.”
“What the fuck do you know about being invisible?” I couldn’t breathe.
It was the darkness of the barn. And fingers clinging desperately to the doorjamb.
And the crack of the belt. My chest locked up, but somehow I was still talking.
“Mommy didn’t hug you enough? Daddy might cut off your trust fund? Boo-fucking-hoo.”
Tears finally fell as he ducked his chin.
“What the fuck do you know about anything?” I didn’t recognize my own voice. “Get out!”
He cut a wide circle around me. And he shut the door behind him. And his footsteps got smaller and quieter until they were gone.