DROPPING Rikker off in front of his parents’ house feels awful.
“Want me to come in with you?” I offer. His mother hates my guts, but I don’t give a damn about that. I’ll go inside if he wants me there.
But he shakes his head. “I’ll call you later.”
I don’t get a kiss goodbye. He opens the door, shoulders his bag, and walks toward the house. The front door opens when he reaches it, and I see him disappear inside.
Feeling glum, I drive the few short blocks home.
My parents are in the kitchen, eating take-out burgers. “Sit!” my mother insists. “We brought you something for lunch.”
“Thanks,” I say, dropping into a chair and pulling the bag toward me.
“How is he?” my mom asks, dipping a french fry in ketchup.
“Unexcited. But fine, I guess.” I unwrap the sandwich and take a grateful bite.
“He’s welcome here anytime,” my father says. “Can’t believe they won’t join us for dinner tomorrow.”
“Or ever,” I grunt.
“How Christian of them,” my father says, the comment dripping with irony.
“They’re Christian, unless you’re gay,” I add, supplying Mrs. Rikker’s outlook on life.
My mother sighs. “Not everyone thinks like that.”
“I know.” The church my parents attend these days has a rainbow banner on the wall of the lobby.
They actually had to switch churches after I came out during my junior year of college. My mom had assumed their former congregation was more open-minded than the Rikkers’ church. But when my mother told her pastor about my struggle to accept myself, his reaction wasn’t positive enough for her.
She’s become my fiercest advocate. So, after almost thirty years in their congregation, my parents walked out the door, visiting a new church the following Sunday. And they’ve never looked back.
I felt bad about it at the time. But being out has been so much better than being in the closet. I finally understand that. I wish there hadn’t been any collateral damage, but we’re all adjusting well enough now.
Two years ago it wouldn’t have occurred to me that I could sit here at the kitchen table with my folks, eating burgers, having a casual conversation about my boyfriend’s asshat parents.
“I love you guys,” I say quietly. Saying things like that hasn’t always been my style. But Rikker has turned me into someone who can express himself, at least once in a while.
“Aw, Mikey,” my mother says, rubbing my arm. “Why do you look so blue?”
“I’m not,” I lie. “I have some good news, by the way. Just checked my school email account and found a job interview request.”
“Yessss!” My father pumps his fist. “Where is it?”
“Washington, D.C., for Sports Night TV.”
“This is great!” my mother cheers. “When will you meet them?”
“Next month.”
“Let’s go suit shopping tomorrow,” my mother suggests. “You need to look sharp.”
“All right. Thanks.”
Finding a post-college job has proven harder than I’d thought it would be. The process isn’t exactly an ego boost. I’ve sent a staggering number of resumes out, and received only a handful of calls from news outlets. If I don’t find something soon, I’ll have to take a job that’s not as interesting to me or graduate jobless.
Last year I was terrified to be gay. I got over that only to find myself terrified of being unemployed.
And if that isn’t scary enough, I can’t stand peering into the dark, hollow place in my soul that’s afraid of being separated from Rikker. What if he gets tired of waiting for me? Long distance will be a drag, and my boyfriend has a high sex drive.
Ugh. I’m going to spend the whole next semester worrying about this, I just know it. And before that, I’m going to spend the next three days worrying about Rikker and how he might be getting along with his bitchy mother.
After lunch I volunteer to help my dad clean out the garage. He’s overjoyed to have help with this chore, and I need something to keep my hands busy. I keep checking my phone, hoping for updates from Rikker. I’m uneasy about his stay with his parents. If they weren’t willing to acknowledge our relationship, what does that mean for his time in their home? Are they going to lecture him? If they do, will he just sit there and take it? Or will he explode from frustration?
I’d left him on their doorstep, and I’m not sure I should have. Sure, Rik is an adult who can take care of himself. But hell if I don’t want to punch anyone who is mean to him.
These are my uneasy thoughts as I help my father sort his old tools and hang them on pegs above the workbench. When we’re finished, I take a hot shower and check my phone. Again.
There’s a new text message, only it isn’t from Rikker. It’s a group text including six of my hockey teammates from high school. MINI REUNION! it shouts. Founders Brewery, Tuesday, 5p. Who can make it?
I hesitate.
Since I spent last summer in Vermont, I haven’t seen my high school teammates for a long time—not since the summer before junior year. In other words, I haven’t seen them since before I began dating a dude, and before I came out to my family.
Before acknowledging my sexuality, I spent years drowning my frustrations in women and whiskey. All my high school friends knew that Michael Graham.
Now I’m done being a coward. Rikker convinced me that it feels better knowing which people are true friends. Coming out makes that all very clear. At Harkness I’ve been gratified (and in some cases stunned) to learn that most everyone accepts the real me. And the rejection of a few people who weren’t all that great to begin with hasn’t sunk me.
On the other hand, do I have the energy right now to put myself out there to all of those old friends?
After thinking about it for a few minutes, I respond with: I’m in. See you Tuesday.
Tuesday is still two days before I’m supposed to see Rikker again. Beer and hockey smack talk will get my mind off a few things. I’ll be climbing the walls in the meantime.
After dinner with my folks, I get into bed with the TV remote. But it’s just an excuse to keep one eye on my phone. Finally, at ten, I text Rik again, because I can’t help myself.
Graham: Dude. I’ve been checking my phone all day like a desperate loser. It’s not that I expect phone sex tonight. But just let me know you’re okay.
To my great relief, he begins to respond right away.
Rikker: Sorry! My dad took me to a Griffins game this afternoon, and I left my phone behind because I was trying to be a good son.
Graham: How was the game?
Rikker: Fine. It’s weird to watch an AHL game and wonder if I can get there.
Graham: You will! And how was the conversation?
Rikker: Fine. But I didn’t test my dad. We were both really fucking polite.
Graham: You didn’t point out the most lickable players, and rate them on a scale of 1-10?
Rikker: Why bother? You’re hotter than the whole team. Times ten.
Graham: Baby, you don’t have to butter me up. I’ll give you whatever you want. I’m free right this second. And I’m less than a mile away.
Rikker: Which is too far. But only for another couple days. My old room is smaller than I remember it.
Graham: Being there must be weird AF.
Rikker: Yup. My old hockey medals are hanging here. Mom must dust them. So it’s like a shrine to being 16.
Graham: How is it going with her?
Rikker: OK. Awkward. We’re all trying not to say the wrong thing.
Graham: Sounds like a blast.
Rikker: Pretty much. Mom made my favorite dinner—chicken parm. I’m taking that as a good sign?
Graham: Can I come and pick you up tomorrow afternoon? We could go to a movie. Or anywhere at all.
Rikker: Nothing would make me happier. But I’m going to play the good son and hang here. It’s only a few days, right? And maybe my mother will relax if I don’t rush for the exits.
Graham: Why does she deserve coddling, though? I want to just drive over there and make her look me in the eye.
Rikker: You are 100% right. But I’m doing this for my dad, because he’s trying to build a bridge over the crevasse. He made the effort, so I’m trying.
Graham: You’re a better man than I.
Rikker: I love you anyway. 🙂
Graham: Just for that, you get another blow job on Thursday night. DO YOU HEAR THAT, MRS R? I’M GOING TO SUCK ON YOUR SON’S PENIS. HE LIKES IT.
Rikker: LOL. You’ve come a long way, baby.
Graham: And yet here I sit alone.
Rikker: I’m all yours on Thursday.
Graham: I know. And I don’t want to give you guilt. Just miss you.
Rikker: Good night, cutie.
Graham: Night. 🙂
