Don't Read in the Closet: Volume Four (151 page)

something else entirely. Anxiety closed in fast. Before he had time to

properly think things through, Max blurted, “Then… then… I guess

we won’t be able to see each other.”

“What the fuck?” All the color drained from Brandon’s face and

tears shimmered in his horrified eyes. He opened his mouth several

times, uttering incompressible sounds before reaching out, only to

drop his hand back to the table. “What? Why Maxxie? Oh, God, no!

Don’t do this. Max?”

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He reached out his hand again and Max jerked out of reach.

The image of a pitiful, beseeching, “Please take it back!”

expression burned into Max’s memory. In the end, Brandon rose

quickly, tossed a twenty onto the table, and hurried away. Those

broad, strong shoulders, uncharacteristically slumped in defeat, were

the last thing Max saw of the man who’d been his entire world for as

long as he could remember.

Three times that night he dialed Brandon’s number. Each time,

imagining his parents disowning him, kicking him out of house,

cutting off his college dreams, made him hang up before the call

connected. What if they said he could never see his brother again?

What if his brother caught hell at school because Max came out?

What would Grandma and Grandpa say? And though he kept his

phone on and always close by, Brandon didn’t call that night either. Or

the next day. Or the next.

“Where’s Brandon? We haven’t seen him lately,” his mom asked.

“Oh, you know. Getting ready to leave for college and all that

stuff,” Max replied, secretly wondering the same thing.

She narrowed her eyes. “Maxwell Clayton Gary, you’re not

turning your back on your best friend because he’s gay, are you?”

So close. Max came so close to telling her the truth, but the

moment shattered on his dad’s loud, “Damn liberals! Can’t they talk

about anything besides gay marriage?” from the living room.

Max and his mom both winced, and Max did his best to reassure

her. “No, Mom, that doesn’t bother me. I’ve known a lot longer than

you have.”

She stood with her hands on her hips, raking an assessing gaze

over Max, and he held his breath, worried that she’d somehow know

he was hiding something. “Well, remember that if you ever need to

talk, I’m here.”

And just like that, Max passed up the best opportunity he’d ever

get for the heart to heart he needed to have.

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The days passed in a listless procession, Max trudging through

each day on autopilot. Several times he made the trip to the Rourkes’

house, occasionally catching a glimpse of his lover — his former lover,

from the safety of the convenience store c across the street. He

watched Brandon come out of the house one day and climb into his

sister’s convertible. The two sped away, laughing and joking like they

hadn’t a care in the world.
He doesn’t even miss me!
Max despaired.

After a few more agonizing days the ring tone of Brandon’s

favorite song alerted Max of an incoming call, and who was calling.

Though he wanted to very badly, he didn’t answer, knowing he

couldn’t say what the man wanted to hear: “I came out to my folks.”

Once again hiding across the street, he’d seen the rental trailer

attached to Mr. Rourke’s truck arrive, heard the thumps from within as

the family loaded it with Brandon’s things. Max should have been

there, should have been helping.

August twelfth dawned hot and clear, a day X’d out on Max’s

calendar. Instead of moving Brandon to his new dorm at State, Max

stayed in bed, pleading a headache. He ached all right, the pain

centered in his chest and not beneath his straight blond hair.
This is it.

It’s really over, and all because I’m too chicken shit to keep my word

and do what’s right.

A week later an email arrived from Brandon. Max’s heart leapt to

his throat.

Hey. How’s it going? I’m doing my best to understand why you

won’t take my calls, but gotta tell you, it hurts like hell. We’ve been

friends for so long that not having you around is like losing a limb.

I’m trying to give you space but I do wish you would have come

with us last week and seen the campus. You’d love it here. I’ve met

some great people, and so far my classes haven’t been too much of a

pain. How are your classes going? Did you get Professor Adams like

you wanted for History?

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I wish you were here. If it weren’t for the scholarship you know I’d

never have left, right? I don’t want to push, but have you had time to

think things over? I love you and miss you, Maxxie. I want to see you

so bad.

It’s only fair to tell you that since I last saw you I’ve been through

denial and anger (sorry, dude, I called you a few choice names, none

of which I meant), and would have done the bargaining thing if you’d

just answered my calls. I’m currently headfirst into depression, but I

refuse, absolutely refuse, to accept that I’ll never see you again.

Bran

Max read the words again and again through blurred vision. A

lone tear splashed his keyboard. He wrote five long, heart-wrenching

emails, pouring out his feelings, then deleted each and every one.

Thinking about Mom and Dad, what they might say, what they might

do — namely, cut off his college funds, prompted him to write an

innocuous response, neatly sidestepping Brandon’s question.

Good to hear from you, Bran. Yeah, I got Prof. Adams, and glad

to know you’re liking everything there.

He signed it, not “Maxxie” (a childhood nickname only Brandon

still called him), but “Max.”

Tendrils of jealousy took root when he reread Brandon’s message,

at the “met some great people,” visualizing a smiling, handsome guy

who’d sweep Bran off his feet and not care who knew.
What do you

expect? For him to spend the rest of his life alone, pining after

someone who didn’t love him enough to make a leap of faith?

The emails and cell phone calls arrived regularly after that, Max

once more answering the familiar ring tone. The conversations were

strained at first, each call growing less personal. Brandon never

discussed “us” on the phone so as “not to pressure you,” reserving the

topic for emails that, at one time, had been the way they shared the

feelings kept hidden from the rest of the world. Max must have

revisited each one a thousand times by now. Dreams and plans of their

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future together were mapped out over the course of three years, ever

since their friendship had escalated into something more. Now, all

communication appeared as brief exchanges between friends. Brandon

never again called him “Maxxie,” something Max missed more than

he cared to admit. He also stopped asking, “Have you thought about

us?”

Several times Max ran into Cindy on the campus of the small

community college he attended, and though she remained civil, her

eyes, so like Brandon’s, shot daggers at Max when she thought he

wasn’t looking. She knew, obviously, and didn’t approve. Max was

fairly certain that he only avoided a major telling off due to Bran’s

intervention.

Then, two months after he’d last seen the only man he’d ever

loved:

I’ve come to accept that what we had was just a teenaged

“curious” thing for you and though it breaks my heart, I’ve accepted

that you’re not my boyfriend and I’ll try to go on from there. But no

matter what happens, we’ve been friends forever and I hope we can

remain so. I promise to never mention “us” again.

Take care, bro,

Brandon

Heart dropping to his stomach and eyes nearly too misted to see

the laptop’s keys, Max pecked out:

Did you see the game Saturday?

That night he couldn’t sleep for his chest aching, and shoulda,

coulda’s running through his head.
It’s for the best
he told himself,

feeling like an ass for so callously throwing away the best thing that

ever happened to him.

One morning Max’s pulse beat a mile a minute when he saw a

message from Brandon in his “Unread Messages” email folder,

entitled “Important!” It skipped a few beats when he read:

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Look, there’s something I should tell you before my loud-mouth

sister blurts it or anything, but I met someone. I’ve waited, hoping

you’d come around, but I meant it that I don’t want to hide. My folks

took my coming out rough, but they’re slowly accepting it, and I

honestly think yours would too.

Anyway, like I said, I met Dave in class and, well, I’m bringing

him home with me this weekend. I want you to meet him too. Although

it didn’t work out between us, you’re still the best friend I’ve ever had.

Your opinion is important to me.

Brandon

It’s really over. I’ve driven him away.
Max curled up on his bed,

stifling moans of pain with loud rock music and a pillow. At an

insistent knocking on his bedroom door, he rose and dressed

methodically to attend classes that he didn’t remember afterwards.

Three days later, over a breakfast that he merely picked at, his

mother threatened to take him to the doctor if he didn’t start eating.

Thinking,
It’s now or never,
he waited until his younger brother ran

outside to catch the bus to say, “Mom, Dad. We need to talk.” It took

skipping his morning classes to say what he needed to say.

No matter how badly the truth gnawed at his gut, the conversation

didn’t go as badly as he’d thought it would. More excited than he’d

been in a long, long time, he raced upstairs to share the news with

Brandon via email. He’d have loved to call and tell him directly, but

didn’t know his lover’s — yes, his lover’s! — class schedule. Was it too

late to get him back from that Dave guy?

He logged on to his laptop to find:

Max, I hate to ask, but my car is in the shop and Mom and Dad

will be working. Would you mind picking me and Dave up at the bus

station tomorrow at three?

B

Max’s heart fell. He plunked into his computer chair, ice water

rushing through his veins. He’d done it. He’d come out to his folks, put

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himself on the line, and it was too effing late! He raged, throwing

textbooks across the room. How dare the man? How dare Brandon ask

him to come and meet the new boyfriend when Brandon belonged to

Max?
No, you ended it — he moved on.

Another sleepless night followed. Max’s grades, well above

average in high school, were barely passing in college. Knowing he

couldn’t afford to miss any assignments, he forced himself to sit

through History and Statistics classes that Friday morning, racing to

his car the moment the last one ended shortly after noon.

Kicking himself for twelve kinds of fool, he swallowed his pride

and drove to the bus station as asked — arriving two hours early,

determined not to be too late — this time.

He checked the “Arrivals” board.
Why the hell did I get here so

early?
He paced, he bought a lukewarm soda from the vending

machine, throwing it away in agitation after two sips.
What will I do?

What will I say? How will I keep from punching Dave out on sight?

Finally, he settled on a hard wooden bench, leaning his head