"God is cruel. Sometimes, he makes you live." -Stephen King
First day sober
The process for a two-day, emergency check-in at the LRC is almost identical to my initial check-in last June; I tell them I need help. I fill out some paperwork. They search my backpack. They strip-search me for drugs and weapons. I make lewd comments to my searcher. They show me to a mostly empty room so that I can shove my backpack into a dresser drawer. Then, quicker than you can say this whole experience is making me super uncomfortable, I’m sitting in a chair across from Doc, my arms curled around my legs to hug them to my chest. I rest my chin atop my knees and say, “Sorry if I messed up your schedule. I know I’m supposed to only see you on Tuesday evenings.”
“Tuesdays are typical,” she agrees, “which is why I was concerned that you missed last night’s appointment.”
“I know. But I was kind of blackout drunk at the time,” I say softly.
To her credit, Doc takes this in stride, just like everything else I’ve ever told her. I can only assume that someone at the front desk explained my situation when they were setting up this last-minute appointment. Doc laces her fingers together in her lap and tilts her head to the side. “I think we should talk about how that all started.”
I shake my head and take a deep breath, hoping it will steady me. It doesn’t. Still, I press ahead, “I think that, um… there are some other things that I need to tell you. Important things, stuff I should have told you a long time ago. It’s… not like I’ve been lying to you, exactly. But I haven’t really been telling you everything, either. And there are things you should know.”
It’s against LRC policy for the doctors to ever touch the patients, but Doc is looking at me like she would reach out and give my hand a comforting squeeze, if she could. Instead, she says, “Start wherever you think you need to start, Garen.”
“I’ve been having trouble sleeping,” is what I settle for saying, instead of anything of substance.
If Doc is unimpressed by this anticlimactic confession, she doesn’t let it show. “For how long?”
“A while.” That’s such a vague answer, one that I know won’t satisfy her. I sigh. “Since I left here after my first sixty days, I guess. I, um… sometimes, it gets really bad. Last week, I didn’t sleep for three days straight. I passed out once or twice. It’s not—I mean, I’m trying. I’m trying to go to sleep, but I can’t turn my brain off. Every time I lie down, my thoughts just magnify to the point where I can’t block them out, and I start to panic, and I lie in bed for hours just thinking about like, what if I fuck up? Where is my life going? What if I can’t stay sober? How can I do this for the rest of my life? It goes on and on like that, until it’s morning, and then I have to get up for school anyway. These past two nights are the only nights I’ve had a decent amount of sleep in weeks, but that’s because I was passed out from drinking, not because I was actually on a decent sleep schedule.”
“Well, I—”
“I have sex with strangers for drug money,” I say, before she can offer any advice. She blinks at me, and I can feel the dam inside of me starting to break. I squeeze my eyes shut and say, all in a rush, “I know I told you about the guy at the truck stop, the one who I blew last June, but it happened again the night before last. It wasn’t for drugs, not at first. He gave me fifty dollars to give him head in the men’s room of a nightclub in New Haven, and I did it, but I didn’t realize that someone in the club even had the coke until after I’d already gotten the money. That’s how I bought the line I did. Before I did it, I had no plans to drink or snort anything, so I’m not sure why I even agreed to do it. It’s not like I need the money. I think I just wanted to know that someone could still want me, because I’m beginning to realize that Travis really doesn’t, and I’m so used to being his, or Dave’s, and I don’t know who I am if I don’t belong to somebody. I didn’t really want to blow this guy, but I still agreed to do it. I… do that a lot, I think. You know, consent to sex that I don’t want to have? I think it’s because I’m afraid that, if I say no, the guy might do it anyway, and I’d rather be easy than be a victim. But that’s not what it’s always like, obviously. A lot of the time, the sex is great, and it’s my idea, and it’s fun. But not, um… not lately. Lately, I can sort of barely have it, because I can’t really get hard a lot of the time. Or, if I can, I can’t stay hard, because inevitably, there comes a point when the guy I’m with will like, grab my hair, or touch me in a way I’m not expecting, and I can’t deal with it. If I’m not completely in control of everything that is happening in bed, I freak the fuck out. This… I mean, I’m sorry. This is probably too much information.”
“I’m your doctor, Garen, there’s no such thing as too much information. Please keep going,” Doc says. I think she’s just worried that, if I stop talking now, I won’t be able to start again. I’m worried about the same thing.
“Okay. Um… when people touch me here—” I brush my palms over my hips, “—I sometimes have panic attacks. I don’t know why. It’s the only part of my body that I can’t stand being touched anymore, and it’s so fucking weird, because I used to be fine with it. I used to like it. But ever since I got out of the hospital, after Dave beat me up this last time, I keep having these… I don’t know if they’re memories or what, but they fucking terrify me. I’m scared that something happened to me that I’m blocking out, or something, because the truth is that I don’t remember any of that day. When I woke up from the coma, Travis told me what my injuries were, and I made up some bullshit version of what I figure must have happened, but the last thing I really remember about that day is smoking pot in my bedroom with Dave and then wanting nachos. Travis says we argued about me dating Dave, but I don’t remember it, and I know Dave beat me up, but I don’t remember it. I-I think maybe something happened with him, something to do with sex, but sex with Dave was always a problem anyway, because, um…” I pause to suck in another deep breath.
When Doc realizes that I’m having trouble with this, she opens her desk drawer, takes out the coffee machine, and sets about brewing me a cup. After it finishes and she passes it to me, I offer her a small smile. She returns it, but when I don’t say anything, she presses, “Why was sex with Dave a problem, Garen?”
I hate that doctors always say my name so much when they talk to me. I take a sip of the coffee, but I can’t really taste it. The silence is getting to be too much. I say, very softly, “Because I said no, the first time.” She says nothing. I chance a glance at her face, which is expressionless. Brow furrowed, I frown down at my coffee cup and say, “I was fifteen years old the first time… that happened. We had been dating for about a month, so it was still a month before he started hitting me. We were making out in his car after a date, and he wanted to fuck me, and I said no, but he did it anyway. And, okay… I’m sure you understand the mechanics of gay sex, and even if you didn’t before, you sure as hell do now, after all the sessions we’ve had.”
“Yes, you’ve gone to great lengths to inform me about that particular topic,” she says drily, and I actually have to close my eyes for a moment, because I am so fucking grateful that she’s still kind of making fun of me, even while we’re talking about this. I don’t think I could have this conversation with her, if she started telling me how sorry she feels for me.
“Yeah, well, in regards to those mechanics, I pretty much always prefer to top. At least, that’s how it was with Jamie, at first. Dave was only the second person I ever slept with, and I told him I didn’t want to bottom, but neither did he, so he just sort of… did it. Made me, I guess. And there were times when we’d be arguing, and then we’d be fooling around, and then arguing, and then fooling around, and it would just go back and forth until they were basically the same thing, and he’d be hitting me and fucking me at the same time, and now, every time somebody wants to top me, that’s all I can think of. Even when I consent to it, I still hate it. I still feel like I’m being… I don’t know. Forced? And I know it can be good. I know that there are some guys who can’t get enough of it—Ben loves it, he says he wouldn’t ever want to top somebody, and Jamie is kind of the same way. Travis is a switch, and he always liked it when he and I were together, but it’s like… even when it’s good, it’s still bad for me. I know that makes no sense, but it’s how I feel.” I sigh. “That’s it, I guess. That’s everything you need to know.”
“Now, I want to run through the list of things you’ve just told me, so that we can both be very clear on what you’ve said. If you feel like I’m getting anything wrong, or leaving anything out, please correct me, okay?” she says. I nod. She begins ticking the items off on her fingers. “You’re having intense difficulty sleeping. You have engaged in acts of prostitution in order to buy drugs. You agree to have sex with people, including strangers, because you’re worried that you might be forced into it regardless of your decision. You have difficulty performing sexually, and have panic attacks when people touch certain parts of your body. You have blocked out the memory of last spring’s assault almost entirely. You were raped at the age of fifteen by—”
“Can you please not use that word?” I whisper, tightening my hands around the coffee mug again.
Her voice is soft when she says, “Garen. It’s the only word there is for it. You told me that you refused to have sex with Dave, but then he forced you to participate anyway. I don’t think I would be helping you if I tried to ghost over that issue by using a euphemism for it.”
She can use that word all she wants, but I’m not going to. I will never, ever believe that that happened to me, not even if Dave Walczyk himself admits that that’s what it was. But I shrug, and Doc picks up where she left off.
“You were raped when you were fifteen years old, by an eighteen-year-old man who went on to assault you—physically and sexually—for an additional three months, as well as another month almost two years after that. You are completely incapable of enjoying the act of being penetrated, and have admitted that the action in itself makes you feel violated, yet you continue to consent to it on occasion. That sums up everything you’ve just told me. Is there anything that either of us has left out?”
“I had sex with my friend Alex last night, and sometimes, I stick my fingers down my throat to make myself throw up,” I say quietly. Then, quickly, I add, “Those two things are unrelated. But I left them out, so I figured you might want to know.”
Doc looks understandably baffled. “There’s never been anything in your paperwork or our previous sessions to indicate the presence of an eating disorder. Have you brought this up during group?”
“No, because it’s not an eating disorder. I’m not trying to lose weight or whatever, I’m not bulimic. I just sometimes need to make myself sick, because otherwise, I feel like I can’t get bad things out of my system. Like booze.” Or feelings.
“Any time a patient tells me that he forces himself to vomit for any reason, I’m going to call it an eating disorder,” she warns. Eating disorder. Rape. These words don’t feel like they have any bearing on my life, but she keeps using them, and they keep crawling up under my skin.
I draw my legs up to my chest and wrap my arms tight around them, resting my chin on my knees. “I think you’re wrong, but you’re the one with the degree, so you can call it whatever you want. As long as you don’t tell my dad.”
“You’re eighteen years old, Garen. I have neither the power nor the desire to tell your father anything you say in these sessions. I just wish you could start being more honest with yourself, even if you don’t want to be honest with the people around you,” she says.
I don’t say another word for the rest of our session. Hope her bitchy one-liner was worth it.
2 days sober
Only on Thursday afternoon, when I’m killing time with the rest of the addicts and psychos in the common room before lunch, do I realize how well and truly fucked I am for my confessions to Doc. Free time at LRC is great in theory, but shitty in practice; I’m not allowed to have my guitar, they barely let us watch TV, and most of my other hobbies involve drugs or sexual contact, both of which are kind of prohibited here. The counselors are constantly trying to get me to join them for cards—I’m godly at blackjack and poker—but I reject them on principal. I’d love to be mature enough to be able to get along with the staff here, but Doc is always telling me I have “issues with authority figures,” so mostly, I spend my time refusing to acknowledge them and stubbornly insisting I be allowed to color with the teenage girls from the eating disorder unit.
Halfway through the free time block, I stand up, but I’ve barely made it halfway across the common room before Cheryl calls after me, “Garen, where are you going?”
I’ve never really had any of the staff members question me in that tone of voice before. Not during free time, and sure as hell not when it was fairly obvious where I was headed. Still, I pause and answer, “…to the bathroom?”
“Alright. Allen, do you mind going with him?” she says, nodding to Allen, who shrugs genially and heads for the door. It takes him a moment to realize that I haven’t moved.
“Something wrong, kiddo?” he says.
“Uh, that’s what I’m trying to figure out. Why are you coming with me? Are you planning to hold it for me?” I say.
“Standard policy,” Cheryl says blandly.
“No, it’s not,” I argue. “You guys searched me when I came in, you know I’m not holding. For fuck’s sake, Cher, I’m just going to take a piss. I’ve never needed supervision for that before.”
Cheryl now looks somewhat uncomfortable as she says, “That’s because we weren’t aware that you needed restroom supervision before.”
“I don’t,” I say, trying to swallow down the sense of panic. This is stupid, and uncomfortable, and embarrassing. I don’t understand what’s going on, or why they suddenly think I need somebody to come along with me while I do something as basic as go down the fucking hall to use the bathroom.
Cheryl sighs and says, “If you have an issue with this, you can discuss it with Doctor Howard tomorrow.”
The realization of what she must be referring to hits me like a freight train. I cross my arms over my chest. “That bitch has no idea what she’s talking about. I fucking told her, I don’t have an eating disorder, okay? Drinking until you get sick is not the same thing as being bulimic. It’s not. She has no idea what she’s talking about, and you’re a bunch of fucking idiots for believing her.”
“You can discuss it with Doctor Howard tomorrow,” Cheryl repeats.
“This is fucking ridiculous,” I snap, but my displeasure with the situation does nothing to change the fact that I’ve still got to piss, so I stomp out of the room, Allen trailing after me. Just to be certain that this experience is as uncomfortable for him as it is for me, I stare him dead in the eyes the entire time I’m at the urinal. He continues to beam at me. I roll my eyes, and once I’ve finished washing my hands, I flick the excess water at him instead of using a paper towel to dry my hands.
Halfway through lunch, I feel the prickle of eyes on my skin. The dining hall is only half full, and I’ve been treated to the unexpected pleasure of being able to eat alone, so I shouldn’t feel like anyone is looking at me. I glance around, and my stomach drops when I realize that there are two different counselors watching me eat.
Fucking Doctor Howard.
Before either of them can stop me, I scoop up the remains of my half-eaten lunch, stalk over to the trash can, and fling the food into the bin. At once, one of the counselors lopes over to me, peers into the can, and says, “Doesn’t look like you ate that much, Garen.”
“Didn’t feel like I was that hungry, Don,” I say flatly. “How is it your business?”
Ignoring my question completely, Don says, “If you didn’t like what was being served, I’m sure we could stop by the kitchen and grab you something else. Maybe some apple slices. Do you want some apple slices?”
“No, I don’t want some fucking apple slices,” I snap, even though oh my god, I so want apple slices. Little kid food is my favorite. Apple slices with peanut butter, and gummy bears, and chicken nuggets in awesome shapes, and macaroni and cheese with cut-up hot dogs in it, and those fries that are shaped like smiley faces. But if Doc is so convinced I have shitty eating habits, fine, I can show her shitty eating habits. To the counselor, I add, “Don’t talk to me like I’m a kindergartener, okay? I know you’re only being weird about this because Doc says I’ve got food issues, but we both know that’s a crock of shit. Look at those girls over there.” I thrust a finger towards the table of eating disorder girls, a group of frail women who are picking tearfully at their salads. “Do I look like them? No. I like food. I like eating. And I’m not exactly a small guy, alright? I’m a hundred and seventy pounds, and I could probably fucking bench-press your body weight. So, stop being ridiculous, because I’ve never gotten shit for not being hungry enough to finish a meal before. Now is really not the time to—”
“Garen,” Cheryl calls across the dining room, and I’m already rounding on her and opening my mouth to start bitching, but I freeze before any words can come out.
Jamie is standing next to her. I’m not sure why he’s standing next to her, because usually emergency check-in patients aren’t allowed visitors, and even patients who are allowed to have visitors have to wait until Friday. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t even know I’m here. For a long moment, neither of us speaks. Then, he inclines his head towards one of the empty tables; we both sit. I’m still not sure what I should say—it’s been too long to get away with a normal greeting, and I’m not sure a ‘hello’ would suffice anyway.
Fuck, I can’t even look him in the eyes.
Suddenly, he pushes his sleeves up to his elbows and bares his forearms—underside first, then top. It takes me a moment to realize that he’s showing the counselors that he’s not trying to pass me anything so that he’ll be allowed to hold my hand. Taking a shuddery breath, I flatten my hands on the table. He takes them both in his, then ducks down to press a quick, dry kiss to the back of each. Settling back into his chair, he says, “I’m sorry if I surprised you by just showing up like this.”
“I’m actually more surprised they let you in on a Thursday,” I admit.
He shrugs. “Drug counselors can apparently be bought just as easily as anyone else. Did you know that it only costs a hundred dollars to turn ‘visitors are only allowed into the building on Fridays’ into ‘right this way, Mr. Goldwyn?’” I allow a small smile. He cocks his head to the side. “How are you?”
“Really shitty, actually,” I say, grateful to hear that my voice just sounds tired, not as defeated as I feel. “I’m, um… embarrassed, mostly. Pissed at myself. Less than a week ago, we were getting together to celebrate my ninetieth day, and now I’m supposed to be wetting myself with glee over the fact that I’ve managed to go two days without getting wasted.”
Jamie squeezes my hands. “Tell me how this happened, G.”
I tell him, but not the full story. That can wait until later, when there aren’t tons of other addicts hovering around, or counselors breathing down my neck, blatantly eavesdropping. I settle for the abbreviated version; found out Travis was interested in some girl, didn’t take it well, ended up at a nightclub to distract myself, couldn’t handle the temptation of drugs and alcohol, continued drinking the next day since I’d already fallen off the wagon, let Ben babysit me, told Dad I needed help. I don’t mention sucking off the guy in the bathroom at the club, or going home with Stohler, or being drunk all day at school, or singing that song at rehearsal, or letting Alex fuck me. The story’s bad enough without all the details.
To his credit, Jamie does his best not to patronize me during my tale of tragedy and woe. He mostly just nods along, sometimes pausing to sigh, or squeeze my hands a little too tightly. When I finish, he offers me a sad smile, but doesn’t bother to give me any line of bullshit about how brave I am for accepting help, which I’m grateful for. Finally, I have to ask, “How did you even know I was here?”
“One of your friends called me to let me know,” he admits.
I scowl. “McCall really needs to learn to mind his own fucking business.”
“It wasn’t Travis,” he says. I blink, because to my knowledge, he doesn’t really talk to any of the other people who might know about the relapse. Sensing my confusion, he says, a shade too casually, “It was Alexander, but you shouldn’t get pissed at him over it. I needed to know.”
“Well, Alex—” I freeze. Alex. Alexander. Suddenly, a series of memories hits me like a ton of bricks.
Me saying, Sounds like my friends are rubbing off on you, before my visit to New York, and his vague reply of, You have no idea. At the bar, when I asked if he wanted to be exclusive with whatever guy he’d been sort of seeing, I asked him to be, but he says he needs some time to think about it. Maybe it’s because I’d be his first boyfriend or whatever, but I honestly kind of get the impression that he’s more interested in his best friend than he is in me. Alex getting so weird about me still hooking up with Jamie. Alex, in his bedroom, I’m, um… I’m sort of involved with someone, is the thing. We’re not exclusive, or anything, but we’ve been hooking up for a few months now. Him only kissing me after I mentioned Jamie. Alex hesitantly admitting, Guys tend to call me by my real name when I’m, you know, hooking up with them, or whatever. The guy I’ve been sleeping with, he does it too, always. And Alex--Alexander—screwing me less than thirty-six hours ago, probably the same way he’s been screwing Jamie for I don’t know how long.
Oh, fuck.
“Are you sleeping with him?” I ask. In another situation, I might try to ask it a bit more artfully, but getting an honest answer is so much more important.
“Am I sleeping with whom?” he asks, which is just about the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Even my nervousness at his next answer isn’t enough to stop me from rolling my eyes.
“The only guy we’re talking about, you idiot. Are you sleeping with Alex?” I ask. For a long moment, he remains silent. Eventually, though, he gives me a sheepish smile and nods. I lick my lips. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m telling you now, aren’t I?” he says, but his easy grin falters a little when he bothers to actually look at my expression.
I swallow hard and repeat, “But why didn’t you tell me?”
Jamie bites down on his bottom lip, even though he’s still half-smiling. It’s a very uncomfortable, unnatural expression. There’s too long of a pause, and then he lets out a strained, breathy laugh and says, “Does it really matter?”
“I don’t know. You tell me,” I say. He knows what I’m trying to tell him. He has to. We’ve been friends for too long, we’ve been through this same scenario before—during sophomore year, when we both got head from Parker in the same week and only realized it later, and again during junior year, when he slept with Andrew while I was sort-of-dating-him-but-mostly-just-fucking-him-a-lot. That last one had been a total shitshow, considering I’d actually been starting to like Andrew before it happened. Andrew, who I actually bothered to take on dates to places other than my bed. Andrew, who I only semi-reluctantly let hold my hand while we were walking down to the quad every morning for training. Andrew, who met my fucking father on Parents’ Day that spring, three days before I found out about him and Jamie. Andrew, who could have been my first love, if he hadn’t screwed my best friend, if I hadn’t broken it off with him and ended up in Lakewood with Travis just a few months later. At the time, Jamie had been genuinely confused as to why I was pissed at the two of them. He’d just kept saying, I didn’t realize you gave a shit, I didn’t realize he was off-limits. I’m tempted to throw those words back at him now, but instead, I say, “How did it happen?”
He coughs and says, “He came to my hotel room to bring me my jacket. I had, ah… I’d left it at the hospital while I was visiting you.”
I jump. “That was four months ago, Jamie. You’ve been doing it since May? How—you haven’t even been in the same state as him, you were in Georgia for half the summer and New York the other half.”
A sigh. Then, he says, in an even, somewhat reluctant tone, “It happened four times that week, while you were in the hospital and then getting settled back at the house. I was worried about you, and I needed to relieve some stress, and he needed to get over his little fixation on Ben, so we started hooking up. That was supposed to be it, but we started texting each other, and it was… I don’t know. Nice? I liked talking to him. When Travis brought me back to talk to you the day before you disappeared to Ohio, I—”
“Oh, Christ,” I mutter, tugging my hands from his and raking them through my hair. “The bag, you had a fucking overnight bag with you, but you didn’t stay at my house that night.”
“I was still at his house the next morning when Travis called to tell me you’d gone missing. It was sort of funny, actually—right after we got off the phone, I went to go take a shower, and by the time I got out, Alexander was on the phone with him. If I’d known we were both going to hear about it, I would’ve just rolled over, woken him up, and put the first call on speakerphone.” He hesitates, then admits, “That’s why I wasn’t able to stop you from leaving Patton after you found Seth. I was still on a train to New York when you left there.”
“I was probably already gone by the time you heard about me being there. It’s not like I stuck around to cuddle after getting hate-fucked by the technically heterosexual drug dealer you shot that one time,” I say.
He allows a tiny twitch of his lips that I assume is meant to be a smile. “I still should have been there. And I figured at least that would be it, that maybe we’d stop after that, but then I kept coming back to visit you, and it kept happening, and once I moved to the city, I figured… I mean, why not? The sex was good, and he turned out to be a really cool person, and it’s not like it’s a far ride from New York to New Haven. So, at that, uh… the cookout you had the day after you left here—” He gestures around the room. “I pulled him aside, and I told him that I wasn’t sleeping with anyone else—I hadn’t in almost a month, at that point—and that, if he wanted me to, I’d be willing to keep it that way. I, you know, asked him to be my boyfriend. He turned me down.”
“Ass,” I can’t help saying, and Jamie laughs a little, even though I’m sure he doesn’t mean it.
“Well, it wasn’t a big deal. He explained that he wasn’t ready to date anyone, and I said that was fine. He said I could sleep with whoever I wanted, and I told him the same, and we agreed to keep hooking up occasionally. Except, ‘occasionally’ has turned out to be fairly often. He’s… sort of taken the train up to New York three times in the five weeks since then, and I’ve come down twice. We’ve stayed at the Pettigrew Hotel both times, because it seemed easier than putting up with McCutcheon’s questions. It’s not—that is, he’s not my boyfriend.”
“But you like him,” I say, sounding like an absolute fourth grader. “Like, you like him, like him.”
“I might,” he says stiffly. This is getting worse by the minute. Ever since we were fifteen, Jamie and I have had a habit of getting unnecessarily graphic in our descriptions of our recent fucks; he’ll tell me exactly how big the guy’s dick was, including a comparison to mine, and I’ll tell him a minute-by-minute recap of everything I did to the guy. Sometimes we even draw diagrams, or, if one of us is describing a particularly acrobatic position, we’ll act it out, full clothed, on a couch or something. It’s weird to everyone else, but it’s funny to us, because we are each other’s best friends, and we like to tell each other everything. The only time he gets uncomfortable discussing a hook-up is when he thinks he already likes the person too much.
It’s the same way I was with Travis at times, and the thought of Alex being Jamie’s Travis is absolutely terrifying.
Jamie seems to realize I’m figuring this out, because he clears his throat loudly. “It-It’s fine,” he stammers, but Jamie doesn’t fucking stammer, he has never stammered, so it must be even less fine than I thought it would be. His smile is too forced when he adds, “It’s not like we haven’t hooked up with the same guys before, right? Besides, they can never really compare us perfectly, since I always bottom and you always top. It’s not—” He cuts himself off, staring at me. God damn my expressive face. I try to remain impassive, but he says, “Are you… I mean, you let him top you? Seriously?”
“It was sort of my idea,” I admit. “I, um… I don’t know. I just kind of went into his room and asked him to fuck me. And he did.”
“No,” Jamie says. “Tell me the real version. Not that Cliff’s Notes bullshit.”
I sigh. “The night before last, when I was at the apartment, I left Ben’s room while he was sleeping and went to go see Alex. He didn’t know I was drunk, and I didn’t volunteer the information. I asked him to fuck me, and he said he wasn’t sure it was a good idea, because he didn’t want to piss off the guy he was sort of involved with. You, I guess. It was kind of a weird conversation, because I still thought he was a virgin up until that point, but whatever. I told him hooking up with friends is no big deal, and he kissed me. I don’t know what else you want me to say, dude. He fucked me, it was fine, we slept, we woke up, he got pissed when he realized I’d been drunk, and I came here. That’s all there is to the story.”
Jamie leans back in his chair and drags his long fingers through his hair. “I always knew you’d eventually find a way to get back at me for—”
“No,” I interrupt. “No, that’s not fair. You’re the one who decided not to tell me that you were fucking one of my best friends, a guy you know I see almost every day, and you should have—”
“I should have what, Garen? I should have realized that if I didn’t stamp ‘property of James Goldwyn’ on Alex’s cock, that you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from having sex with him? Are you really that much of a—” He cuts himself off, eyes wide.
My heart stops for half a second before it resumes pounding with a ferocity I didn’t think possible. The word is still on the tip of his tongue, I can tell. Slut. He’s not the first person who has thought it about me, and he won’t be the last. He’s never said it before, though. I always knew he would eventually, but he hasn’t. Not yet. Suddenly, all I want, more than anything else I’ve ever wanted in my life, is for him to just fucking say it so that I can know that he feels the same was as everyone else. So that I can punch him and we can make up. I order, “Say it.”
Slut.
“Garen.”
Slut, slut, slut.
“Fucking say it, Jamie. I’ve been waiting four years to hear you call me a slut, and it’s just not going to give me the same satisfaction if you don’t actually use the word.”
He sighs. I know that his impulse to say it has disappeared by now, but he seems to realize that even if he doesn’t need to say it, I need to hear it. But then, to my great chagrin, he says, “I wasn’t going to call you a slut, Garen. I was actually going to call you a self-loathing, terrified kid who tries to use sex to make people stay, even when they’re not trying to leave you.”
“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” I say tightly.
“It means that every time you get into a fight with someone, or you disappoint them, or you hurt them, you think that sleeping with them will make up for it. For fuck’s sake, I’m honestly surprised that you didn’t slide under the table to suck me off the second you realized you had slept with the guy I’m seeing. You solve every problem by trying to stick your dick into it, and it’s fucking unhealthy. And it’s not how you used to be,” he says.
Face burning, I turn my attention to a particularly fascinating knot in the wood on the table. “Fuck who I used to be. Who I used to be a was a pathetic, friendless little troll who nobody wanted to talk to. I know the truth, Jamie. I know that nobody is interested in getting to know me until I get my dick out—”
“First of all, that’s bullshit, and second of all, that’s not what I’m talking about,” he says. “I don’t care who you sleep with, G. God knows I’m not about to judge you for having a high number, considering mine is probably the same. If you want to fuck every last man in Lakewood, go for it, but be honest about why you’re doing it. When we started at Patton, I was the one who kept having guys over, remember? I was the one who everyone would talk badly about, because I—”
“That’s because I couldn’t get any guys,” I lean forward to hiss at him. “That’s because when we started at Patton, you were already hot, and I was this skinny little kid with a Jewfro. The only reason I didn’t have as many guys as you did at first was because I was uglier than—”
“You were beautiful, and you were nervous,” James says, and his tone leaves so little room for argument that I find myself snapping my mouth shut again, no matter how much I want to speak. “When I met you, I didn’t think you were pathetic, or ugly, or a loser. You were an awesome friend, and you were so fucking cute that just waking up every morning and looking across the room at you made me smile so much it hurt. And I don’t care how many years it’s been—I will never forget the way your hands shook the first time you kissed me, and the way you smiled so fucking brightly afterwards. And it was okay, because you were fourteen goddamn years old, and it was your first kiss, and you were scared. You used to be so… I don’t know. Shiny. New. And then—”
“Don’t say it.”
“—sophomore year came around and you met—”
“Don’t fucking say his name, I swear to—”
“—Dave.”
I fall instantly silent, slumping down in my chair. I want to keep snapping at him, but I can’t; my throat has closed up completely. Even breathing is hard right now. Jamie must just take that as a cue to continue, because he leans as close as the counselors around us will allow and murmurs, “Please don’t forget that I know the truth about what he did to you. I was in the room when you came back after that date, the first time he did that to you. I saw your face. You were a fifteen-year-old kid, and he was an abusive, violent, eighteen-year-old rapist. I don’t know what he said to you during those four months you were with him, but I know that whatever it was, it made you hate yourself. It made you think that you’re worthless, and that the only thing you’re good for is sex, and that no one will ever love you, and all of that makes me so fucking sick, because I love you. I love you, and your parents love you, and your friends love you, and all we want is for you to believe that so that you’ll stop treating yourself like the only thing you’ve got to offer is your dick. That’s why you let my boyfriend fuck you, it’s why you hook up with randoms, Garen. Not because you just love sex, not because you like any of the people you fuck. You do it because you think it’s all you’ve got.”
I actually laugh out loud at that. “That is possibly one of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth, and considering how many times you’ve gotten stoned and made me listen to you talk about Homeward Bound: The Incredible Journey, that’s really saying something. It’s—you’re inventing this alternate reality, where I’m some needy little victim, and that’s not true. I enjoy sex. Maybe not if I’m bottoming, maybe not with Dave, maybe not lately, but in general, I really fucking love it. You, of all people, should understand that. I mean, in all the times you and I have fucked, did you ever feel like you were pressuring me? Did you feel like I was in any way reluctant? Did you feel like I was just going through the motions to satisfy you?”
“No, but if you did want me to stop, I would. And you need to realize that that’s an option,” he says. “In the moments when someone wants to sleep with you and you don’t want to sleep with them, you need to stop convincing yourself that you have to say yes and pretend you like it anyway.”
My own words to Doc yesterday are burning in the back of my mind. I consent to sex that I don’t want to have. Fuck, I knew that Jamie’s too-accurate understand of my mind would bite me in the ass eventually. I open my mouth to attempt to force out a reply, but before I can, Cheryl appears at the edge of our table and regretfully says, “I’m sorry, but Garen, you need to move on to your private session with Doctor Howard.”
Jamie and I are still staring at each other with wide, nervous eyes. This is such a precarious conversation, and part of me wonders if we’ll ever be able to finish it, if we don’t get that chance now. I’m not sure I can do this over again. Sensing my fear, Jamie reaches back across the table and wraps slim fingers around my wrist. “When you get out tomorrow, please call me. I know you need to spend time at home for a little while, but will you come stay with me again? Next weekend, maybe, or the one after that—”
“I’ll need to talk to my parents about it first, but I’m sure… you know, they’ll agree.” I hesitate, and because the moment is too tense, I can’t help but offer him a wry smile and add, “Maybe I’ll get our dear friend Alexander to come along with me. Don’t think for a fucking second that I didn’t notice you calling him your boyfriend a minute ago.”
Jamie barks out a laugh and says, “God, you’re impossible.”
Cheryl clears her throat somewhat loudly, and I stand and allow her to lead us back into the hall. I don’t even argue or anything. There are only twenty-four hours left before I’m back out in a world I don’t know how to handle—I should probably make the most of them.
3 days sober
“I baked cookies for Alex,” is the first thing I say when the apartment door opens, “to tell him that I’m sorry for all the relapse sex. But you can have some, too, because I’m sorry that you walked in on it.”
Ben snags one of the cookies from the plate in my hands, takes a bite, and gags. “These are fucking disgusting, dude. Why are they so chewy and fruity?”
“Because I put gummy bears in them,” I say, beaming.
“What is wrong with you?”
“Uh, objectively? A lot of things. Seriously though, is Alex here?” I say, shifting from foot to foot.
Ben steps aside to let me into the apartment, and calls down the hall, “Hey, Al, come out here. Garen’s here to apologize, he’s got something he wants you to put in your mouth.”
I tread very purposefully on Ben’s foot as I enter the apartment, because honestly, an introduction like that isn’t going to make it any easier to convince Alex he shouldn’t hold the sex against me. Regardless, Alex comes out of his bedroom and into the living room, where I’ve taken the liberty of draping myself all over the couch. His eyes are a little bloodshot, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank god, you’re stoned. Here, try one of these.”
“What are they?” he asks, joining me on the couch and peering suspiciously down at the cookie I’m holding out to him.
“Gummy bear cookies,” Ben says, grimacing.
“You’re disgusting,” Alex tells me, accepting the cookie anyway and taking a bite. He pauses, then points at it, “But these are not. These are delicious.”
“I need new friends,” Ben mutters, disappearing down the hall. I’m pretty sure he’s going to go brush his teeth.
Now alone together, the silence between Alex and I is deafening. We kill a few minutes making our way through the gummy bear cookies, but his high must be starting to wear off, because he looks more and more disgruntled with every bite. Finally, I push the plate to the other side of the coffee table so that we might actually have to acknowledge each other. He’s the first one to speak.
“You should have told me you were drunk. I wouldn’t have slept with you, if I’d known.”
“You should have told me you were fucking my best friend,” I say, and his eyes snap to meet mine. I give a brief, one-shouldered shrug and finish, “I wouldn’t have slept with you, if I’d known.”
The cookie that’s still clutched in his hand is slowly turning to dust in his fist. I reach out and take him by the wrist, using my free hand to unclench his fingers and brush the crumbs back onto the plate. When I release him, he says, “When did he tell you?”
“He didn’t,” I say. “I figured it out on my own. He uh, came to visit me yesterday when I was at the LRC, and he told me that you were the one to call him and let him know.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Alex says quietly.
“He called you Alexander,” I say, “and I realized you’d both already told me the same story, about seeing a guy for a few months, but not being exclusive, and I remembered how weird you both get whenever I mentioned the other one hooking up with somebody else—namely, myself. It just… I mean, you’re not exactly subtle, you know.”
He snorts and says, “Are you sure? Because Ben is still unwilling to acknowledge that I like dudes, so I must be doing something right.”
“Uh, or he’s just a fucking idiot. The guy has made out with you like, a thousand times. He knows you put Travis’ piece in your mouth. Two days ago, he found us naked in bed together. He should have noticed that you’re not exactly clocking in at a zero on the Kinsey Scale, you know?” I say. We share an eyeroll, but I sober up to add, “So, I assume he doesn’t know about you and Jamie.”
Alex cringes, like he hadn’t been the one to bring Ben up in the first place. “No. We… it’s not like we’d been planning to broadcast it. I don’t think Jamie’s told anyone, and I’ve only mentioned it to like, one—”
“Who?” I demand. Who the hell could possibly be important enough to hear about this before Ben and I? But Alex gives me a guilty look, and I mutter, “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I didn’t plan to tell him, okay? We were arguing after Ben took off to Ohio to get you, and he started in on me about how—shit, what were his exact words? Oh, you’ll appreciate this, actually. He told me, ‘Just because you need to get wasted before you’re man enough to kiss another guy doesn’t mean you’re not as queer as the rest of us.’”
I can’t hold back a snort at that, but I try to disguise it as a cough. “Sorry. That, uh. That was very offensive, he should be ashamed of himself.”
“Yeah, whatever. Anyway, I finally told him, you know, how I feel about—” Rather than actually say it aloud, he inclines his head to the hall where Ben disappeared about ten minutes ago. “It just sort of came out after that. I didn’t mean to tell him, but… I don’t know. We haven’t talked about it too much since then. Seriously, James and I don’t even really talk about what’s going on with us. And… look, it’s not like I cheated on him, alright? We agreed on the terms. We said that if we were both always safe, and if we were both getting tested regularly, and if we were both staying technically single, we could hook up with other people and it wouldn’t have to affect us hooking up with each other. He said I could fuck anybody I wanted to fuck.”
“I don’t think he meant me,” I say mildly. “Like, how would you feel if he boned Ben?”
“That’s different.”
“How is it different?”
“I don’t know, because I’m not fucking Ben?”
“You’re really not,” Ben agrees, finally coming back into the room. “And what the hell are you guys talking about?”
Alex freezes, but I can tell by how relaxed Ben’s posture is that he didn’t hear anything worth hearing. Still, Alex doesn’t seem likely to answer, so to distract Ben from the awkwardness, I quickly say, “We’re discussing the etiquette regarding banging your friends, your friends’ friends, your friends’ exes, whatever. But, okay, hang on. While you’re here, there’s something that I think needs to be said, okay?” His brow creases, which I can only assume is his sign that he’s listening. I can feel the couch shifting as Alex tenses up next to me. And I’d love to be one of the politically correct people who thinks it’s never okay to out someone without their permission, but I’m taking Alex’s inability to verbalize the statement like a human as tacit approval. I turn my attention back to Ben and say, “So, when you came into Alex’s room the other morning, you realize we had totally fucked the night before, right?”
“Yes, I gathered that,” Ben says dryly. “Especially since I, you know, asked you if you had, and you said yes.”
“Like, we fucked,” I say, making a vaguely obscene hip motion, just to be sure he understands. “I don’t mean some weird, giving-Travis-McCall-thirty-seconds-of-head-on-Valentine’s-Day-’cause-we-were-both-wasted sex. No, I mean that male-on-male anal intercourse occurred in that room—” I point down the hall to Alex’s bedroom door, “—probably four hours before you walked into it. This—” I reach over and palm Alex’s crotch, and he smacks my hand away, staring at me in alarm, “—was in my ass. Are we all very clear on this?”
Ben blinks at me for several drawn out seconds before he says, as if he’s waiting for a punchline, “…yes?”
“So, we’re also all very clear on the fact that Alex has sex with men, right? He enjoys the company of both gentlemen and ladies,” I clarify.
Exasperated, Ben says, “Garen, I’m not a fucking idiot. I’ve woken up naked in bed with you before, I’m fully aware of the activities that tend to precede that experience. So, yes, Alex is bisexual. I get it. But none of the rest of us just walk around talking about being queer, so why should he have to?”
“Uh, are you high?” I say. “We talk about being queer all the—”
“No, you talk about your sex life in exceedingly graphic detail. That’s different. And seriously?” He imitates first my hip motion, then my voice to say, “‘We fucked.’ God, what is even wrong with you?”
“Shut up, that’s like the third time you’ve asked me that today. You’re going to give me a fucking complex,” I grumble, grabbing another one of the cookies just for something to do, even though I’m already uncomfortably full. Doc would probably be thrilled if she could see me now, shoveling cookies into my mouth like a greedy toddler.
Unless she thought I was going to just go throw them up later.
I’m not, but even the thought of it makes a streak of shame knot up in my stomach. And when Ben drops down onto the couch on my other side, it feels wrong to sit here between them, watching TV and acting like there isn’t something else I’ve been told is wrong with me that they don’t know about. It feels like lying, even if it’s not. Before I can talk myself out of it, I say, “Do you guys remember that first party I went to, last October?”
Alex considers the question and pops another piece of cookie in his mouth before answering, “The one where you boned Ben in my guest room? Yeah, I remember it.”
“Vividly,” Ben says, smirking at me.
I try to return a smirk of my own, but it just sort of ends up being a shaky half-smile. I look back down at my hands. “Do you, um… Al, do you remember the next morning, how Ben said that every time you’re hungover, you eat French toast until you puke?” Brow furrowed, like he’s trying to figure out where this is going, Alex nods. “Do you do that on purpose?”
“Which part? The eating or the puking? Because yeah, I mean, you can’t accidentally eat five slices of French toast—”
“The puking,” I interrupt. “When you’re hungover, do you make yourself throw up on purpose so that you can feel better?”
“No,” he says slowly.
I’m still staring at my hands. First, I flatten them together like I’m praying, then turn them over so that all I can see is the back of my right hand. I spread my fingers a few times, then rotate my hands so that my palms are still pressed together, but the fingers of each hand are touching the wrist of the opposite side. Unsatisfied with the distraction this provides, I crack each of my knuckles individually, still kind of hoping that one of the other guys will say something. When I’m all out of knuckles and neither of them has spoken yet, I lick my lips and finally say, “Would it be weird if someone did?”
“If someone made themselves throw up every time they had a hangover?” Ben says. Not trusting myself to speak, I nod. There’s a beat before he says, “I’m not sure if ‘weird’ is the right word for it. But that would definitely be… unhealthy.”
Even though he looks the part and listens to the right music, he’s never really been part of the scene—in fact, he rolls his eyes and denies it every time I say it—but a refusal to acknowledge his lifestyle doesn’t change the fact that Ben is straightedge. He doesn’t drink. He doesn’t smoke. He doesn’t do drugs. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I turn my attention to Alex, hoping he’ll say that his best friend is wrong, that this is a frequent occurrence in the world of binge-drinking. He doesn’t. I say, “So, um… so it’s not like, a normal thing. That’s not a thing that most people do.” He shakes his head. I look back down at my hands. “Oh.”
“Garen,” Ben says. When I don’t look up, he repeats my name, a little louder.
“I didn’t realize that it wasn’t normal to do that until my therapist told me during the check-in. She says that, um… I don’t know. I guess a lot of the things that I thought weren’t a big deal actually sort of are.”
“Like what?” Ben asks.
Like the fact that I haven’t been able to sleep all the way through the night since before I got kicked out last January. Like renting my body out to strangers for drug money. Like Dave beating me to the point of unconsciousness and me only coming to as he’s shoving inside of me. Like my inability to stay turned on during sex, even though I’m eighteen years old and should pretty much always be turned on. Like guys fucking me even when I say no. Like not remembering huge portions of the last year of my life.
I shrug. “I don’t know. Just stupid stuff, I guess. Can we watch a movie or something?”
Alex looks like he wants to protest or urge me to continue, but Ben shoots him a warning look, and they both fall silent. I hate that I do this to my friends. I hate that lately, I’m always the one who ends up bringing everybody else down. There must be some way to apologize to them—some way that doesn’t involve letting Alex put his dick in me, or baking shitty cookies, because I’ve already tried both of those things, and I still feel guilty—but right now, I don’t know what it is.
Still, they can’t be too mad, because Alex lets me put on Almost Famous even though he hates it, and Ben lets me curl up with my head on his lap. Halfway through the movie, when I make my usual comment of, “I don’t care if she’s fictional, and I don’t care if she’s a chick, I would nail the shit out of Penny Lane. She’s so fucking hot,” they both agree with me, whether they really feel that way or not. Later, when I say, “I want this. All I want is to do this, to make music, for the rest of my life, only without the part where I become a sell-out, and turn into even more of an asshole, and betray my fans and my art form,” Alex reaches over to squeeze my knee, and Ben cards his fingers through my hair and leans down to press a brief kiss to my temple and says simply, “You will.”
They are better friends than I deserve.
6 days sober
School on Monday is every bit as soul-suckingly awful as I expected it to be, but in a very different way than I had anticipated. Apparently, the members of drama club who know that I was drunk at rehearsal are actually capably of keeping their mouths shut, because the fact that I was in rehab has yet to make it to the grapevine. My teachers all give me knowing, sympathetic looks and hand me my makeup assignments without comment, but amongst the student body, there is massive speculation around why I missed the ninth, tenth, and eleventh days of the school year.
By the time I finish fourth period, it seems pretty clear that the leading theory is that I managed to get myself expelled again, which makes no sense. I don’t think any of my classmates realize that I was expelled for missing too many days of class, not for disciplinary reasons. The second most popular theory is that I eloped with Travis McCall. Considering I don’t think he’s missed a day of school since he tried to off himself as a freshman, I’m not sure why people would overlook the fact that he wasn’t actually absent with me the past few days.
Or the fact that he’s very blatantly not speaking to me.
By the time my last morning class is done, I’m no longer amused by the gossip, and I just want to go home. That feeling only intensifies when the bell rings and Ms. Markland calls after me, “Garen, would you mind waiting a moment? I’d like to speak to you privately. And don’t worry, I’ll write you a hall pass if it looks like you’re going to be late to your next class.”
“I have lunch next period,” I say, shrugging. My standard operating procedure for lunch is to go to the cafeteria, get something to eat, and take it to the music room so I can spend the hour dicking around on my guitar. Jeff doesn’t give a shit, and it’s not like I have friends who will notice my absence. It feels stupid to admit that to a teacher, though, so I remain silent. When she gestures for me to sit back down in the front row, I do.
“I assume you know what I want to talk to you about,” she says. Her tone is even, like she’s trying her best to keep from yelling at me. I’m sort of used to that tone from teachers, but it doesn’t make it less embarrassing.
I duck my head and say, “So, I guess you heard about Tuesday’s rehearsal.”
“I did,” she confirms. “I’m not going to give out any names—” Gabe, Nate, Joss, “—but multiple members of the club have come to me over the past few days to tell me that you were obviously and admittedly intoxicated at rehearsal, you were unnecessarily aggressive towards a member of the stage crew, you consumed alcohol on school property in the presence of the cast, and then left early.”
A small part of me is amused that ‘leaving early’ even ranks on the list of shitty things I’m getting in trouble for. I squash my impulse to smile and say, “I won’t deny it.”
“I didn’t expect you to,” she says. “Furthermore, none of us have seen you since that day. You’ve missed two rehearsals in a row.”
“I know,” I say flatly. “I was in rehab.”
“I know,” she echoes. Whatever I was expecting her to say, that wasn’t it. She adds, “The ladies in the main office called your father regarding your absences, and, well… officially, you were away for health reasons. On Wednesday afternoon, however, one of your classmates pulled me aside before the start of rehearsal to tell me that he had spoken to your father, who informed him that you had checked yourself into a forty-eight-hour session at your rehabilitation center. He told me not to expect you at rehearsal until this week.”
I bob my head in vague acknowledgment of her words, but my blood is rushing in my ears. Nothing that son of a bitch has done has ever made me as angry as this. I say, “Travis McCall, right? He’s the one who told you where I was? Christ, that kid needs to learn to mind his own business.”
“I had rather thought that you were his business,” Ms. Markland says mildly.
I scowl. “If that’s your way of saying you think I’m still fucking my stepbrother, you’re wrong.”
She holds up a hand. “Please, Garen. I’d much rather not hear the details of my students’ personal lives, thank you.” She hesitates, then asks, “But if you do intend to get personal for a minute… how are you?”
“How am I?” I say, blinking.
“Yes, how are you?” she repeats impatiently. “Are you feeling any better than you were last week? Was your time in rehab helpful?”
She even seems like she might really want to know the answer. Slowly, I say, “Yeah. It was helpful. I’m, um… I’m six days sober now. It’s not much—nothing compared to the ninety-two days I’d been sober as of last Monday, but… I don’t know. It’s a start?”
“It is,” Ms. Markland agrees. She walks over to her desk, sits down, and says, “Well, I’ll be seeing you at rehearsal tonight, yes? You’ve only missed one script reading, so you should be able to—”
“Hang the fuck on,” I say, which she glares at, so I quickly amend, “Sorry, hang on. You’re still letting me be in the play? You’re still letting me be in this school?”
“Well, I don’t actually have the power to expel you, you know. And I haven’t taken the details of last Tuesday to anyone who does have that power. Rest assured, there will be a penalty for what you’ve done, but the finer points of it have yet to be determined. Now, if you don’t mind, I have another class to teach. I’ll see you later today.”
I bolt from the room before she can change her mind.
That afternoon, when I arrive at rehearsal, no one speaks to me. I’m not even remotely surprised, but I’d be lying if I pretended it doesn’t still sting a little. I sink into a seat in the front row and try to focus on reading my script. The only script sessions I’ve attended were the initial read-through and that trainwreck rehearsal where I saw Travis and Joss kissing. Both of those had been more casual than this; I don’t even know if we’re working on blocking yet.
Just as I did when I was in the dining room at LRC, I know I’m being watched right now, but I don’t dare look around. Part of me is certain that even making eye contact with one of the people I’ve so obviously offended will provoke a confrontation, and I can’t handle that yet. Not enough time has passed; I don’t feel okay yet, and I don’t have enough distance from the darkness to make a joke about it. I keep my eyes on either the script or the floor until rehearsal officially begins. Ms. Markland strides into the auditorium and snaps her fingers, greeting us with, “Alright, first thing’s first. Garen, on stage. Now.”
Alarmed at being singled out but nowhere near stupid enough to cop an attitude with her when I’m already on such thin ice, I brace my hands on the edge of the stage and hoist myself up onto it. She gestures to the microphone, and I move to stand behind it. She crosses her arms. “You’re the only cast member who missed voice rehearsal last week, so we’re going to start you on that. I don’t want you to fall behind just because you needed to take some… personal time. I want you sing your warm-up song, then go right into practicing ‘There Are Worse Things I Could Do.’ Nate will catch you up, and then you’ll join Christine to run your scenes together. Until then, Christine, you’re with Josslyn and myself. Everyone else, break into the same groups you were in last Wednesday, alright?”
It is with great reluctance that I stand and allow my boots to carry me to the edge of the stage, where Nate is standing with his arms crossed over the front of his celery-colored blazer. I very generously say, “Hi,” instead of holy shit, dude, what are you wearing.
“Hi,” he says dully. “Look, I just need a yes or no on this: are you going to bail on us again? Because if you’re going to just get drunk and disappear for a few days again right before opening night, tell me now. I’ll recast Rizzo, and I’ll put you in the chorus, and we can pretend that none of this ever happened.”
It’s the perfect out. I can accept his offer, I can disappear from the play, and none of us will have to put up with each other. They won’t have to bother pretending they’re not disgusted by me. I won’t have to bother pretending I’m not deeply, painfully ashamed of myself every time one of them looks at me and remembers how I acted. If I were a smarter man, I would bow out with what remains of my dignity. But I guess I’m an idiot, because I say, “No. I want to be in the play, I swear. I’ll be better. Can we just… focus on the song right now? I’m willing to take whatever direction you see fit to give me.”
He sighs. “Fine, we’ll get started. And… I get that rock and roll is kind of your thing, okay? And it works for ‘Sandra Dee,’ because when we decided not to change all the gender-specific pronouns and phrases in that song, we kind of turned your character into an asshole. That whole number makes it seem like Rizzo is making gay jokes about Andy, so yes, it makes sense for you to be like, growling and posturing, and whatever.”
“I hadn’t realized that my standard way of singing makes me seem like such a douchebag,” I say, raising my eyebrows.
Nate raises his right back, and I think he’s mainly trying to challenge me when he retorts, “Well, it does. And that’s fine. It works. But not for this number, okay? This is supposed to be your one moment of vulnerability in the play, and you can’t screw it up by turning it into a joke.”
I wasn’t going to. Despite what the rest of the world seems to believe, I actually am capable of taking things seriously; I just prefer not to. Especially things as definitively not serious as a school play. But everyone here is already so pissed at me—especially Nate, who I can tell took a chance on casting me in the first place—so I gnaw on my tongue for a few seconds until I think I can speak without being verbally abusive. Finally, I say, “Alright. No rock. Got it. Do you have something specific you would like me to do instead?”
“Let’s start with a warm-up. Do you have anything in a higher register than the songs you’ve done so far?” he asks.
“Uh,” I say. I know music, I really do, but I’m so used to just writing my own shit or singing along to songs I already know that sometimes I don’t give much consideration to the technicalities of it. Nate’s hands shift from gripping his own biceps to clenching into fists that he plants over his waist. He actually starts tapping his foot at me, like that’s going to make me decide my response any faster. God, he is such a drama queen. I say, “I guess so, yeah. Is it okay if it’s just, you know, pop music? I’ve already told you I don’t really do the Broadway bullshit—” His eyes bug a little at the phrase. “—but I know some chick songs from the radio that might—”
“Chick songs?” he interrupts, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling. “God, you’re such a boy sometimes.”
“Well, yes,” I say, very purposefully not adding, And you’re such a girl sometimes.
“Tell me, Garen. What’s so bad about a man singing a song that was originally recorded by a female artist?”
I count to ten very slowly in my head and most definitely do not contemplate shoving him off the stage. I take a deep breath, smile, and say, “Nothing, Nathan. I am fine with it, and if you’ll be quiet for a few minutes, I will do it.”
He falls obediently silent, and I flick the mic on, ducking down to say, “Will it disturb everyone else if this is on?”
Ms. Markland waves me off. “No, I want everyone to get used to singing with the microphones on. I don’t want anyone to have to adjust how they sing later, once we’re doing dress rehearsals with full audio equipment.”
I nod to her, then look over at Nate to confirm, “You want me high, right?” His eyes widen; out in the aisle where she’s practicing, Christine’s head whips around to gape at me. I hasten to amend, “Pitch. You want me high pitched, Jesus fuck.”
“Garen. Language,” Ms. Markland drawls.
I take another deep breath that scratches through the sound system. Nate takes pity on me and says, “Yes. Something higher than ‘Boys of Summer’ or ‘Pretty Girl.’ And it can still be a modern song, you won’t have to do…” He hesitates, then pops his fingers up to make air quotes as he says, “‘Broadway bullshit.’”
The process for a two-day, emergency check-in at the LRC is almost identical to my initial check-in last June; I tell them I need help. I fill out some paperwork. They search my backpack. They strip-search me for drugs and weapons. I make lewd comments to my searcher. They show me to a mostly empty room so that I can shove my backpack into a dresser drawer. Then, quicker than you can say this whole experience is making me super uncomfortable, I’m sitting in a chair across from Doc, my arms curled around my legs to hug them to my chest. I rest my chin atop my knees and say, “Sorry if I messed up your schedule. I know I’m supposed to only see you on Tuesday evenings.”
“Tuesdays are typical,” she agrees, “which is why I was concerned that you missed last night’s appointment.”
“I know. But I was kind of blackout drunk at the time,” I say softly.
To her credit, Doc takes this in stride, just like everything else I’ve ever told her. I can only assume that someone at the front desk explained my situation when they were setting up this last-minute appointment. Doc laces her fingers together in her lap and tilts her head to the side. “I think we should talk about how that all started.”
I shake my head and take a deep breath, hoping it will steady me. It doesn’t. Still, I press ahead, “I think that, um… there are some other things that I need to tell you. Important things, stuff I should have told you a long time ago. It’s… not like I’ve been lying to you, exactly. But I haven’t really been telling you everything, either. And there are things you should know.”
It’s against LRC policy for the doctors to ever touch the patients, but Doc is looking at me like she would reach out and give my hand a comforting squeeze, if she could. Instead, she says, “Start wherever you think you need to start, Garen.”
“I’ve been having trouble sleeping,” is what I settle for saying, instead of anything of substance.
If Doc is unimpressed by this anticlimactic confession, she doesn’t let it show. “For how long?”
“A while.” That’s such a vague answer, one that I know won’t satisfy her. I sigh. “Since I left here after my first sixty days, I guess. I, um… sometimes, it gets really bad. Last week, I didn’t sleep for three days straight. I passed out once or twice. It’s not—I mean, I’m trying. I’m trying to go to sleep, but I can’t turn my brain off. Every time I lie down, my thoughts just magnify to the point where I can’t block them out, and I start to panic, and I lie in bed for hours just thinking about like, what if I fuck up? Where is my life going? What if I can’t stay sober? How can I do this for the rest of my life? It goes on and on like that, until it’s morning, and then I have to get up for school anyway. These past two nights are the only nights I’ve had a decent amount of sleep in weeks, but that’s because I was passed out from drinking, not because I was actually on a decent sleep schedule.”
“Well, I—”
“I have sex with strangers for drug money,” I say, before she can offer any advice. She blinks at me, and I can feel the dam inside of me starting to break. I squeeze my eyes shut and say, all in a rush, “I know I told you about the guy at the truck stop, the one who I blew last June, but it happened again the night before last. It wasn’t for drugs, not at first. He gave me fifty dollars to give him head in the men’s room of a nightclub in New Haven, and I did it, but I didn’t realize that someone in the club even had the coke until after I’d already gotten the money. That’s how I bought the line I did. Before I did it, I had no plans to drink or snort anything, so I’m not sure why I even agreed to do it. It’s not like I need the money. I think I just wanted to know that someone could still want me, because I’m beginning to realize that Travis really doesn’t, and I’m so used to being his, or Dave’s, and I don’t know who I am if I don’t belong to somebody. I didn’t really want to blow this guy, but I still agreed to do it. I… do that a lot, I think. You know, consent to sex that I don’t want to have? I think it’s because I’m afraid that, if I say no, the guy might do it anyway, and I’d rather be easy than be a victim. But that’s not what it’s always like, obviously. A lot of the time, the sex is great, and it’s my idea, and it’s fun. But not, um… not lately. Lately, I can sort of barely have it, because I can’t really get hard a lot of the time. Or, if I can, I can’t stay hard, because inevitably, there comes a point when the guy I’m with will like, grab my hair, or touch me in a way I’m not expecting, and I can’t deal with it. If I’m not completely in control of everything that is happening in bed, I freak the fuck out. This… I mean, I’m sorry. This is probably too much information.”
“I’m your doctor, Garen, there’s no such thing as too much information. Please keep going,” Doc says. I think she’s just worried that, if I stop talking now, I won’t be able to start again. I’m worried about the same thing.
“Okay. Um… when people touch me here—” I brush my palms over my hips, “—I sometimes have panic attacks. I don’t know why. It’s the only part of my body that I can’t stand being touched anymore, and it’s so fucking weird, because I used to be fine with it. I used to like it. But ever since I got out of the hospital, after Dave beat me up this last time, I keep having these… I don’t know if they’re memories or what, but they fucking terrify me. I’m scared that something happened to me that I’m blocking out, or something, because the truth is that I don’t remember any of that day. When I woke up from the coma, Travis told me what my injuries were, and I made up some bullshit version of what I figure must have happened, but the last thing I really remember about that day is smoking pot in my bedroom with Dave and then wanting nachos. Travis says we argued about me dating Dave, but I don’t remember it, and I know Dave beat me up, but I don’t remember it. I-I think maybe something happened with him, something to do with sex, but sex with Dave was always a problem anyway, because, um…” I pause to suck in another deep breath.
When Doc realizes that I’m having trouble with this, she opens her desk drawer, takes out the coffee machine, and sets about brewing me a cup. After it finishes and she passes it to me, I offer her a small smile. She returns it, but when I don’t say anything, she presses, “Why was sex with Dave a problem, Garen?”
I hate that doctors always say my name so much when they talk to me. I take a sip of the coffee, but I can’t really taste it. The silence is getting to be too much. I say, very softly, “Because I said no, the first time.” She says nothing. I chance a glance at her face, which is expressionless. Brow furrowed, I frown down at my coffee cup and say, “I was fifteen years old the first time… that happened. We had been dating for about a month, so it was still a month before he started hitting me. We were making out in his car after a date, and he wanted to fuck me, and I said no, but he did it anyway. And, okay… I’m sure you understand the mechanics of gay sex, and even if you didn’t before, you sure as hell do now, after all the sessions we’ve had.”
“Yes, you’ve gone to great lengths to inform me about that particular topic,” she says drily, and I actually have to close my eyes for a moment, because I am so fucking grateful that she’s still kind of making fun of me, even while we’re talking about this. I don’t think I could have this conversation with her, if she started telling me how sorry she feels for me.
“Yeah, well, in regards to those mechanics, I pretty much always prefer to top. At least, that’s how it was with Jamie, at first. Dave was only the second person I ever slept with, and I told him I didn’t want to bottom, but neither did he, so he just sort of… did it. Made me, I guess. And there were times when we’d be arguing, and then we’d be fooling around, and then arguing, and then fooling around, and it would just go back and forth until they were basically the same thing, and he’d be hitting me and fucking me at the same time, and now, every time somebody wants to top me, that’s all I can think of. Even when I consent to it, I still hate it. I still feel like I’m being… I don’t know. Forced? And I know it can be good. I know that there are some guys who can’t get enough of it—Ben loves it, he says he wouldn’t ever want to top somebody, and Jamie is kind of the same way. Travis is a switch, and he always liked it when he and I were together, but it’s like… even when it’s good, it’s still bad for me. I know that makes no sense, but it’s how I feel.” I sigh. “That’s it, I guess. That’s everything you need to know.”
“Now, I want to run through the list of things you’ve just told me, so that we can both be very clear on what you’ve said. If you feel like I’m getting anything wrong, or leaving anything out, please correct me, okay?” she says. I nod. She begins ticking the items off on her fingers. “You’re having intense difficulty sleeping. You have engaged in acts of prostitution in order to buy drugs. You agree to have sex with people, including strangers, because you’re worried that you might be forced into it regardless of your decision. You have difficulty performing sexually, and have panic attacks when people touch certain parts of your body. You have blocked out the memory of last spring’s assault almost entirely. You were raped at the age of fifteen by—”
“Can you please not use that word?” I whisper, tightening my hands around the coffee mug again.
Her voice is soft when she says, “Garen. It’s the only word there is for it. You told me that you refused to have sex with Dave, but then he forced you to participate anyway. I don’t think I would be helping you if I tried to ghost over that issue by using a euphemism for it.”
She can use that word all she wants, but I’m not going to. I will never, ever believe that that happened to me, not even if Dave Walczyk himself admits that that’s what it was. But I shrug, and Doc picks up where she left off.
“You were raped when you were fifteen years old, by an eighteen-year-old man who went on to assault you—physically and sexually—for an additional three months, as well as another month almost two years after that. You are completely incapable of enjoying the act of being penetrated, and have admitted that the action in itself makes you feel violated, yet you continue to consent to it on occasion. That sums up everything you’ve just told me. Is there anything that either of us has left out?”
“I had sex with my friend Alex last night, and sometimes, I stick my fingers down my throat to make myself throw up,” I say quietly. Then, quickly, I add, “Those two things are unrelated. But I left them out, so I figured you might want to know.”
Doc looks understandably baffled. “There’s never been anything in your paperwork or our previous sessions to indicate the presence of an eating disorder. Have you brought this up during group?”
“No, because it’s not an eating disorder. I’m not trying to lose weight or whatever, I’m not bulimic. I just sometimes need to make myself sick, because otherwise, I feel like I can’t get bad things out of my system. Like booze.” Or feelings.
“Any time a patient tells me that he forces himself to vomit for any reason, I’m going to call it an eating disorder,” she warns. Eating disorder. Rape. These words don’t feel like they have any bearing on my life, but she keeps using them, and they keep crawling up under my skin.
I draw my legs up to my chest and wrap my arms tight around them, resting my chin on my knees. “I think you’re wrong, but you’re the one with the degree, so you can call it whatever you want. As long as you don’t tell my dad.”
“You’re eighteen years old, Garen. I have neither the power nor the desire to tell your father anything you say in these sessions. I just wish you could start being more honest with yourself, even if you don’t want to be honest with the people around you,” she says.
I don’t say another word for the rest of our session. Hope her bitchy one-liner was worth it.
2 days sober
Only on Thursday afternoon, when I’m killing time with the rest of the addicts and psychos in the common room before lunch, do I realize how well and truly fucked I am for my confessions to Doc. Free time at LRC is great in theory, but shitty in practice; I’m not allowed to have my guitar, they barely let us watch TV, and most of my other hobbies involve drugs or sexual contact, both of which are kind of prohibited here. The counselors are constantly trying to get me to join them for cards—I’m godly at blackjack and poker—but I reject them on principal. I’d love to be mature enough to be able to get along with the staff here, but Doc is always telling me I have “issues with authority figures,” so mostly, I spend my time refusing to acknowledge them and stubbornly insisting I be allowed to color with the teenage girls from the eating disorder unit.
Halfway through the free time block, I stand up, but I’ve barely made it halfway across the common room before Cheryl calls after me, “Garen, where are you going?”
I’ve never really had any of the staff members question me in that tone of voice before. Not during free time, and sure as hell not when it was fairly obvious where I was headed. Still, I pause and answer, “…to the bathroom?”
“Alright. Allen, do you mind going with him?” she says, nodding to Allen, who shrugs genially and heads for the door. It takes him a moment to realize that I haven’t moved.
“Something wrong, kiddo?” he says.
“Uh, that’s what I’m trying to figure out. Why are you coming with me? Are you planning to hold it for me?” I say.
“Standard policy,” Cheryl says blandly.
“No, it’s not,” I argue. “You guys searched me when I came in, you know I’m not holding. For fuck’s sake, Cher, I’m just going to take a piss. I’ve never needed supervision for that before.”
Cheryl now looks somewhat uncomfortable as she says, “That’s because we weren’t aware that you needed restroom supervision before.”
“I don’t,” I say, trying to swallow down the sense of panic. This is stupid, and uncomfortable, and embarrassing. I don’t understand what’s going on, or why they suddenly think I need somebody to come along with me while I do something as basic as go down the fucking hall to use the bathroom.
Cheryl sighs and says, “If you have an issue with this, you can discuss it with Doctor Howard tomorrow.”
The realization of what she must be referring to hits me like a freight train. I cross my arms over my chest. “That bitch has no idea what she’s talking about. I fucking told her, I don’t have an eating disorder, okay? Drinking until you get sick is not the same thing as being bulimic. It’s not. She has no idea what she’s talking about, and you’re a bunch of fucking idiots for believing her.”
“You can discuss it with Doctor Howard tomorrow,” Cheryl repeats.
“This is fucking ridiculous,” I snap, but my displeasure with the situation does nothing to change the fact that I’ve still got to piss, so I stomp out of the room, Allen trailing after me. Just to be certain that this experience is as uncomfortable for him as it is for me, I stare him dead in the eyes the entire time I’m at the urinal. He continues to beam at me. I roll my eyes, and once I’ve finished washing my hands, I flick the excess water at him instead of using a paper towel to dry my hands.
Halfway through lunch, I feel the prickle of eyes on my skin. The dining hall is only half full, and I’ve been treated to the unexpected pleasure of being able to eat alone, so I shouldn’t feel like anyone is looking at me. I glance around, and my stomach drops when I realize that there are two different counselors watching me eat.
Fucking Doctor Howard.
Before either of them can stop me, I scoop up the remains of my half-eaten lunch, stalk over to the trash can, and fling the food into the bin. At once, one of the counselors lopes over to me, peers into the can, and says, “Doesn’t look like you ate that much, Garen.”
“Didn’t feel like I was that hungry, Don,” I say flatly. “How is it your business?”
Ignoring my question completely, Don says, “If you didn’t like what was being served, I’m sure we could stop by the kitchen and grab you something else. Maybe some apple slices. Do you want some apple slices?”
“No, I don’t want some fucking apple slices,” I snap, even though oh my god, I so want apple slices. Little kid food is my favorite. Apple slices with peanut butter, and gummy bears, and chicken nuggets in awesome shapes, and macaroni and cheese with cut-up hot dogs in it, and those fries that are shaped like smiley faces. But if Doc is so convinced I have shitty eating habits, fine, I can show her shitty eating habits. To the counselor, I add, “Don’t talk to me like I’m a kindergartener, okay? I know you’re only being weird about this because Doc says I’ve got food issues, but we both know that’s a crock of shit. Look at those girls over there.” I thrust a finger towards the table of eating disorder girls, a group of frail women who are picking tearfully at their salads. “Do I look like them? No. I like food. I like eating. And I’m not exactly a small guy, alright? I’m a hundred and seventy pounds, and I could probably fucking bench-press your body weight. So, stop being ridiculous, because I’ve never gotten shit for not being hungry enough to finish a meal before. Now is really not the time to—”
“Garen,” Cheryl calls across the dining room, and I’m already rounding on her and opening my mouth to start bitching, but I freeze before any words can come out.
Jamie is standing next to her. I’m not sure why he’s standing next to her, because usually emergency check-in patients aren’t allowed visitors, and even patients who are allowed to have visitors have to wait until Friday. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t even know I’m here. For a long moment, neither of us speaks. Then, he inclines his head towards one of the empty tables; we both sit. I’m still not sure what I should say—it’s been too long to get away with a normal greeting, and I’m not sure a ‘hello’ would suffice anyway.
Fuck, I can’t even look him in the eyes.
Suddenly, he pushes his sleeves up to his elbows and bares his forearms—underside first, then top. It takes me a moment to realize that he’s showing the counselors that he’s not trying to pass me anything so that he’ll be allowed to hold my hand. Taking a shuddery breath, I flatten my hands on the table. He takes them both in his, then ducks down to press a quick, dry kiss to the back of each. Settling back into his chair, he says, “I’m sorry if I surprised you by just showing up like this.”
“I’m actually more surprised they let you in on a Thursday,” I admit.
He shrugs. “Drug counselors can apparently be bought just as easily as anyone else. Did you know that it only costs a hundred dollars to turn ‘visitors are only allowed into the building on Fridays’ into ‘right this way, Mr. Goldwyn?’” I allow a small smile. He cocks his head to the side. “How are you?”
“Really shitty, actually,” I say, grateful to hear that my voice just sounds tired, not as defeated as I feel. “I’m, um… embarrassed, mostly. Pissed at myself. Less than a week ago, we were getting together to celebrate my ninetieth day, and now I’m supposed to be wetting myself with glee over the fact that I’ve managed to go two days without getting wasted.”
Jamie squeezes my hands. “Tell me how this happened, G.”
I tell him, but not the full story. That can wait until later, when there aren’t tons of other addicts hovering around, or counselors breathing down my neck, blatantly eavesdropping. I settle for the abbreviated version; found out Travis was interested in some girl, didn’t take it well, ended up at a nightclub to distract myself, couldn’t handle the temptation of drugs and alcohol, continued drinking the next day since I’d already fallen off the wagon, let Ben babysit me, told Dad I needed help. I don’t mention sucking off the guy in the bathroom at the club, or going home with Stohler, or being drunk all day at school, or singing that song at rehearsal, or letting Alex fuck me. The story’s bad enough without all the details.
To his credit, Jamie does his best not to patronize me during my tale of tragedy and woe. He mostly just nods along, sometimes pausing to sigh, or squeeze my hands a little too tightly. When I finish, he offers me a sad smile, but doesn’t bother to give me any line of bullshit about how brave I am for accepting help, which I’m grateful for. Finally, I have to ask, “How did you even know I was here?”
“One of your friends called me to let me know,” he admits.
I scowl. “McCall really needs to learn to mind his own fucking business.”
“It wasn’t Travis,” he says. I blink, because to my knowledge, he doesn’t really talk to any of the other people who might know about the relapse. Sensing my confusion, he says, a shade too casually, “It was Alexander, but you shouldn’t get pissed at him over it. I needed to know.”
“Well, Alex—” I freeze. Alex. Alexander. Suddenly, a series of memories hits me like a ton of bricks.
Me saying, Sounds like my friends are rubbing off on you, before my visit to New York, and his vague reply of, You have no idea. At the bar, when I asked if he wanted to be exclusive with whatever guy he’d been sort of seeing, I asked him to be, but he says he needs some time to think about it. Maybe it’s because I’d be his first boyfriend or whatever, but I honestly kind of get the impression that he’s more interested in his best friend than he is in me. Alex getting so weird about me still hooking up with Jamie. Alex, in his bedroom, I’m, um… I’m sort of involved with someone, is the thing. We’re not exclusive, or anything, but we’ve been hooking up for a few months now. Him only kissing me after I mentioned Jamie. Alex hesitantly admitting, Guys tend to call me by my real name when I’m, you know, hooking up with them, or whatever. The guy I’ve been sleeping with, he does it too, always. And Alex--Alexander—screwing me less than thirty-six hours ago, probably the same way he’s been screwing Jamie for I don’t know how long.
Oh, fuck.
“Are you sleeping with him?” I ask. In another situation, I might try to ask it a bit more artfully, but getting an honest answer is so much more important.
“Am I sleeping with whom?” he asks, which is just about the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Even my nervousness at his next answer isn’t enough to stop me from rolling my eyes.
“The only guy we’re talking about, you idiot. Are you sleeping with Alex?” I ask. For a long moment, he remains silent. Eventually, though, he gives me a sheepish smile and nods. I lick my lips. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m telling you now, aren’t I?” he says, but his easy grin falters a little when he bothers to actually look at my expression.
I swallow hard and repeat, “But why didn’t you tell me?”
Jamie bites down on his bottom lip, even though he’s still half-smiling. It’s a very uncomfortable, unnatural expression. There’s too long of a pause, and then he lets out a strained, breathy laugh and says, “Does it really matter?”
“I don’t know. You tell me,” I say. He knows what I’m trying to tell him. He has to. We’ve been friends for too long, we’ve been through this same scenario before—during sophomore year, when we both got head from Parker in the same week and only realized it later, and again during junior year, when he slept with Andrew while I was sort-of-dating-him-but-mostly-just-fucking-him-a-lot. That last one had been a total shitshow, considering I’d actually been starting to like Andrew before it happened. Andrew, who I actually bothered to take on dates to places other than my bed. Andrew, who I only semi-reluctantly let hold my hand while we were walking down to the quad every morning for training. Andrew, who met my fucking father on Parents’ Day that spring, three days before I found out about him and Jamie. Andrew, who could have been my first love, if he hadn’t screwed my best friend, if I hadn’t broken it off with him and ended up in Lakewood with Travis just a few months later. At the time, Jamie had been genuinely confused as to why I was pissed at the two of them. He’d just kept saying, I didn’t realize you gave a shit, I didn’t realize he was off-limits. I’m tempted to throw those words back at him now, but instead, I say, “How did it happen?”
He coughs and says, “He came to my hotel room to bring me my jacket. I had, ah… I’d left it at the hospital while I was visiting you.”
I jump. “That was four months ago, Jamie. You’ve been doing it since May? How—you haven’t even been in the same state as him, you were in Georgia for half the summer and New York the other half.”
A sigh. Then, he says, in an even, somewhat reluctant tone, “It happened four times that week, while you were in the hospital and then getting settled back at the house. I was worried about you, and I needed to relieve some stress, and he needed to get over his little fixation on Ben, so we started hooking up. That was supposed to be it, but we started texting each other, and it was… I don’t know. Nice? I liked talking to him. When Travis brought me back to talk to you the day before you disappeared to Ohio, I—”
“Oh, Christ,” I mutter, tugging my hands from his and raking them through my hair. “The bag, you had a fucking overnight bag with you, but you didn’t stay at my house that night.”
“I was still at his house the next morning when Travis called to tell me you’d gone missing. It was sort of funny, actually—right after we got off the phone, I went to go take a shower, and by the time I got out, Alexander was on the phone with him. If I’d known we were both going to hear about it, I would’ve just rolled over, woken him up, and put the first call on speakerphone.” He hesitates, then admits, “That’s why I wasn’t able to stop you from leaving Patton after you found Seth. I was still on a train to New York when you left there.”
“I was probably already gone by the time you heard about me being there. It’s not like I stuck around to cuddle after getting hate-fucked by the technically heterosexual drug dealer you shot that one time,” I say.
He allows a tiny twitch of his lips that I assume is meant to be a smile. “I still should have been there. And I figured at least that would be it, that maybe we’d stop after that, but then I kept coming back to visit you, and it kept happening, and once I moved to the city, I figured… I mean, why not? The sex was good, and he turned out to be a really cool person, and it’s not like it’s a far ride from New York to New Haven. So, at that, uh… the cookout you had the day after you left here—” He gestures around the room. “I pulled him aside, and I told him that I wasn’t sleeping with anyone else—I hadn’t in almost a month, at that point—and that, if he wanted me to, I’d be willing to keep it that way. I, you know, asked him to be my boyfriend. He turned me down.”
“Ass,” I can’t help saying, and Jamie laughs a little, even though I’m sure he doesn’t mean it.
“Well, it wasn’t a big deal. He explained that he wasn’t ready to date anyone, and I said that was fine. He said I could sleep with whoever I wanted, and I told him the same, and we agreed to keep hooking up occasionally. Except, ‘occasionally’ has turned out to be fairly often. He’s… sort of taken the train up to New York three times in the five weeks since then, and I’ve come down twice. We’ve stayed at the Pettigrew Hotel both times, because it seemed easier than putting up with McCutcheon’s questions. It’s not—that is, he’s not my boyfriend.”
“But you like him,” I say, sounding like an absolute fourth grader. “Like, you like him, like him.”
“I might,” he says stiffly. This is getting worse by the minute. Ever since we were fifteen, Jamie and I have had a habit of getting unnecessarily graphic in our descriptions of our recent fucks; he’ll tell me exactly how big the guy’s dick was, including a comparison to mine, and I’ll tell him a minute-by-minute recap of everything I did to the guy. Sometimes we even draw diagrams, or, if one of us is describing a particularly acrobatic position, we’ll act it out, full clothed, on a couch or something. It’s weird to everyone else, but it’s funny to us, because we are each other’s best friends, and we like to tell each other everything. The only time he gets uncomfortable discussing a hook-up is when he thinks he already likes the person too much.
It’s the same way I was with Travis at times, and the thought of Alex being Jamie’s Travis is absolutely terrifying.
Jamie seems to realize I’m figuring this out, because he clears his throat loudly. “It-It’s fine,” he stammers, but Jamie doesn’t fucking stammer, he has never stammered, so it must be even less fine than I thought it would be. His smile is too forced when he adds, “It’s not like we haven’t hooked up with the same guys before, right? Besides, they can never really compare us perfectly, since I always bottom and you always top. It’s not—” He cuts himself off, staring at me. God damn my expressive face. I try to remain impassive, but he says, “Are you… I mean, you let him top you? Seriously?”
“It was sort of my idea,” I admit. “I, um… I don’t know. I just kind of went into his room and asked him to fuck me. And he did.”
“No,” Jamie says. “Tell me the real version. Not that Cliff’s Notes bullshit.”
I sigh. “The night before last, when I was at the apartment, I left Ben’s room while he was sleeping and went to go see Alex. He didn’t know I was drunk, and I didn’t volunteer the information. I asked him to fuck me, and he said he wasn’t sure it was a good idea, because he didn’t want to piss off the guy he was sort of involved with. You, I guess. It was kind of a weird conversation, because I still thought he was a virgin up until that point, but whatever. I told him hooking up with friends is no big deal, and he kissed me. I don’t know what else you want me to say, dude. He fucked me, it was fine, we slept, we woke up, he got pissed when he realized I’d been drunk, and I came here. That’s all there is to the story.”
Jamie leans back in his chair and drags his long fingers through his hair. “I always knew you’d eventually find a way to get back at me for—”
“No,” I interrupt. “No, that’s not fair. You’re the one who decided not to tell me that you were fucking one of my best friends, a guy you know I see almost every day, and you should have—”
“I should have what, Garen? I should have realized that if I didn’t stamp ‘property of James Goldwyn’ on Alex’s cock, that you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from having sex with him? Are you really that much of a—” He cuts himself off, eyes wide.
My heart stops for half a second before it resumes pounding with a ferocity I didn’t think possible. The word is still on the tip of his tongue, I can tell. Slut. He’s not the first person who has thought it about me, and he won’t be the last. He’s never said it before, though. I always knew he would eventually, but he hasn’t. Not yet. Suddenly, all I want, more than anything else I’ve ever wanted in my life, is for him to just fucking say it so that I can know that he feels the same was as everyone else. So that I can punch him and we can make up. I order, “Say it.”
Slut.
“Garen.”
Slut, slut, slut.
“Fucking say it, Jamie. I’ve been waiting four years to hear you call me a slut, and it’s just not going to give me the same satisfaction if you don’t actually use the word.”
He sighs. I know that his impulse to say it has disappeared by now, but he seems to realize that even if he doesn’t need to say it, I need to hear it. But then, to my great chagrin, he says, “I wasn’t going to call you a slut, Garen. I was actually going to call you a self-loathing, terrified kid who tries to use sex to make people stay, even when they’re not trying to leave you.”
“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” I say tightly.
“It means that every time you get into a fight with someone, or you disappoint them, or you hurt them, you think that sleeping with them will make up for it. For fuck’s sake, I’m honestly surprised that you didn’t slide under the table to suck me off the second you realized you had slept with the guy I’m seeing. You solve every problem by trying to stick your dick into it, and it’s fucking unhealthy. And it’s not how you used to be,” he says.
Face burning, I turn my attention to a particularly fascinating knot in the wood on the table. “Fuck who I used to be. Who I used to be a was a pathetic, friendless little troll who nobody wanted to talk to. I know the truth, Jamie. I know that nobody is interested in getting to know me until I get my dick out—”
“First of all, that’s bullshit, and second of all, that’s not what I’m talking about,” he says. “I don’t care who you sleep with, G. God knows I’m not about to judge you for having a high number, considering mine is probably the same. If you want to fuck every last man in Lakewood, go for it, but be honest about why you’re doing it. When we started at Patton, I was the one who kept having guys over, remember? I was the one who everyone would talk badly about, because I—”
“That’s because I couldn’t get any guys,” I lean forward to hiss at him. “That’s because when we started at Patton, you were already hot, and I was this skinny little kid with a Jewfro. The only reason I didn’t have as many guys as you did at first was because I was uglier than—”
“You were beautiful, and you were nervous,” James says, and his tone leaves so little room for argument that I find myself snapping my mouth shut again, no matter how much I want to speak. “When I met you, I didn’t think you were pathetic, or ugly, or a loser. You were an awesome friend, and you were so fucking cute that just waking up every morning and looking across the room at you made me smile so much it hurt. And I don’t care how many years it’s been—I will never forget the way your hands shook the first time you kissed me, and the way you smiled so fucking brightly afterwards. And it was okay, because you were fourteen goddamn years old, and it was your first kiss, and you were scared. You used to be so… I don’t know. Shiny. New. And then—”
“Don’t say it.”
“—sophomore year came around and you met—”
“Don’t fucking say his name, I swear to—”
“—Dave.”
I fall instantly silent, slumping down in my chair. I want to keep snapping at him, but I can’t; my throat has closed up completely. Even breathing is hard right now. Jamie must just take that as a cue to continue, because he leans as close as the counselors around us will allow and murmurs, “Please don’t forget that I know the truth about what he did to you. I was in the room when you came back after that date, the first time he did that to you. I saw your face. You were a fifteen-year-old kid, and he was an abusive, violent, eighteen-year-old rapist. I don’t know what he said to you during those four months you were with him, but I know that whatever it was, it made you hate yourself. It made you think that you’re worthless, and that the only thing you’re good for is sex, and that no one will ever love you, and all of that makes me so fucking sick, because I love you. I love you, and your parents love you, and your friends love you, and all we want is for you to believe that so that you’ll stop treating yourself like the only thing you’ve got to offer is your dick. That’s why you let my boyfriend fuck you, it’s why you hook up with randoms, Garen. Not because you just love sex, not because you like any of the people you fuck. You do it because you think it’s all you’ve got.”
I actually laugh out loud at that. “That is possibly one of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth, and considering how many times you’ve gotten stoned and made me listen to you talk about Homeward Bound: The Incredible Journey, that’s really saying something. It’s—you’re inventing this alternate reality, where I’m some needy little victim, and that’s not true. I enjoy sex. Maybe not if I’m bottoming, maybe not with Dave, maybe not lately, but in general, I really fucking love it. You, of all people, should understand that. I mean, in all the times you and I have fucked, did you ever feel like you were pressuring me? Did you feel like I was in any way reluctant? Did you feel like I was just going through the motions to satisfy you?”
“No, but if you did want me to stop, I would. And you need to realize that that’s an option,” he says. “In the moments when someone wants to sleep with you and you don’t want to sleep with them, you need to stop convincing yourself that you have to say yes and pretend you like it anyway.”
My own words to Doc yesterday are burning in the back of my mind. I consent to sex that I don’t want to have. Fuck, I knew that Jamie’s too-accurate understand of my mind would bite me in the ass eventually. I open my mouth to attempt to force out a reply, but before I can, Cheryl appears at the edge of our table and regretfully says, “I’m sorry, but Garen, you need to move on to your private session with Doctor Howard.”
Jamie and I are still staring at each other with wide, nervous eyes. This is such a precarious conversation, and part of me wonders if we’ll ever be able to finish it, if we don’t get that chance now. I’m not sure I can do this over again. Sensing my fear, Jamie reaches back across the table and wraps slim fingers around my wrist. “When you get out tomorrow, please call me. I know you need to spend time at home for a little while, but will you come stay with me again? Next weekend, maybe, or the one after that—”
“I’ll need to talk to my parents about it first, but I’m sure… you know, they’ll agree.” I hesitate, and because the moment is too tense, I can’t help but offer him a wry smile and add, “Maybe I’ll get our dear friend Alexander to come along with me. Don’t think for a fucking second that I didn’t notice you calling him your boyfriend a minute ago.”
Jamie barks out a laugh and says, “God, you’re impossible.”
Cheryl clears her throat somewhat loudly, and I stand and allow her to lead us back into the hall. I don’t even argue or anything. There are only twenty-four hours left before I’m back out in a world I don’t know how to handle—I should probably make the most of them.
3 days sober
“I baked cookies for Alex,” is the first thing I say when the apartment door opens, “to tell him that I’m sorry for all the relapse sex. But you can have some, too, because I’m sorry that you walked in on it.”
Ben snags one of the cookies from the plate in my hands, takes a bite, and gags. “These are fucking disgusting, dude. Why are they so chewy and fruity?”
“Because I put gummy bears in them,” I say, beaming.
“What is wrong with you?”
“Uh, objectively? A lot of things. Seriously though, is Alex here?” I say, shifting from foot to foot.
Ben steps aside to let me into the apartment, and calls down the hall, “Hey, Al, come out here. Garen’s here to apologize, he’s got something he wants you to put in your mouth.”
I tread very purposefully on Ben’s foot as I enter the apartment, because honestly, an introduction like that isn’t going to make it any easier to convince Alex he shouldn’t hold the sex against me. Regardless, Alex comes out of his bedroom and into the living room, where I’ve taken the liberty of draping myself all over the couch. His eyes are a little bloodshot, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank god, you’re stoned. Here, try one of these.”
“What are they?” he asks, joining me on the couch and peering suspiciously down at the cookie I’m holding out to him.
“Gummy bear cookies,” Ben says, grimacing.
“You’re disgusting,” Alex tells me, accepting the cookie anyway and taking a bite. He pauses, then points at it, “But these are not. These are delicious.”
“I need new friends,” Ben mutters, disappearing down the hall. I’m pretty sure he’s going to go brush his teeth.
Now alone together, the silence between Alex and I is deafening. We kill a few minutes making our way through the gummy bear cookies, but his high must be starting to wear off, because he looks more and more disgruntled with every bite. Finally, I push the plate to the other side of the coffee table so that we might actually have to acknowledge each other. He’s the first one to speak.
“You should have told me you were drunk. I wouldn’t have slept with you, if I’d known.”
“You should have told me you were fucking my best friend,” I say, and his eyes snap to meet mine. I give a brief, one-shouldered shrug and finish, “I wouldn’t have slept with you, if I’d known.”
The cookie that’s still clutched in his hand is slowly turning to dust in his fist. I reach out and take him by the wrist, using my free hand to unclench his fingers and brush the crumbs back onto the plate. When I release him, he says, “When did he tell you?”
“He didn’t,” I say. “I figured it out on my own. He uh, came to visit me yesterday when I was at the LRC, and he told me that you were the one to call him and let him know.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Alex says quietly.
“He called you Alexander,” I say, “and I realized you’d both already told me the same story, about seeing a guy for a few months, but not being exclusive, and I remembered how weird you both get whenever I mentioned the other one hooking up with somebody else—namely, myself. It just… I mean, you’re not exactly subtle, you know.”
He snorts and says, “Are you sure? Because Ben is still unwilling to acknowledge that I like dudes, so I must be doing something right.”
“Uh, or he’s just a fucking idiot. The guy has made out with you like, a thousand times. He knows you put Travis’ piece in your mouth. Two days ago, he found us naked in bed together. He should have noticed that you’re not exactly clocking in at a zero on the Kinsey Scale, you know?” I say. We share an eyeroll, but I sober up to add, “So, I assume he doesn’t know about you and Jamie.”
Alex cringes, like he hadn’t been the one to bring Ben up in the first place. “No. We… it’s not like we’d been planning to broadcast it. I don’t think Jamie’s told anyone, and I’ve only mentioned it to like, one—”
“Who?” I demand. Who the hell could possibly be important enough to hear about this before Ben and I? But Alex gives me a guilty look, and I mutter, “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I didn’t plan to tell him, okay? We were arguing after Ben took off to Ohio to get you, and he started in on me about how—shit, what were his exact words? Oh, you’ll appreciate this, actually. He told me, ‘Just because you need to get wasted before you’re man enough to kiss another guy doesn’t mean you’re not as queer as the rest of us.’”
I can’t hold back a snort at that, but I try to disguise it as a cough. “Sorry. That, uh. That was very offensive, he should be ashamed of himself.”
“Yeah, whatever. Anyway, I finally told him, you know, how I feel about—” Rather than actually say it aloud, he inclines his head to the hall where Ben disappeared about ten minutes ago. “It just sort of came out after that. I didn’t mean to tell him, but… I don’t know. We haven’t talked about it too much since then. Seriously, James and I don’t even really talk about what’s going on with us. And… look, it’s not like I cheated on him, alright? We agreed on the terms. We said that if we were both always safe, and if we were both getting tested regularly, and if we were both staying technically single, we could hook up with other people and it wouldn’t have to affect us hooking up with each other. He said I could fuck anybody I wanted to fuck.”
“I don’t think he meant me,” I say mildly. “Like, how would you feel if he boned Ben?”
“That’s different.”
“How is it different?”
“I don’t know, because I’m not fucking Ben?”
“You’re really not,” Ben agrees, finally coming back into the room. “And what the hell are you guys talking about?”
Alex freezes, but I can tell by how relaxed Ben’s posture is that he didn’t hear anything worth hearing. Still, Alex doesn’t seem likely to answer, so to distract Ben from the awkwardness, I quickly say, “We’re discussing the etiquette regarding banging your friends, your friends’ friends, your friends’ exes, whatever. But, okay, hang on. While you’re here, there’s something that I think needs to be said, okay?” His brow creases, which I can only assume is his sign that he’s listening. I can feel the couch shifting as Alex tenses up next to me. And I’d love to be one of the politically correct people who thinks it’s never okay to out someone without their permission, but I’m taking Alex’s inability to verbalize the statement like a human as tacit approval. I turn my attention back to Ben and say, “So, when you came into Alex’s room the other morning, you realize we had totally fucked the night before, right?”
“Yes, I gathered that,” Ben says dryly. “Especially since I, you know, asked you if you had, and you said yes.”
“Like, we fucked,” I say, making a vaguely obscene hip motion, just to be sure he understands. “I don’t mean some weird, giving-Travis-McCall-thirty-seconds-of-head-on-Valentine’s-Day-’cause-we-were-both-wasted sex. No, I mean that male-on-male anal intercourse occurred in that room—” I point down the hall to Alex’s bedroom door, “—probably four hours before you walked into it. This—” I reach over and palm Alex’s crotch, and he smacks my hand away, staring at me in alarm, “—was in my ass. Are we all very clear on this?”
Ben blinks at me for several drawn out seconds before he says, as if he’s waiting for a punchline, “…yes?”
“So, we’re also all very clear on the fact that Alex has sex with men, right? He enjoys the company of both gentlemen and ladies,” I clarify.
Exasperated, Ben says, “Garen, I’m not a fucking idiot. I’ve woken up naked in bed with you before, I’m fully aware of the activities that tend to precede that experience. So, yes, Alex is bisexual. I get it. But none of the rest of us just walk around talking about being queer, so why should he have to?”
“Uh, are you high?” I say. “We talk about being queer all the—”
“No, you talk about your sex life in exceedingly graphic detail. That’s different. And seriously?” He imitates first my hip motion, then my voice to say, “‘We fucked.’ God, what is even wrong with you?”
“Shut up, that’s like the third time you’ve asked me that today. You’re going to give me a fucking complex,” I grumble, grabbing another one of the cookies just for something to do, even though I’m already uncomfortably full. Doc would probably be thrilled if she could see me now, shoveling cookies into my mouth like a greedy toddler.
Unless she thought I was going to just go throw them up later.
I’m not, but even the thought of it makes a streak of shame knot up in my stomach. And when Ben drops down onto the couch on my other side, it feels wrong to sit here between them, watching TV and acting like there isn’t something else I’ve been told is wrong with me that they don’t know about. It feels like lying, even if it’s not. Before I can talk myself out of it, I say, “Do you guys remember that first party I went to, last October?”
Alex considers the question and pops another piece of cookie in his mouth before answering, “The one where you boned Ben in my guest room? Yeah, I remember it.”
“Vividly,” Ben says, smirking at me.
I try to return a smirk of my own, but it just sort of ends up being a shaky half-smile. I look back down at my hands. “Do you, um… Al, do you remember the next morning, how Ben said that every time you’re hungover, you eat French toast until you puke?” Brow furrowed, like he’s trying to figure out where this is going, Alex nods. “Do you do that on purpose?”
“Which part? The eating or the puking? Because yeah, I mean, you can’t accidentally eat five slices of French toast—”
“The puking,” I interrupt. “When you’re hungover, do you make yourself throw up on purpose so that you can feel better?”
“No,” he says slowly.
I’m still staring at my hands. First, I flatten them together like I’m praying, then turn them over so that all I can see is the back of my right hand. I spread my fingers a few times, then rotate my hands so that my palms are still pressed together, but the fingers of each hand are touching the wrist of the opposite side. Unsatisfied with the distraction this provides, I crack each of my knuckles individually, still kind of hoping that one of the other guys will say something. When I’m all out of knuckles and neither of them has spoken yet, I lick my lips and finally say, “Would it be weird if someone did?”
“If someone made themselves throw up every time they had a hangover?” Ben says. Not trusting myself to speak, I nod. There’s a beat before he says, “I’m not sure if ‘weird’ is the right word for it. But that would definitely be… unhealthy.”
Even though he looks the part and listens to the right music, he’s never really been part of the scene—in fact, he rolls his eyes and denies it every time I say it—but a refusal to acknowledge his lifestyle doesn’t change the fact that Ben is straightedge. He doesn’t drink. He doesn’t smoke. He doesn’t do drugs. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I turn my attention to Alex, hoping he’ll say that his best friend is wrong, that this is a frequent occurrence in the world of binge-drinking. He doesn’t. I say, “So, um… so it’s not like, a normal thing. That’s not a thing that most people do.” He shakes his head. I look back down at my hands. “Oh.”
“Garen,” Ben says. When I don’t look up, he repeats my name, a little louder.
“I didn’t realize that it wasn’t normal to do that until my therapist told me during the check-in. She says that, um… I don’t know. I guess a lot of the things that I thought weren’t a big deal actually sort of are.”
“Like what?” Ben asks.
Like the fact that I haven’t been able to sleep all the way through the night since before I got kicked out last January. Like renting my body out to strangers for drug money. Like Dave beating me to the point of unconsciousness and me only coming to as he’s shoving inside of me. Like my inability to stay turned on during sex, even though I’m eighteen years old and should pretty much always be turned on. Like guys fucking me even when I say no. Like not remembering huge portions of the last year of my life.
I shrug. “I don’t know. Just stupid stuff, I guess. Can we watch a movie or something?”
Alex looks like he wants to protest or urge me to continue, but Ben shoots him a warning look, and they both fall silent. I hate that I do this to my friends. I hate that lately, I’m always the one who ends up bringing everybody else down. There must be some way to apologize to them—some way that doesn’t involve letting Alex put his dick in me, or baking shitty cookies, because I’ve already tried both of those things, and I still feel guilty—but right now, I don’t know what it is.
Still, they can’t be too mad, because Alex lets me put on Almost Famous even though he hates it, and Ben lets me curl up with my head on his lap. Halfway through the movie, when I make my usual comment of, “I don’t care if she’s fictional, and I don’t care if she’s a chick, I would nail the shit out of Penny Lane. She’s so fucking hot,” they both agree with me, whether they really feel that way or not. Later, when I say, “I want this. All I want is to do this, to make music, for the rest of my life, only without the part where I become a sell-out, and turn into even more of an asshole, and betray my fans and my art form,” Alex reaches over to squeeze my knee, and Ben cards his fingers through my hair and leans down to press a brief kiss to my temple and says simply, “You will.”
They are better friends than I deserve.
6 days sober
School on Monday is every bit as soul-suckingly awful as I expected it to be, but in a very different way than I had anticipated. Apparently, the members of drama club who know that I was drunk at rehearsal are actually capably of keeping their mouths shut, because the fact that I was in rehab has yet to make it to the grapevine. My teachers all give me knowing, sympathetic looks and hand me my makeup assignments without comment, but amongst the student body, there is massive speculation around why I missed the ninth, tenth, and eleventh days of the school year.
By the time I finish fourth period, it seems pretty clear that the leading theory is that I managed to get myself expelled again, which makes no sense. I don’t think any of my classmates realize that I was expelled for missing too many days of class, not for disciplinary reasons. The second most popular theory is that I eloped with Travis McCall. Considering I don’t think he’s missed a day of school since he tried to off himself as a freshman, I’m not sure why people would overlook the fact that he wasn’t actually absent with me the past few days.
Or the fact that he’s very blatantly not speaking to me.
By the time my last morning class is done, I’m no longer amused by the gossip, and I just want to go home. That feeling only intensifies when the bell rings and Ms. Markland calls after me, “Garen, would you mind waiting a moment? I’d like to speak to you privately. And don’t worry, I’ll write you a hall pass if it looks like you’re going to be late to your next class.”
“I have lunch next period,” I say, shrugging. My standard operating procedure for lunch is to go to the cafeteria, get something to eat, and take it to the music room so I can spend the hour dicking around on my guitar. Jeff doesn’t give a shit, and it’s not like I have friends who will notice my absence. It feels stupid to admit that to a teacher, though, so I remain silent. When she gestures for me to sit back down in the front row, I do.
“I assume you know what I want to talk to you about,” she says. Her tone is even, like she’s trying her best to keep from yelling at me. I’m sort of used to that tone from teachers, but it doesn’t make it less embarrassing.
I duck my head and say, “So, I guess you heard about Tuesday’s rehearsal.”
“I did,” she confirms. “I’m not going to give out any names—” Gabe, Nate, Joss, “—but multiple members of the club have come to me over the past few days to tell me that you were obviously and admittedly intoxicated at rehearsal, you were unnecessarily aggressive towards a member of the stage crew, you consumed alcohol on school property in the presence of the cast, and then left early.”
A small part of me is amused that ‘leaving early’ even ranks on the list of shitty things I’m getting in trouble for. I squash my impulse to smile and say, “I won’t deny it.”
“I didn’t expect you to,” she says. “Furthermore, none of us have seen you since that day. You’ve missed two rehearsals in a row.”
“I know,” I say flatly. “I was in rehab.”
“I know,” she echoes. Whatever I was expecting her to say, that wasn’t it. She adds, “The ladies in the main office called your father regarding your absences, and, well… officially, you were away for health reasons. On Wednesday afternoon, however, one of your classmates pulled me aside before the start of rehearsal to tell me that he had spoken to your father, who informed him that you had checked yourself into a forty-eight-hour session at your rehabilitation center. He told me not to expect you at rehearsal until this week.”
I bob my head in vague acknowledgment of her words, but my blood is rushing in my ears. Nothing that son of a bitch has done has ever made me as angry as this. I say, “Travis McCall, right? He’s the one who told you where I was? Christ, that kid needs to learn to mind his own business.”
“I had rather thought that you were his business,” Ms. Markland says mildly.
I scowl. “If that’s your way of saying you think I’m still fucking my stepbrother, you’re wrong.”
She holds up a hand. “Please, Garen. I’d much rather not hear the details of my students’ personal lives, thank you.” She hesitates, then asks, “But if you do intend to get personal for a minute… how are you?”
“How am I?” I say, blinking.
“Yes, how are you?” she repeats impatiently. “Are you feeling any better than you were last week? Was your time in rehab helpful?”
She even seems like she might really want to know the answer. Slowly, I say, “Yeah. It was helpful. I’m, um… I’m six days sober now. It’s not much—nothing compared to the ninety-two days I’d been sober as of last Monday, but… I don’t know. It’s a start?”
“It is,” Ms. Markland agrees. She walks over to her desk, sits down, and says, “Well, I’ll be seeing you at rehearsal tonight, yes? You’ve only missed one script reading, so you should be able to—”
“Hang the fuck on,” I say, which she glares at, so I quickly amend, “Sorry, hang on. You’re still letting me be in the play? You’re still letting me be in this school?”
“Well, I don’t actually have the power to expel you, you know. And I haven’t taken the details of last Tuesday to anyone who does have that power. Rest assured, there will be a penalty for what you’ve done, but the finer points of it have yet to be determined. Now, if you don’t mind, I have another class to teach. I’ll see you later today.”
I bolt from the room before she can change her mind.
That afternoon, when I arrive at rehearsal, no one speaks to me. I’m not even remotely surprised, but I’d be lying if I pretended it doesn’t still sting a little. I sink into a seat in the front row and try to focus on reading my script. The only script sessions I’ve attended were the initial read-through and that trainwreck rehearsal where I saw Travis and Joss kissing. Both of those had been more casual than this; I don’t even know if we’re working on blocking yet.
Just as I did when I was in the dining room at LRC, I know I’m being watched right now, but I don’t dare look around. Part of me is certain that even making eye contact with one of the people I’ve so obviously offended will provoke a confrontation, and I can’t handle that yet. Not enough time has passed; I don’t feel okay yet, and I don’t have enough distance from the darkness to make a joke about it. I keep my eyes on either the script or the floor until rehearsal officially begins. Ms. Markland strides into the auditorium and snaps her fingers, greeting us with, “Alright, first thing’s first. Garen, on stage. Now.”
Alarmed at being singled out but nowhere near stupid enough to cop an attitude with her when I’m already on such thin ice, I brace my hands on the edge of the stage and hoist myself up onto it. She gestures to the microphone, and I move to stand behind it. She crosses her arms. “You’re the only cast member who missed voice rehearsal last week, so we’re going to start you on that. I don’t want you to fall behind just because you needed to take some… personal time. I want you sing your warm-up song, then go right into practicing ‘There Are Worse Things I Could Do.’ Nate will catch you up, and then you’ll join Christine to run your scenes together. Until then, Christine, you’re with Josslyn and myself. Everyone else, break into the same groups you were in last Wednesday, alright?”
It is with great reluctance that I stand and allow my boots to carry me to the edge of the stage, where Nate is standing with his arms crossed over the front of his celery-colored blazer. I very generously say, “Hi,” instead of holy shit, dude, what are you wearing.
“Hi,” he says dully. “Look, I just need a yes or no on this: are you going to bail on us again? Because if you’re going to just get drunk and disappear for a few days again right before opening night, tell me now. I’ll recast Rizzo, and I’ll put you in the chorus, and we can pretend that none of this ever happened.”
It’s the perfect out. I can accept his offer, I can disappear from the play, and none of us will have to put up with each other. They won’t have to bother pretending they’re not disgusted by me. I won’t have to bother pretending I’m not deeply, painfully ashamed of myself every time one of them looks at me and remembers how I acted. If I were a smarter man, I would bow out with what remains of my dignity. But I guess I’m an idiot, because I say, “No. I want to be in the play, I swear. I’ll be better. Can we just… focus on the song right now? I’m willing to take whatever direction you see fit to give me.”
He sighs. “Fine, we’ll get started. And… I get that rock and roll is kind of your thing, okay? And it works for ‘Sandra Dee,’ because when we decided not to change all the gender-specific pronouns and phrases in that song, we kind of turned your character into an asshole. That whole number makes it seem like Rizzo is making gay jokes about Andy, so yes, it makes sense for you to be like, growling and posturing, and whatever.”
“I hadn’t realized that my standard way of singing makes me seem like such a douchebag,” I say, raising my eyebrows.
Nate raises his right back, and I think he’s mainly trying to challenge me when he retorts, “Well, it does. And that’s fine. It works. But not for this number, okay? This is supposed to be your one moment of vulnerability in the play, and you can’t screw it up by turning it into a joke.”
I wasn’t going to. Despite what the rest of the world seems to believe, I actually am capable of taking things seriously; I just prefer not to. Especially things as definitively not serious as a school play. But everyone here is already so pissed at me—especially Nate, who I can tell took a chance on casting me in the first place—so I gnaw on my tongue for a few seconds until I think I can speak without being verbally abusive. Finally, I say, “Alright. No rock. Got it. Do you have something specific you would like me to do instead?”
“Let’s start with a warm-up. Do you have anything in a higher register than the songs you’ve done so far?” he asks.
“Uh,” I say. I know music, I really do, but I’m so used to just writing my own shit or singing along to songs I already know that sometimes I don’t give much consideration to the technicalities of it. Nate’s hands shift from gripping his own biceps to clenching into fists that he plants over his waist. He actually starts tapping his foot at me, like that’s going to make me decide my response any faster. God, he is such a drama queen. I say, “I guess so, yeah. Is it okay if it’s just, you know, pop music? I’ve already told you I don’t really do the Broadway bullshit—” His eyes bug a little at the phrase. “—but I know some chick songs from the radio that might—”
“Chick songs?” he interrupts, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling. “God, you’re such a boy sometimes.”
“Well, yes,” I say, very purposefully not adding, And you’re such a girl sometimes.
“Tell me, Garen. What’s so bad about a man singing a song that was originally recorded by a female artist?”
I count to ten very slowly in my head and most definitely do not contemplate shoving him off the stage. I take a deep breath, smile, and say, “Nothing, Nathan. I am fine with it, and if you’ll be quiet for a few minutes, I will do it.”
He falls obediently silent, and I flick the mic on, ducking down to say, “Will it disturb everyone else if this is on?”
Ms. Markland waves me off. “No, I want everyone to get used to singing with the microphones on. I don’t want anyone to have to adjust how they sing later, once we’re doing dress rehearsals with full audio equipment.”
I nod to her, then look over at Nate to confirm, “You want me high, right?” His eyes widen; out in the aisle where she’s practicing, Christine’s head whips around to gape at me. I hasten to amend, “Pitch. You want me high pitched, Jesus fuck.”
“Garen. Language,” Ms. Markland drawls.
I take another deep breath that scratches through the sound system. Nate takes pity on me and says, “Yes. Something higher than ‘Boys of Summer’ or ‘Pretty Girl.’ And it can still be a modern song, you won’t have to do…” He hesitates, then pops his fingers up to make air quotes as he says, “‘Broadway bullshit.’”
It only takes me a few seconds to settle on an indie rock song I’ve heard just enough times to know all the way through. I hardly ever use notes this high, and my voice seems almost higher, louder because I’m singing without any accompaniment. Usually I love to hear myself sing—I guess I’m just that much of a conceited asshole—but right now, it makes me uncomfortable. The lyrics, the tune, the way I can feel everyone staring at me even though I’ve closed my eyes. I handle most of the song fine, but my voice does crack at one point, and I have to clear my throat and restart the verse, “And it’s hard to dance with the devil on your back, and given half the chance, would I take any of it back? It’s a fine romance, but it’s left me so undone. It’s always darkest before the dawn.”
It’s all smooth sailing from that, and the second I’ve finished the song, I turn back to Nate and say, “I screwed up that one bit, I know. And I might have been a little bit sharp at the end. I’m sorry.”
“No, you were fine at the end,” he says, voice so soft it’s barely more than a breath. “That was really good. Are you comfortable doing notes that high? I want to experiment a little bit with ‘There are Worse Things’ before we definitely settle on something. Try it in that same key first, and then we’ll run through again with you singing it in your normal range, okay?”
It’s all smooth sailing from that, and the second I’ve finished the song, I turn back to Nate and say, “I screwed up that one bit, I know. And I might have been a little bit sharp at the end. I’m sorry.”
“No, you were fine at the end,” he says, voice so soft it’s barely more than a breath. “That was really good. Are you comfortable doing notes that high? I want to experiment a little bit with ‘There are Worse Things’ before we definitely settle on something. Try it in that same key first, and then we’ll run through again with you singing it in your normal range, okay?”
I sing the song twice through—once high, once normally—and then again, halfway between. Still undecided, Nate tries to make me sing through it in the upper range again, and I glare at him. He smiles somewhat sheepishly. “Okay, okay. We’ll come back to it another time. For now, can you try to practice both? I’m sure we’ll be able to figure it out for sure later, when we try each out in the context of a full rehearsal.” I offer him a very small smile and take a step towards the edge of the stage, only to find that Ms. Markland is standing there, waiting. There is a mild sense of foreboding in the air, like she’s about to tear me a new asshole, but is waiting for exactly the right second to do it. Finally, she says, “You’re very talented, Garen.”
I want to say I know, but I settle for, “Thank you.”
She holds up a hand to silence me before I can say anything else, even though I hadn’t really planned on it. “You’re talented, but you’re probably the most self-destructive, self-sabotaging human being I’ve ever had the questionable fortune to meet.”
My embarrassment elects to show itself in a breath of laughter and quick drop of my eyes to the floor. She’s speaking as clearly as she does when she teaches film and lit, so I’m all too aware of the fact that everyone in the auditorium has heard her opinion of me. I should have expected this to be part of the punishment; after all, does it really count as a reprimand if all my classmates—the people who I’ve been trying so hard not to hope might become my friends eventually—don’t get to see the lecture?
She continues, “I believe in giving second chances, but from what I understand of your disciplinary file, coming to Lakewood in the first place should have been your second chance. Being allowed to return this fall after having been expelled last spring? That was your third. But I’m generous, and you make a damn good Rizzo, so here it is. This is your fourth chance. If you show up drunk or stoned or anything to rehearsal again, I will report you to Principal Hammond, and you will be expelled and possibly arrested.”
“Okay,” I say, because what else is there?
“You strike me as the kind of guy who gets tired of people telling him he has a lot of potential, but it’s true. You do. You have potential, wit, charisma, more than your fair share of talent, but you’re throwing it all away so that you can be drunk in the auditorium of a public high school I’m sure you never wanted to come to in the first place. You need to get it together.”
I want to say thank you, but I settle for, “I know.”
“Good. Now that that’s settled, come join us for script work,” she says.
We all work amicably for the next few hours, but are dismissed when the auditorium door swings open at eight forty-five and we are joined by the members of the stage crew, all laden down with sheets of paper and some large sketches. They must be starting to design the major set pieces. I try very hard not to notice Travis, or the ink smeared on his hands, or that his stack of papers is three times the size of anyone else’s, or how mind-wreckingly adorable I find it that he has apparently unleashed his control freak personality and taken over the entire set design, despite knowing literally nothing about drama. I can tell that he notices me, though, because I’m halfway through the process of shoving my script into my backpack and zipping it up when he joins me in the front row and says, “We could hear you singing from down the hall because of how good the sound system is.” I say nothing. “I didn’t realize you listened to Florence and the Machine.”
“I don’t,” is all I say. After all, one of the only things I remember about Tuesday night is him telling me he was done with our tentative friendship, so there doesn’t seem to be any point in explaining to him just how easy it is for me to memorize songs. It would be a waste of breath to tell him that I’m an auditory learner to such a frightening degree that listening to a song just four times—first and last to just experience it as a whole, second to pick up all the nuances of the music itself, third to have all the lyrics down—can have it tattooed into my memory forever, that I have memorized almost every song I’ve ever heard, even in the genres I hate, even songs I just happen to hear a few times on the radio, even fucking elevator music. I don’t think he’d care, if I told him. He made that pretty clear.
Still, rejection of our friendship notwithstanding, he tries again, “You sounded really great on—”
“Travis, I need you to just… not,” I interrupt, and he falls immediately silent, eyes dropping to the floor. “You told me that you can’t be friends with me anymore, and that’s okay. I understand why you have to do that. But you need to understand that I can’t be in between with you. It didn’t work last spring, and it won’t work this fall. If we’re not going to be friends, I can’t do this—” I gesture between us, “—this small-talk bullshit. Okay?”
“Okay,” he echoes. There’s a faint flush high on his cheekbones, like he knew I’d say this, but figured it was worth a shot anyway. Before I can stop him or reprimand him—because seriously, what the fuck is wrong with him—he darts forward and presses a quick kiss to my cheek, hovering close and settling his hands on my waist for a moment as he says, “I’m sorry I can’t be there for you anymore, but I know you can do this on your own. You don’t think you’re strong enough, but you are. You’re strong, and you’re so fucking brave, and you deserve to let yourself get better. Goodbye, Garen.”
He skitters back off into the wings, and I remain frozen in place, my eyes squeezed shut. It’s just like the day he visited me at rehab, when he kissed me and told me he loves me and hates me and likes me as a person, and then he left. It’s the same sort of I’m leaving you so I’m allowed to say how I really feel moment now, but in rehab, his words had felt like a beginning. Now, they’re as much of a goodbye as the time I told him I’d miss him, walked out of the house in Lakewood, and didn’t come back for a quarter of a year.
From a few feet away, a wary voice says, “Are you okay?”
My eyes snap open. Nate is watching me. My first instinct is to force a smile and tell him I’m great. To play it off and sink into my darkness later, in private. But I’m so fucking tired of faking being okay around people that I sigh and say, “Um, not really. But I will be. Thank you for asking.”
“Sure,” he says, turning back to the rest of his real friends to leave.
“Hey,” I force myself to say, before I can think better of it. “Um. Can you guys hang back for a second?”
A few of them continue walking anyway, and I should have expected that, but it still sort of stings. Most of the group, however, at least turns around to hear what I have to say.
“What’s up?” Miranda says warily.
Since she and Nate seem to be the only ones willing to acknowledge me, I allow my eyes to flicker back and forth between the two of them as I say, “I wanted to apologize to all of you for what happened last week. I could try to make up an excuse for myself, but you all deserve better than to have some line of bullshit thrown at you. And you deserve more respect than I showed you by coming to rehearsal drunk and making a scene. It was disgusting and immature, and I am deeply ashamed of myself for it. While I understand if any of you decide not to speak to me outside the context of the script, I promise that I will do everything in my power to make it up to all of you. It won’t happen again.”
There is a very tense silence where they all just sort of blink at me with wide, unforgiving eyes. Then, out of nowhere, John—the always-slightly-too-enthusiastic guy who’s playing Andy—steps forward, claps me on the shoulder and says, “Well, that was certainly much more of a ‘mea culpa’ than I think any of us were expecting. You’re forgiven.”
I stare. “Just like that?”
“Just like that,” he confirms cheerfully. “But, fair warning, if you do end up doing it again, I’ll tie you to a chair and beat your skull in with a rusty hammer.”
Not a single possible response comes to me.
Seeing my alarm, he smiles sunnily and says, “I take drama club a little bit too seriously, maybe. See you tomorrow for music rehearsal!”
He bounces off out the auditorium doors, and the others trail after him, not seeming terribly surprised by his reaction. Nate is the last to leave, offering me a small shrug and the words, “Everybody makes mistakes, I guess. You just seem to make more of them than the rest of us. But you’re working on it, right?”
“Right,” I confirm quickly.
He repeats the shrug and says, a little exasperated, “That’s all any of us are asking for, Garen.”
I smile, and for the first time in days, it doesn’t feel fake.
I want to say I know, but I settle for, “Thank you.”
She holds up a hand to silence me before I can say anything else, even though I hadn’t really planned on it. “You’re talented, but you’re probably the most self-destructive, self-sabotaging human being I’ve ever had the questionable fortune to meet.”
My embarrassment elects to show itself in a breath of laughter and quick drop of my eyes to the floor. She’s speaking as clearly as she does when she teaches film and lit, so I’m all too aware of the fact that everyone in the auditorium has heard her opinion of me. I should have expected this to be part of the punishment; after all, does it really count as a reprimand if all my classmates—the people who I’ve been trying so hard not to hope might become my friends eventually—don’t get to see the lecture?
She continues, “I believe in giving second chances, but from what I understand of your disciplinary file, coming to Lakewood in the first place should have been your second chance. Being allowed to return this fall after having been expelled last spring? That was your third. But I’m generous, and you make a damn good Rizzo, so here it is. This is your fourth chance. If you show up drunk or stoned or anything to rehearsal again, I will report you to Principal Hammond, and you will be expelled and possibly arrested.”
“Okay,” I say, because what else is there?
“You strike me as the kind of guy who gets tired of people telling him he has a lot of potential, but it’s true. You do. You have potential, wit, charisma, more than your fair share of talent, but you’re throwing it all away so that you can be drunk in the auditorium of a public high school I’m sure you never wanted to come to in the first place. You need to get it together.”
I want to say thank you, but I settle for, “I know.”
“Good. Now that that’s settled, come join us for script work,” she says.
We all work amicably for the next few hours, but are dismissed when the auditorium door swings open at eight forty-five and we are joined by the members of the stage crew, all laden down with sheets of paper and some large sketches. They must be starting to design the major set pieces. I try very hard not to notice Travis, or the ink smeared on his hands, or that his stack of papers is three times the size of anyone else’s, or how mind-wreckingly adorable I find it that he has apparently unleashed his control freak personality and taken over the entire set design, despite knowing literally nothing about drama. I can tell that he notices me, though, because I’m halfway through the process of shoving my script into my backpack and zipping it up when he joins me in the front row and says, “We could hear you singing from down the hall because of how good the sound system is.” I say nothing. “I didn’t realize you listened to Florence and the Machine.”
“I don’t,” is all I say. After all, one of the only things I remember about Tuesday night is him telling me he was done with our tentative friendship, so there doesn’t seem to be any point in explaining to him just how easy it is for me to memorize songs. It would be a waste of breath to tell him that I’m an auditory learner to such a frightening degree that listening to a song just four times—first and last to just experience it as a whole, second to pick up all the nuances of the music itself, third to have all the lyrics down—can have it tattooed into my memory forever, that I have memorized almost every song I’ve ever heard, even in the genres I hate, even songs I just happen to hear a few times on the radio, even fucking elevator music. I don’t think he’d care, if I told him. He made that pretty clear.
Still, rejection of our friendship notwithstanding, he tries again, “You sounded really great on—”
“Travis, I need you to just… not,” I interrupt, and he falls immediately silent, eyes dropping to the floor. “You told me that you can’t be friends with me anymore, and that’s okay. I understand why you have to do that. But you need to understand that I can’t be in between with you. It didn’t work last spring, and it won’t work this fall. If we’re not going to be friends, I can’t do this—” I gesture between us, “—this small-talk bullshit. Okay?”
“Okay,” he echoes. There’s a faint flush high on his cheekbones, like he knew I’d say this, but figured it was worth a shot anyway. Before I can stop him or reprimand him—because seriously, what the fuck is wrong with him—he darts forward and presses a quick kiss to my cheek, hovering close and settling his hands on my waist for a moment as he says, “I’m sorry I can’t be there for you anymore, but I know you can do this on your own. You don’t think you’re strong enough, but you are. You’re strong, and you’re so fucking brave, and you deserve to let yourself get better. Goodbye, Garen.”
He skitters back off into the wings, and I remain frozen in place, my eyes squeezed shut. It’s just like the day he visited me at rehab, when he kissed me and told me he loves me and hates me and likes me as a person, and then he left. It’s the same sort of I’m leaving you so I’m allowed to say how I really feel moment now, but in rehab, his words had felt like a beginning. Now, they’re as much of a goodbye as the time I told him I’d miss him, walked out of the house in Lakewood, and didn’t come back for a quarter of a year.
From a few feet away, a wary voice says, “Are you okay?”
My eyes snap open. Nate is watching me. My first instinct is to force a smile and tell him I’m great. To play it off and sink into my darkness later, in private. But I’m so fucking tired of faking being okay around people that I sigh and say, “Um, not really. But I will be. Thank you for asking.”
“Sure,” he says, turning back to the rest of his real friends to leave.
“Hey,” I force myself to say, before I can think better of it. “Um. Can you guys hang back for a second?”
A few of them continue walking anyway, and I should have expected that, but it still sort of stings. Most of the group, however, at least turns around to hear what I have to say.
“What’s up?” Miranda says warily.
Since she and Nate seem to be the only ones willing to acknowledge me, I allow my eyes to flicker back and forth between the two of them as I say, “I wanted to apologize to all of you for what happened last week. I could try to make up an excuse for myself, but you all deserve better than to have some line of bullshit thrown at you. And you deserve more respect than I showed you by coming to rehearsal drunk and making a scene. It was disgusting and immature, and I am deeply ashamed of myself for it. While I understand if any of you decide not to speak to me outside the context of the script, I promise that I will do everything in my power to make it up to all of you. It won’t happen again.”
There is a very tense silence where they all just sort of blink at me with wide, unforgiving eyes. Then, out of nowhere, John—the always-slightly-too-enthusiastic guy who’s playing Andy—steps forward, claps me on the shoulder and says, “Well, that was certainly much more of a ‘mea culpa’ than I think any of us were expecting. You’re forgiven.”
I stare. “Just like that?”
“Just like that,” he confirms cheerfully. “But, fair warning, if you do end up doing it again, I’ll tie you to a chair and beat your skull in with a rusty hammer.”
Not a single possible response comes to me.
Seeing my alarm, he smiles sunnily and says, “I take drama club a little bit too seriously, maybe. See you tomorrow for music rehearsal!”
He bounces off out the auditorium doors, and the others trail after him, not seeming terribly surprised by his reaction. Nate is the last to leave, offering me a small shrug and the words, “Everybody makes mistakes, I guess. You just seem to make more of them than the rest of us. But you’re working on it, right?”
“Right,” I confirm quickly.
He repeats the shrug and says, a little exasperated, “That’s all any of us are asking for, Garen.”
I smile, and for the first time in days, it doesn’t feel fake.