Autoboyography
Page 51
“I mean, clearly Manny saw us. He came up to me and Autumn when we were leaving the lake—because someone called someone else a faggot—and told me he was sorry. It was awkward—like that,” I say, gesturing back to the hallway, “and Autumn grilled me for, like, two hours.”
“Tanner, this is so bad.” Sebastian glares at me and then blinks away, exhaling slowly. I imagine a dragon and fire.
“Look. Manny saw us. Not just me—us. I’m not exactly waving the rainbow flag here. I don’t tell people I’m bi. Autumn—my best friend—didn’t even know until a week ago, and I didn’t tell her about you. I told her I had feelings for you, not that they were reciprocated.”
“I just thought . . . after Saturday night . . .” He shakes his head. “I thought maybe you said something to Eric or Manny.”
“Why would I do that?” I know I shouldn’t say this next part; it’s childish and petty, but my mouth doesn’t get the memo: “Unless, you know, I wanted contact with someone about this important emotional event in my life.”
His head snaps up. “What does that mean?”
“Just that it would have been nice to hear from you yesterday and get some acknowledgment from you today that you saw me and you weren’t freaking out.”
Sebastian’s expression screws up into irritation. “Tanner, I was busy yesterday.”
Oh, that just feels like a slap. Palm open, handprint to my cheek. “Tons of church to do, I guess.”
Sebastian picks this right up and runs with it. “It’s what we do on Sunday. Have your mother educate you on how we operate. If she remembers.”
One . . .
Two . . .
Three . . .
Four . . .
Five . . .
I keep counting. I remember that he’s just scared. I remind myself that he’s confused. If I take a step back from this second, I know I would want to tell myself, This is not your battle. This is Sebastian’s battle. Give him space. But isn’t it mine, too? Even a little bit? Are we in this as a team, navigating this first together?
He’s turned away from me, hand pulling at his hair as he paces the small corner of the parking lot. He looks like he’s ready to run. It’s funny to realize that’s probably exactly what he wants to do, because it’s not just that he doesn’t want to have this discussion here; he doesn’t want to do this anywhere. He wants to be together without any expectation or discussion. It’s a cloud formation—here for now, gone sometime in the nebulous future, undefined.
So I ask him, “Do you ever imagine telling your parents that you’re gay?”
He’s not even surprised I’ve gone here so quickly, I can tell. There’s no startle, no double take. His scowl deepens, and he takes a step even farther away from me. “I would need to figure out a lot of things about myself before I’d have that kind of conversation with them.”
I stare at him. “Sebastian? Are you gay?”
I mean, of course he is.
Right?
He looks at me like he doesn’t even know me. “I don’t know how to answer that.”
“It’s sort of a yes or no thing.”
“I know who I want to be.”
“Who you want to be?” What the fuck does he even mean?
“I want to be kind, and generous, and Christlike.”
“But what does that have to do with my question? You’re already that person. You’re also good, and thoughtful, and loyal. All those qualities that make you the person I love. You are him already. Being gay doesn’t change that.”
And I can see the moment that it hits, the moment that the word settles into his skin, when it’s absorbed. I said it. Not gay. I said “love.”
He says my name under his breath and then looks to the side.
He’s not even looking at me, and I just told him that I love him.
Somehow this next question feels so much more important than the one that came before it. “Sebastian, did you hear what I said? I love you. Did that register at all?”
He nods. “It registered.”
He’s blushing, I notice the blush still, and I know it’s a happy blush. I can see it; now I know the different colors of emotions; how weird is that?
He likes hearing that I love him, but he doesn’t, too. “It’s too much for you,” I say. “Isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I mean, honestly, that’s a lot to hear right now. And it isn’t even about what you asked before”—his voice drops then, and he looks around furtively—“whether I’m gay. It’s a lot to say to me right now because I have a book coming out, and I’m going on a mission, and there’s so much going on.”
“So it’s inconvenient to hear me say I love you?”
He winces. “Tanner. No. I just mean, I don’t know that I can give you the same thing that you want to give me.”
“It isn’t a matter of wanting to give you my feelings.” I actually laugh at this. “It’s just how I feel.”
He looks at me like I’m insane.
Like, maybe, he doesn’t believe me.
“I love you because of who you are, not because of your blush, or your eyes, or the things you make me feel when you touch me,” I say, and he blushes again. “The things that I love about you aren’t going to go away when you go on your book tour, and they’re not going to go away when you go on your mission. I’ll still be here, and I’ll still be thinking about all those things. I’ll still be working on being a better person, a better friend, a better son. I’ll still be wondering what it would be like to be a better boyfriend for you. And you will be on your mission, thinking about how much you wish you weren’t gay.”
He’s mad, I can tell. My first instinct is to wish I could take the words back, but it vanishes like smoke as reality hits me: I meant every single one of them.
“I won’t wish . . . ,” he starts, but then turns away, jaw ticcing in anger.
“So this is it?” I ask him. “We’ve reached the limit of what you’re willing to give?”
He shakes his head but says, “You want me to be something I’m not.”
Something. Not someone, something.
“I just want you to be okay with who you are now. I know I’m not the only one who has feelings here.”
He aims, and shoots, his face a mask of calm. “I think we should break up.” Sebastian pauses, watching while my organs turn to bricks and crumble inside me. “This isn’t right anymore.”
• • •
The rest of today is going to be hard to explain.
I left right after those words fell from his mouth, and even now I don’t really remember what I did. I went out to the lake, maybe. Drove around, and around, and around.
When it’s dark and my phone is lit up with a million texts from Auddy and none from Sebastian, I turn my car around, land softly at the curb near her house.
I never noticed before that her room smells like vanilla candles and that her lamp casts a calming blue light. I never noticed before how she hugs in phases. Like, she’ll take me into her arms and then squeeze, and then she’ll squeeze harder, and in my head we’re moving through different levels of comforting, from Hey, what happened, to Tanner, talk to me, to Oh my God, what’s wrong?
“Tanner, this is so bad.” Sebastian glares at me and then blinks away, exhaling slowly. I imagine a dragon and fire.
“Look. Manny saw us. Not just me—us. I’m not exactly waving the rainbow flag here. I don’t tell people I’m bi. Autumn—my best friend—didn’t even know until a week ago, and I didn’t tell her about you. I told her I had feelings for you, not that they were reciprocated.”
“I just thought . . . after Saturday night . . .” He shakes his head. “I thought maybe you said something to Eric or Manny.”
“Why would I do that?” I know I shouldn’t say this next part; it’s childish and petty, but my mouth doesn’t get the memo: “Unless, you know, I wanted contact with someone about this important emotional event in my life.”
His head snaps up. “What does that mean?”
“Just that it would have been nice to hear from you yesterday and get some acknowledgment from you today that you saw me and you weren’t freaking out.”
Sebastian’s expression screws up into irritation. “Tanner, I was busy yesterday.”
Oh, that just feels like a slap. Palm open, handprint to my cheek. “Tons of church to do, I guess.”
Sebastian picks this right up and runs with it. “It’s what we do on Sunday. Have your mother educate you on how we operate. If she remembers.”
One . . .
Two . . .
Three . . .
Four . . .
Five . . .
I keep counting. I remember that he’s just scared. I remind myself that he’s confused. If I take a step back from this second, I know I would want to tell myself, This is not your battle. This is Sebastian’s battle. Give him space. But isn’t it mine, too? Even a little bit? Are we in this as a team, navigating this first together?
He’s turned away from me, hand pulling at his hair as he paces the small corner of the parking lot. He looks like he’s ready to run. It’s funny to realize that’s probably exactly what he wants to do, because it’s not just that he doesn’t want to have this discussion here; he doesn’t want to do this anywhere. He wants to be together without any expectation or discussion. It’s a cloud formation—here for now, gone sometime in the nebulous future, undefined.
So I ask him, “Do you ever imagine telling your parents that you’re gay?”
He’s not even surprised I’ve gone here so quickly, I can tell. There’s no startle, no double take. His scowl deepens, and he takes a step even farther away from me. “I would need to figure out a lot of things about myself before I’d have that kind of conversation with them.”
I stare at him. “Sebastian? Are you gay?”
I mean, of course he is.
Right?
He looks at me like he doesn’t even know me. “I don’t know how to answer that.”
“It’s sort of a yes or no thing.”
“I know who I want to be.”
“Who you want to be?” What the fuck does he even mean?
“I want to be kind, and generous, and Christlike.”
“But what does that have to do with my question? You’re already that person. You’re also good, and thoughtful, and loyal. All those qualities that make you the person I love. You are him already. Being gay doesn’t change that.”
And I can see the moment that it hits, the moment that the word settles into his skin, when it’s absorbed. I said it. Not gay. I said “love.”
He says my name under his breath and then looks to the side.
He’s not even looking at me, and I just told him that I love him.
Somehow this next question feels so much more important than the one that came before it. “Sebastian, did you hear what I said? I love you. Did that register at all?”
He nods. “It registered.”
He’s blushing, I notice the blush still, and I know it’s a happy blush. I can see it; now I know the different colors of emotions; how weird is that?
He likes hearing that I love him, but he doesn’t, too. “It’s too much for you,” I say. “Isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I mean, honestly, that’s a lot to hear right now. And it isn’t even about what you asked before”—his voice drops then, and he looks around furtively—“whether I’m gay. It’s a lot to say to me right now because I have a book coming out, and I’m going on a mission, and there’s so much going on.”
“So it’s inconvenient to hear me say I love you?”
He winces. “Tanner. No. I just mean, I don’t know that I can give you the same thing that you want to give me.”
“It isn’t a matter of wanting to give you my feelings.” I actually laugh at this. “It’s just how I feel.”
He looks at me like I’m insane.
Like, maybe, he doesn’t believe me.
“I love you because of who you are, not because of your blush, or your eyes, or the things you make me feel when you touch me,” I say, and he blushes again. “The things that I love about you aren’t going to go away when you go on your book tour, and they’re not going to go away when you go on your mission. I’ll still be here, and I’ll still be thinking about all those things. I’ll still be working on being a better person, a better friend, a better son. I’ll still be wondering what it would be like to be a better boyfriend for you. And you will be on your mission, thinking about how much you wish you weren’t gay.”
He’s mad, I can tell. My first instinct is to wish I could take the words back, but it vanishes like smoke as reality hits me: I meant every single one of them.
“I won’t wish . . . ,” he starts, but then turns away, jaw ticcing in anger.
“So this is it?” I ask him. “We’ve reached the limit of what you’re willing to give?”
He shakes his head but says, “You want me to be something I’m not.”
Something. Not someone, something.
“I just want you to be okay with who you are now. I know I’m not the only one who has feelings here.”
He aims, and shoots, his face a mask of calm. “I think we should break up.” Sebastian pauses, watching while my organs turn to bricks and crumble inside me. “This isn’t right anymore.”
• • •
The rest of today is going to be hard to explain.
I left right after those words fell from his mouth, and even now I don’t really remember what I did. I went out to the lake, maybe. Drove around, and around, and around.
When it’s dark and my phone is lit up with a million texts from Auddy and none from Sebastian, I turn my car around, land softly at the curb near her house.
I never noticed before that her room smells like vanilla candles and that her lamp casts a calming blue light. I never noticed before how she hugs in phases. Like, she’ll take me into her arms and then squeeze, and then she’ll squeeze harder, and in my head we’re moving through different levels of comforting, from Hey, what happened, to Tanner, talk to me, to Oh my God, what’s wrong?
