“Maybe he had to work late,” Bree suggests when she catches me checking my watch for what must me the nine millionth time in seven minutes. The seven minutes since seven o’clock passed and Ben became officially late.

“He works at a used bookstore that his father owns. I’m pretty sure he won’t get fired if he refuses to stay late. Besides, he told me a week ago that he was taking tonight off completely,” I say. I pull out my phone, but there are no new messages.

“Well, maybe he got into a car accident,” Bree continues. Then, seeing my face, she adds quickly, “A minor one. You know, a fender-bender.”

“He would’ve texted. And besides, he’s an annoyingly careful driver. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him speed in his life,” I protest. She shrugs and examines her cuticles.

“Then maybe he fled the state like your last boyfriend,” she says.

“Not funny, Bridget. And can I take this opportunity to point out that Garen wouldn’t have ‘fled the state’ if you hadn’t flipped your shit and outed me to Mom and Bill?” I say through gritted teeth. Bree tries to hide a wince, but fails.

“I-I told you I was sorry, okay? God, how would you have reacted if, instead of Bill having a son named Garen, he’d had a daughter named like, Gertrude, and you’d walked in on me half-naked and spooning her?” she asks. It comes out sounding a lot like an appeal for sympathy, but I still can’t bring myself to give it to her. Can’t bring myself to forgive her, not all the way.

“Okay, number one, you would never date someone named Gertrude. Number two, it’s not like either Garen or I was the pinnacle of heterosexuality. You shouldn’t have been that surprised,” I say.

“Oh, Garen didn’t surprise me at all. He and I talked about it all the time,” she says, waving me off before crossing the kitchen to check on the beef cooking on the stove. I stare at her for a good two minutes before she notices my surprise. “What, like you think you’re the only person in this house he talked to? I lived with the guy for just as long as you did. Besides, you were always working or at your therapist’s or at track practice, and Christ if Garen could go five minutes without talking. He used to come hang out in my room and talk to me while I was trying to do homework.”

“What uh… what did you guys talk about?” I ask slowly. She shrugs.

“I don’t know. Everything? Except, you know, the obvious. He told me he was seeing somebody, yeah, but he wouldn’t tell me who. He just said that he thought Mom would freak if he ever told her he had a boyfriend - which was true, in a way - so he wanted to keep it a secret until he graduated. That was back in like, December, and I was like, ‘You really think your relationship is going to last that long?’ and he was so convinced it would. He was always telling me how he’d found his soul mate and was going to marry this guy someday.” She pauses. “It’s strange, you know. Now that I know he was talking about you. I kind of always assumed it was…”

“Ben,” I finish. “Yeah. They um… they hooked up, back when Garen first moved here. But it was just sex. It‘s not like they were a couple.”

Bree’s eyebrows shoot up towards her hairline, and she cocks her hip to the side, planting a fist on it and looking all too much like a disapproving mother. “What, and you’re cool with that? Is there some big secret underground gay society in Lakewood, with this whole group of guys who are all hooking up with each other?”

“Well, it’s not so much a society. I’m pretty sure society’s have to have more than four members by definition - Bree, I-I don’t think it’s healthy for your eyes to get that big,” I say uncertainly. They look about ready to roll out of her head.

“Who else?” she hisses, grabbing my arm. “I mean, wait, let me get this straight. First it was Garen and Ben, and then it was Garen and you, and now it’s Ben and you, but there’s somebody else in the middle of all that?”

“S-Sort of. Do you remember Alex Baker, from middle school? Before you started going to the magnet school?” I say. Her eyes get impossibly wider, so I rush to finish. “It’s not like that, no, no, no. He’s straight, alright? Or, I guess, he sort of is. He’s just made out with Ben a few times before, because they’re like, best friends and Alex is really weird when he gets drunk. And then there was this time that Alex and I were both kind of trashed a little bit, and we sort of hooked up, but not really? I don’t know, it’s all-”

“Are you joking ?” Bree demands. “Do you even realize how ridiculous this sounds? God, Travis, I’m still trying to get over the extreme ‘ew’ factor of you sleeping with anybody, let alone Garen, and now you’re all ‘P.S. I’m one corner of the world’s sluttiest and gayest love square ever.’ I mean, we might as well send Alex off to find Garen and complete the goddamn square! Are you aware of the fact that you are not a character on Queer As Folk?”

The doorbell rings, and I bolt for it, scaling the living room couch rather than walk around it. I check my watch - seven sixteen - before yanking the door open.

“I’m sorry. My mom needed to run to the grocery store for something stupid and my dad had the van, so she couldn’t take all my sisters with her, but she couldn’t leave them alone either, so I had to stay so that they wouldn’t kill each other or burn the house down or get eaten by Lucy or something. And then she finally got home and said I had to help unload the car because God forbid any of the girls actually have to do anything, and it took way longer than I thought it would, but she said if I left without helping her, you wouldn’t be allowed to come over for a month. I don’t even know. It’s stupid, I should have called. I’m really sorry.”

Ben somehow manages to say all of this in one breath, then goes up on his toes to kiss me quickly on the lips, casting a glance around the room to make sure my parents aren’t there. Bree, however, has joined us with a half-surprised, half-amused expression.

“It’s okay. Really, don’t worry about it. It’s nothing,” I say.

“That is the biggest lie ever. He was freaking out like it was his job,” Bree says. I try to silence her with a look, but she is definitely not intimidated. I place a hand in the small of Ben’s back and take another step into the room.

“Ben, I don’t know if you’ve met my bitch of a sister, Bree. You guys used to go to school together, back in middle school,” I say. Ben nods sharply, a tight, nervous smile in place.

“Yeah, of course. Hi. How are you?” he says.

“Pretty good, considering the fact that my little brother was just regaling me with the details of his sex life,” she replies. Ben turns to squint at me.

“To the best of my knowledge, Travis hasn’t had a sex life lately, so I hope it was a really short conversation,” he says. I glare at Bree.

“She asked about Alex. It was a strictly past tense conversation,” I say.

“Oh! I didn’t realize our company had arrived.”

Ben flinches and snaps his eyes shut. God, he is completely terrified, even more so than I am. I reach down to take his shaking hand and tug him towards the kitchen, where Mom stands framed in the doorway.

“Yeah. Mom, this is Ben. My boyfriend. Ben, my mom. And I’m pretty sure you know Bill already,” I say, gesturing past Mom to Bill, who is examining the food on the stove.

“Bree, may I ask what the hell you’re cooking?” he says, then turns around to stride out to meet us. “Ben, it’s good to see you again.”

“You, too, sir. How have you been?” Ben says, reaching out to shake Bill’s hand. Wow. He’s taking this ‘meet the parents’ thing pretty seriously.

“Excellent. And yourself?” he asks. Ben’s hand is back in mine the second Bill has released it.

“I’ve been very good, thank you,” he says. He turns to Mom next. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. McCall.” His hand twitches slightly, but Mom’s arms are crossed, tight as the fake smile on her face.

“Of course, Benjamin. Likewise,” she says. There’s one second of awkward silence, and then Bree hurries into the kitchen.

“I’m making picadillo, Bill. It’s Mexican. It’s got ground beef, tomatoes, onions, garlic, peppers, raisins, apples, and cinnamon,” she says. Bill’s brow furrows.

“I’m sorry, it’s got what? It sounds like you mixed tacos in with muffin mix,” he says. Ben lets out a very small laugh, like he’s afraid of getting yelled at for making too much noise.

“I-It’s actually very good. Especially if you add about a quarter teaspoon of cumin,” he says.

“You cook?” Bree says, surprised. Ben nods.

“A little, yeah. Nothing especially fancy or whatever. Just a little bit,” he says.

“Oh, that’s very interesting,” Mom pipes up. “It makes a lot of sense, you know. I was very surprised when Travis told us he thought he liked men, because he was always so athletic. He was never interested in things like cooking or gardening or anything like that. You know, the type of things I’m sure you’re interested in. No, for Travis, it was always sports, sports, sports. Have you seen him run?”

“Oh my God, Mom, please tell me those words did not just leave your mouth,” Bree mutters. Bill is watching Mom warily out of the corner of his eye, and Ben looks stunned. I open my mouth to tell my mother to go fuck herself, but Ben snaps out of it.

“No, actually, I haven’t, but I’m sure I will sometime this spring, once his meets start up again. I’m actually not a big fan of gardening either. My mom owns her own catering business, and when I was younger, I used to help her cook a lot of the food sometimes. That’s how I got into it. Not because I have some deep desire to become Martha Stewart,” he says.

“Oh?” Mom says, like this is a shock to her. “I had no idea. I just saw the eye makeup and I assumed.”

“Oh, no. I wear eyeliner because it makes me feel like a pretty, pretty princess,” Ben says flatly. Half of me is thrilled that he is suddenly calm enough not to take her bullshit. The other half of me is terrified of what the rest of the night will be like if this is the first ten minutes.

“Let’s eat!” Bill says hastily. Bree empties the pan of picadillo into a giant serving dish, and she and I move into what I can only think of as “attack formation.” Bill sits at the head of the table, and I shove Ben towards the seat adjacent. Bree bolts around the other side to sit across from Ben, and I take the seat next to him. Mom takes the only remaining seat; she’s not out of Ben’s line of vision, but at least they’re not next to or facing each other.

“So, Benjamin,” Mom says, scooping some of the picadillo out onto Bree’s play, “tell me about yourself.”

Ben clears his throat and obviously tries to ignore the fact that he is served last and hesitantly. “Well, I’m a senior at LHS. As of right now, I don’t know for sure where I’ll be going to school next year, because I’m still waiting to find out what I get in the way of financial aid. My parents can’t really spend all the money on my college education when they’ll eventually have to pay for my sisters’ and brother’s, too. But it’s probably going to be Juilliard.”

“Only ten percent of the applicants are accepted there,” Mom scoffs.

“Eight, actually. And I was accepted last week,” Ben replies. I squeeze his hand under the table. The morning after he got the letter, he had bolted into the cafeteria where I was talking to Corey, shoved me up against the wall, and kissed me hard, gasping against my mouth, “I got in. I got into fucking Juilliard.” He squeezes my hand back under the table.

“My friend’s sister goes there. She’s in the dance program, and she loves it,” Bree says.

“Do you know where you’re going next year?” Ben asks, and she shrugs.

“Not completely positive, because I’m still waiting to hear back from a few, but right now, I’m thinking Williams,” she says. Ben nods.

“Good school. It was in my top five or so, and I was thrilled when I got accepted, but then I saw how much tuition would be, and…” He laughs awkwardly. “Basically, if Juilliard is a stretch twenty-nine thousand, Williams is even less likely at thirty-eight thousand.”

The conversation halts for a few minutes while we all eat, and I finally nudge Ben’s elbow with mine. “Do you want something to drink?” I ask, standing and heading for the fridge.

“Um, diet Coke would be great, if you have it,” he says. Mom drops her fork as if she’ll need both hands free to seize onto this detail.

“Diet? Certainly you don’t need diet. You’re absolutely petite,” she says. Ben starts to stammer out a “thank you,” but Mom cuts across him with, “How tall are you?”

“I-I’m five foot six,” Ben says, glancing at me with eyes that clearly say, This is about to get bad, isn’t it?

“And so you must weigh about… one hundred forty pounds? One hundred fifty? Somewhere around that?”

“No, I’m more like uh… one fifteen, I think,” Ben says.

“That can’t be healthy. Is it purposeful?” Mom asks. I hand Ben his soda and sink back into my seat.

“Mom, lay off,” I order. Mom feigns innocence as Ben eats quickly, almost as if to prove her wrong.

“I’m just concerned. I’d like to be sure my son’s ‘boyfriend’-” She actually uses air-quotes “-is a healthy, well-adjusted young man. Do you see a therapist, Benjamin?”

I don’t point out that I don’t see a therapist, either. Not since I made the connection between Dr. Baker and Alex Baker, and realized it was actually impossible to go forty-five minutes in that office without thinking, “My dick has been in your nephew’s mouth, Doc, and you haven’t the slightest idea.”

“Are you… no, I don’t see a therapist. I don’t need to. And I don’t do anything to make myself thin anymore than I do anything to make myself short. It’s just my body. I mean, I drink diet soda because I like the taste better,” Ben says. He has abandoned his fork and is hugging his hoodies around himself. I brush my fingers over the nape of his neck. Mom clears her throat.

“Have you-”

“Ben’s going to be a piano major,” I interrupt. “He’s been playing since he was six.”

“Why do-”

“He also plays guitar and drums,” I say over Mom’s next question.

“There’s a baby grand piano in the den, more for show than anything else. Maybe you could play for us later,” Bill suggests. He offers Ben an encouraging, mildly guilty smile.

“Yeah, sure,” Ben says weakly. Mom takes advantage of the pause in conversation to thrust out another question.

“Are you a Christian, Benjamin?” I hate the way she says his name. Benjamin. Like it’s an insult to pronounce everything beyond the first syllable. To my surprise, Ben laughs softly.

“I’m half-Irish, half-Italian. I think I’m about as Catholic as a person can be without actually being the pope,” he says. When Mom eyes him doubtfully, as though wondering how a Catholic boy can wear eyeliner, Ben half-rolls his eyes and reaches into his shirt to pull out a small gold crucifix on a chain around his neck. For the first time tonight, Mom looks somewhat pleased.

“Now, Ben, you have sisters, I believe you said? How old are they?” Bill asks. Ben ticks them off on his fingers.

“Ten, eight, five, and three. I’ve also got a brother who’s a few months old,” he says. He hesitantly works his way through more random details of his life, and by the time we’ve finished the picadillo and the ice cream afterwards, Mom has loosened up enough to turn to Ben, smiling very slightly, and say, “I seem to recall Travis saying once that you’re afraid of crustaceans?”

“Oh, he told you that?” Ben says, digging his heel into my shin. “Well, it… it’s not all crustaceans, just lobsters. See, when I was like, eight, I think, my parents took me and Rosie - she was still a baby then - to Maine for a week. We went to this restaurant that was completely packed, and my parents convinced me to order lobster. Only… I-I guess there was a mistake in the kitchen, because the lobster they brought out for me was alive. I’m talking about like, claws waving, antennae wiggling all over… God. I didn’t even realize it until I grabbed it, and then I just freaked out and literally ran screaming into the night. Now I won’t go near them.”

He shudders, and I pat his shoulder in mock pity. He shrugs me off, glaring, and I laugh.

“Poor Ben. Your life is such a tragedy,” I say. “You’re a modern-day Hamlet.”

“‘How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world,’” Ben murmurs. He pauses, snorts, and adds, “Hamlet was way more emo than me.”

“I don’t remember Hamlet wearing guy liner and skinny jeans, though,” Bree says. I try to avoid glancing over at Ben’s skintight pants, but fail. Oh god is that a bad idea. I forgot just how much those jeans cling to him.

“You’re right. He wore man-tights, which is way worse,” I say. Nobody would know, really, if I just slipped a hand over onto his knee, pressed my palm to the denim on his thigh, or his-

“Oh God, it would take so much more than putting on an antic disposition to make me wear tights,” Ben says, cringing. “Even I’m not that gay.”

He glances at Mom to gauge her reaction; I’m positive I’m not the only person who sees her smile dim just a little. She clearly does not appreciate the reminder of what this night’s really about. I stand, picking up my empty plate, and Ben follows suit.

“No, Ben, you’re a guest. Sit down,” I order.

“I’ve got it,” he protests. He scoops up Bill’s plate and beats me to Bree’s, then follows me to the sink. He helps me load the dishwasher even though I tell him half a dozen times to go sit down, then waits, empty-handed and awkward.

“Where did you say the piano is?” he asks. Bill leads the way to the den, which I try to avoid whenever possible. There are several bookshelves, and all the furniture is mahogany. It looks too much like Dr. Baker’s office. Ben approaches the baby grand slowly, and hesitates before sitting at the bench.

“Any requests? I probably know enough by Mozart to make your heads explode,” he says.

“Play what you played for your school audition,” Mom instructs. I want to tell her that if it’s good enough for the admissions committee at Juilliard, it’s good enough for her. But Ben shakes out his hands and pauses with his fingers just breathing on the keys.

“It’s the second movement of Haydn’s Sonata Fifty-Four, Hoboken Sixteen Forty,” he says, and then his hands are… gone, rocketing up and down the keys, fingers dancing so fast I can’t even see them, can’t figure out how I’m hearing the beautiful blur of notes faster than he should be capable of playing. I listen, dumbstruck, to this music-in-fast-forward for three minutes. The second the song is over, Ben shoves his hands in his hoodies pockets and waits, slouched over and breathing hard, for us to react.

“Holy shit,” I say.

“Seconded,” Bree pipes up. Bill and Mom both nod in affirmation, and Ben twists sharply to look at me. Just me.

“Yeah?” he says. I can’t believe he’s nervous about this. I can’t believe he could ever think I’d be anything less than floored by that sound, those hands, this boy. I swallow and nod.

“Yeah,” I say hoarsely, and he gives me one of the smiles that make me just a little bit glad that Garen left. Suddenly, Mom steps forward.

“Ben. Could I speak to you for a moment?” she says. Ben’s eyes snap towards her and he tenses, but nods once anyway. Mom rotates on her heel and marches out of the den. As Ben heads after her, I snag his elbow.

“You don’t have to talk to her if you don’t want to,” I murmur, but he shakes his head and slips out into the hall. The door clicks shut behind him, and I turn to stare at Bill.

“What’s she saying?” I hiss. “Bill… what the fuck is she saying to him?”

“Travis, I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,” Bill says, brow furrowed. “Have some faith.”

“Have some faith in the person who has made it clear she’d rather die a horrible, painful death than have a fag for a son?” I say. Bill says nothing. I sit down hard on the piano bench and press the heels of my hands against my eyelids. Fuck. This is it. This is the part where everything gets screwed up and I end up alone. Again. I wait there in silence for somewhere between thirty seconds and half an hour, I’m not too sure. Finally, the door opens again and Ben leans in.

“Travis? I-It’s getting late. I should go,” he says. I jump up.

“I’ll walk you out,” I say. He doesn’t look too stressed, doesn’t look like he was just told to fall off the face of the earth and die. Mom is clattering around in the kitchen, so halfway to the front door, I take Ben’s hand.

“What did she want?” I ask. The corner of his mouth twitches upwards.

“She wanted to tell me that she finds me regrettably charming, and while she wishes you could just rejoin Team Breeder, if you have to be a flaming homosexual, she’s glad you’re at least dating a gentleman. One who, incidentally, is the best pianist she’s ever heard in her life,” he says. I blink.

“No, really. What’d she say?” He shoves me.

“I’m serious. That’s really what she said. Believe me, Travis, I couldn’t make up something that ridiculous,” he says. He slips a hand into his pocket to check the time on his cell phone. “I really do have to go, though. I told my mom I’d be home by ten.”

“Okay,” I say, trailing after him. I lace my fingers through his once we’re on the porch, and he offers me a small smile as we head out to his car. He unlocks the door and climbs in, rolling the window down the second the ignition catches. I rest my elbows on the window edge and lean in to kiss him.

“Thank you for inviting me tonight,” he says, letting his head loll forward so our foreheads touch.

“Thank you for putting up with my semi-retarded family,” I say. He laughs and shifts back to buckle his seatbelt.

“It’s weird,” he says. “Ever since I met you, I have been in a series of situations so strange I sometimes think I’m making them up. And I’ve still never been happier. I think that says a lot about how batshit insane I am.”

“I already knew you were batshit insane. Pretty sure that’s why I love you.”

Oh shit.

Oh. Holy. Fucking. Shit. I am not supposed to be saying that out loud. I’m not even supposed to be thinking it, but I sure as shit shouldn’t be letting him in on it after only coming to this conclusion, oh, twelve hours ago? I stumble back a few steps, wondering if my eyes are as wide as Ben’s are. And also wondering if it’s prudent use of my track talents to sprint up to my room and barricade myself in my closet for all of eternity.

But instead of throwing the car into drive and speeding as fast as he can in the opposite direction, Ben fumbles for his seatbelt and grabs the front of my shirt, leaning the entire upper half of his body out the car window so he can kiss me. I steady him so he won’t fall completely out of the car and crack his head open on the pavement, and he shifts his hands from my shirt up to my hair.

“Fuck you, you asshole,” he breathes, “I was convinced you were going to make me be the first one to say it.”

“Fuck you, don’t call me an asshole. Just say it back,” I whisper, laughing just a little, and he kisses me again.

“I love you, too, Travis. God, you’re such a moron.”

We stay there, kissing each other breathless and smiling like idiots, until Ben’s cell phone starts ringing over and over, and my mom starts flicking the porch light on and off, on and off.


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