Chapter five Gareth
Chapter five
Gareth
Iwalk into my apartment, close the door, and lock it behind me.
I drop the keys in the bowl on the counter.
My apartment is crappy - and that's being generous.
But it's all I could afford after the divorce.
Lindsey and I split on good terms, we never lost respect for one another, and we both kept the kids at the front and center of every decision.
That meant giving them the house and a sizable child support payment. Linds was a stay-at-home mom, and we wanted to be able to keep her a stay-at-home mom, so most of my paycheck goes to alimony and child support. I don't mind. It's the least I can do for what she put up with.
I've gotten over my shame for what I put her through.
We went to couples counseling through the year of separation, not to rekindle any kind of relationship, but to improve our communication, lay everything out on the table, and to forgive each other.
She'll always be my best friend and the mother of my children.
Her forgiveness was the first one I needed on the path to forgiving myself.
My apartment is crappy, but clean. And the kids don't seem to care that the carpet is threadbare or that the linoleum countertop is chipped.
They love sharing a bedroom here, like it's a big sleepover, and I painted their room bright colors, and their blankets are always freshly washed when they visit.
My kids are my everything. They're the best thing I've ever done.
I'll never get back the years of their lives that I spent drunk, but hopefully the silver lining is that they were young enough to never notice I was drunk, or if they did, they won't remember.
Now, I get to make up for those lost years and make sure that, for the rest of their lives, I'm the dad they deserve.
I flop down onto my couch and rest my elbows on my knees, letting my hands hang between them.
I replay this evening in my mind. The butterflies I had in my stomach, seeing Trey again.
If I thought he was gorgeous as a kid, I never expected how handsome he is all grown up.
He's got at least two inches on me, but probably forty pounds of muscle.
As part of my recovery, I've started working out again, but those last fifteen pounds of belly fat are hard to shed.
I'm relieved I was able to come clean to him and apologize for being so horrible to him.
The guilt and shame of how much of an asshole I was in high school definitely contributed to the drinking.
I've wondered about him a lot this last decade - if he was alright, married, or with a roster of men on his speed dial.
Wherever he was, I wanted him to be happy.
After I’d found his website, I'd spend a month, alone in my apartment, late at night, wondering if he hated me, if he even thought of me, and, even worse, what it would feel like to have Trey-the-man's lips on mine.
A sex worker. Out of all of the things I'd imagined him doing over the years, sex work never occurred to me.
It didn't take me long to realize that it made perfect sense, though, really.
Even when I would tease him or push him around or shove his head in the toilet, he never fought back.
He had this Buddhist-monk level of calm and serenity that I thought was incredible for a teenager.
My words never taunted him. He never hit me back, even though I knew I deserved it.
He just waited for the bullying to end before cleaning himself up and going back to class.
Teenage-me used to hate that I never seemed to get to him.
I wanted a reaction. I wanted him to hit me back.
I wanted to see him frazzled, the way I always felt when I looked at him.
Lust, jealousy, and anger are a dangerous combination when you're the maybe-not-so-straight Quarterback that's dating the head cheerleader.
Even tonight, he held that same level of otherworldly presence.
I was terrified, and nervous, and fumbling, but he just sat there.
Even scared, his presence grounded me. He'd be the perfect person to experiment with.
You'd never feel judged by him, or rushed, or intimidated.
Well, maybe intimidated. The guy is massive.
I was too nervous to let my eyes fully drink him in - I didn't feel like I'd earned the right, yet.
But his skin was the same honey-brown from high school, his eyelashes still impossibly long, his hair long and dark and thick and so soft-looking it begged to have your hands thread through it.
I realize that I equally hope he accepts me as a client, and am perfectly content if he doesn't. Being with him would be... a lot. I'm not sure my nervous system could take it.
My phone vibrates from the coffee table, and I answer it immediately, seeing Lindsey's name on the FaceTime request.
"Hey guys!" I push a little more enthusiasm into my voice than I feel.
The top half of Micah's face fills the screen, and I can't help the smile on my lips. He's got his mother's freckles and my dirty-blonde hair.
"We just wanted to call and say 'goodnight," he says, and a pang of longing hits me square in the chest. One, because I miss them more than I would miss a body part, and two, because one day they'll be too old and too cool to call their dad to say 'goodnight'.
I check the clock. It's ten o'clock. Linds let them stay up a little longer than normal, but that's alright. Micah's mouth stretches into a wide yawn, and I reply with my own yawn.
"Alright, buddy. I love you very much. Sweet dreams. Give your mom a kiss for me," I say. It's our new goodnight routine. I watch as he climbs into bed and drops the phone to hug and kiss his mom goodnight.
Lindsey's pretty face fills it next as she shuts off Micah's light and closes his bedroom door.
"Say 'goodnight' to Daddy, Lils," she says, bringing the phone into our daughter's room.
Then I'm smiling at my sleepy daughter. Her eyes are puffy, and her cheeks are droopy. They normally go to bed at eight, and I wonder what they've been up to to be up so late.
"Night, Daddy," she says, her soft, sweet voice soothes my aching heart.
"Goodnight, baby. I love you very much. Sweet dreams. Give your mom a kiss for me," I repeat our little mantra.
She doesn't reply, just yawns, and I think she is asleep before her head even hits the pillow.
Linds tucks her in before walking to the living room and plopping down onto the couch. I don't want to be alone again, though, so I prod her for information. "What has you guys up so late?" I wince. I sound like a controlling asshole. She doesn't have to tell me anything.
But Linds knows I don't mean it like that. "They wanted to have a Harry Potter movie marathon. We made it two movies before they tapped out."
I smile at the thought. Lindsey's eyes get soft as she takes a beat to take in my face.
"What has you up so late?" she teases, noticing I'm still in my suit. My new routine is a run before work, shower, nine to ten hours of work, before coming home, working out at the gym next door, dinner, and bed. So, me still being in my suit at ten o'clock on a Friday is unusual.
I know Trey said it wasn't a date. And it wasn't, really.
But will it be like this when I do start dating?
Telling my ex-wife about the men I date?
Is that weird? I'll have to hear about her dating a new man.
I don't think I would mind that, though, as long as they're good to her.
And after our divorce, I'm sure she's not going to put up with any bullshit anymore.
"Is this weird?" I blurt out before I can censor my words.
"Is what weird?"
"Us. This. I went to dinner with someone..."
Her eyes nearly sparkle. "A date?" She's excited for me at the prospect of me putting myself out there again. This is exactly why I knew divorce was even an option. We love each other, there's no doubt about that. It was the intimacy that felt like it never fit right.
I avert my gaze for a minute, debating on how much I should tell her. Nope. The program calls for honesty, even if it's painful and uncomfortable.
"It wasn't a date. I had a crush on this guy in high school. I bullied him really badly, and I wanted to apologize. So, I did."
Her face softens. "So, did you always know you were gay?"
I shake my head immediately. "I'm not sure what I am. And I was scared of what I felt for this guy. I was definitely attracted to him, but angry that I couldn't do anything about it."
"Hurt people hurt people," she says, nodding in understanding.
I don't reply. There's no excuse for my actions except for a lot of confusing emotions, family pressures, and hormones.
"So, are you going to see him again?"
"I don't know. I told him I would like to, but the ball's in his court."
She nods again, adjusting her legs beneath her on the couch. She levels me with a mom-look - one that's stern and carries weight behind it.
"You deserve to be happy, Gare. You deserve love. You deserve to be loved."
"I'm not so sure about that. And I have you and the kids. Maybe that's enough for me."
"But what if it's not?"
A sickening feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. Can I hope for that? Can I open myself up for that? To love a man. To be loved by a man. Could I come home after a long day at work to the warm embrace of a man? Could I shower and cuddle a man?
In all of the domestic scenarios that come to my mind, it's not just any man. I try to make my imaginary partner white, maybe lithe, maybe shorter than me. But they all morph into exactly one dark, tall, and muscular man.
I have the love of my ex-wife and kids. I do. And I'm so grateful to even have that.
But, God, what if it isn't enough?