Freed, page 2
It’s something I’ve noticed that has piqued my curiosity about him more than it already is – and has been for a couple of semesters now.
“Okay, don’t forget that you have a paper due in a week,” Professor Maybin intones to a chorus of grumbles and groans from the class. “I’m looking forward to your nuggets of brilliance. And don’t forget to pick up your quizzes on the way out.”
Professor Maybin turns and gives me a quick smile before gathering her things and heading out. She’s got another class in fifteen minutes and usually has to hustle to get there on time. The students file past me and I hand each of them their graded quizzes, some of them obviously bitter about not doing as well as they thought they should have and others seem pleasantly surprised by their marks.
Dylan is the last in line and is busy texting when he finally steps up. He puts his phone down and gives me a weak smile.
“What’s the verdict?” he asks.
I hold up his quiz. “Ninety percent,” I announce. “Well done, Dylan.”
The look of relief that floods his face is immediate and he flashes me a nervous smile as he plucks the quiz out of my hand and looks at it like he’s searching for a mistake. When he finds no errors, he nods and his smile becomes a bit more confident.
“Thanks, man,” he exhales.
I shrug. “You earned it.”
Dylan stands in front of my desk, still looking down at his paper as I gather my things. It kind of feels like he’s waiting around for something or has something to say, which is odd. I’ve tried befriending over the last couple of semesters, but he’s always kept me at an arm’s distance. I mean, we’re friendly enough but I wouldn’t call us friends. He’s always seemed slightly uncomfortable with me and I had to imagine it’s because of my sexuality since I’m very openly gay. I don’t hide who I am for anybody.
So this – that he’s hanging around, tentative though it may be – is new. And it intrigues me even more.
“Was there something else?” I ask.
He shifts on his feet and won’t meet my eyes, the nervousness radiating off him in waves like heat coming off the sun. Dylan clears his throat and runs a hand through his long, shaggy hair.
“Y – yeah. I was wondering if you wanted to go grab a cup of coffee,” he stammers. “I kind of wanted to talk to you about my paper. I mean – if you have time.”
I glance at my watch – mostly for show. I would have skipped class and made time to go hang out with Dylan. Luckily, I’m done with classes for the day and I can always put my afternoon run off for a while.
“Yeah sure,” I say casually. “I’ve got time.”
I sling my bag over my shoulder and we head out of the lecture hall, making our way across the quad toward the student center. Oakmont University is a small private college near the coast in Laguna Beach. The student body is mainly made up of spoiled trust fund kids – children of Southern California’s wealthy elite. That’s true but there are plenty of others like me – people who’ve earned scholarships and sometimes work multiple jobs to be able to afford the tuition – and are scraping by. I only jump through the hoops I do to go here because Oakmont has an all-star faculty and an outstanding academic reputation.
We step into a coffee house and it’s about three-quarters full. There is a loud buzz of conversation hanging over the dining area as thick as the aroma of coffee. I’ve never understood how some people are able to tune out the noise well enough to study – I certainly can’t do it. But there are a number of people hunched over their laptops working away, so maybe it’s just me.
Dylan and I get our drinks and head outside where it’s a bit quieter and take a seat at a small round table. It’s a sunny but cool day with a slight breeze that carries the heavy scent of the Pacific along with it. The air between us is a bit strained – awkward. It’s as if we’re both searching for a way to start the conversation and are coming up empty.
“So, how are you liking the class?” I ask just to break the ice.
Dylan nods. “It’s interesting. I’m learning a lot,” he says. “I like it. And Professor Maybin is amazing. She’s helping me see things in a different way.”
I take a sip of my drink and set my cup down. “Why is it you’re taking a class like this?” I question. “I mean, you’re a business major, right?”
He sighs. “Yeah,” he mutters. “But literature and writing is my passion.”
“So why are you majoring in business?”
“Because I didn’t have a choice,” he replies. “My father doesn’t see literature as a practical major.”
“But this is your life, Dylan,” I say. “It’s your future.”
“But he’s the one paying my tuition,” his voice is soft. “He expects me to follow in his footsteps and run the family business.”
I sit back in my seat and look at him, curious. Dylan projects a strong, confident image. He’s a star athlete, great looking man, and is the stereotypical alpha male. He comes across as a man who doesn’t take shit from anybody or let anybody tell him what to do. Which makes it surprising to me that he’d let his father chart out his future rather than take control of it himself.
“And what is the family business?” I ask.
A wry grin touches his lips. “Boring as shit.”
We laugh together for a moment but then his expression grows serious. It’s as if he’s looking into his future and the barest glimpse of it brings his mood down.
“My father started a real estate development firm from scratch,” he tells me. “Now it’s the biggest firm in California.”
I knew Dylan came from a wealthy family but I didn’t know the specifics of it. From my own experience, kids who come from families with rich and powerful people like Dylan tend to fall into line without much complaint since it allows them to keep up their usually exorbitant lifestyle. I can tell Dylan is really loathing the idea of following in his father’s footsteps though – and yet, he continues to march forward like the dutiful son.
“If you could choose to do anything, what would it be?” I pose.
“Doesn’t really matter what I want,” he says quietly. “It’s not like I’m going to get to do it anyway. I’m only taking these lit classes because they interest me.”
“Humor me,” I press. “What would your dream job be?”
A wan smile crosses his face. “Ideally? I’d be a writer myself,” he responds. “As a practical matter, I’d be a teacher – a lot like Professor Maybin.”
“A teacher, huh?”
He nods. “I’ve never had an instructor who can bring the material to life the way she does. I mean, you have to admit the things we read are pretty dry. But still, she somehow makes it exciting,” he goes on. “I’d love to be able to touch or move a classroom that way. I’d love to be able to help show them a different perspective on the world and help kids gain a new appreciation for things the way Professor Maybin does for us.”
As he speaks, there’s a light in his eyes and an excited tone in his voice I haven’t seen from Dylan before. It’s good to see because usually so – flat and emotionless – about everything. I’ve never seen him show emotion about anything so it’s nice to see him so animated about something. That glow in his face transforms him and makes Dylan even more attractive than he usually is.
I grin. “Professor Maybin is kind of amazing like that.”
“She really is,” I confirm.
We both fall silent for a minute and I can see the sadness creep back into his eyes as he ponders a future he doesn’t think he can have – that he’s already resigned himself to not having. It makes me feel a sense of pity for him, which is something I never thought I’d feel for Dylan. He lives a life where he has everything and wants for nothing. On the surface, it seems like a dream kind of life.
But as I listen to him speak – and hear the things he doesn’t say – I can see that it’s a lot further from a dream than I thought. I can’t imagine what it’s like to have a father who’s so demanding that he’d force me to live the future he mapped out for me. But then, I haven’t spoken to my father in about five years now. He couldn’t accept having a gay son so we both thought it best if we went our separate ways.
“Have you talked to your dad about it?” I ask. “About wanting to be a teacher rather than a real estate developer?”
His bark of laughter is sharp and brittle. “Yeah, that would go over really well.”
“You might be surprised.”
Dylan takes a drink of his coffee, a rueful grin on his lips. “You don’t know my dad,” he replies. “Once he gets his mind set on something, there is no changing it.”
“Ever?”
He shakes his head. “In my twenty-one years on this planet, I’ve never seen him change his mind once,” he says. “Especially when it comes to something he’s decided for me.”
“Doesn’t he care about your happiness?”
“Not nearly as much as he cares about his legacy.”
It’s then that it occurs to me that Dylan isn’t here to talk about his paper. He’s here to talk and get some things off his chest. What I don’t know is why he chose to talk to me – it’s not like he doesn’t have ten thousand friends he can turn to. Maybe he doesn’t feel he can speak openly with them or something. I don’t know. But I’m glad he feels he can turn to me when he needs to talk. I want to be here for him.
An attractive blonde passes our table and when I look up, I see it’s his girlfriend Mandy – annoying twit that she is. But I’m surprised when I see her not only walking alone – she’s a girl who always has a collection of sycophants circling her – but she’s staring daggers at him. She passes by without a word, leaving a trail of frost in her wake and Dylan suddenly looks uncomfortable.
“What happened there?” I ask. “I thought you two were together.”
“We were,” he replies. “We’re not anymore.”
The tone in his voice is one of finality – he doesn’t want to talk about it. And I get the impression that’s his MO – he just doesn’t talk about anything. Instead, he stuffs it all down inside, which is not a great coping mechanism.
I have a feeling if he learned how to open up and express himself, or God forbid, was able to be himself, he might be a much happier person. There’s a darkness inside of Dylan – one that’s deep and abiding. I can tell he’s somebody who’s got a lot of secrets buried deep down inside of him. And somebody who is nowhere near comfortable in his own skin.
I suspect part of that is because of his father, but I suspect another part of that is Dylan not being able to be who he really is. I may be wrong – though, I’m usually not when it comes to these things – I believe that Dylan is living a lie. For whatever reason – again, I believe his father has a lot to do with it – Dylan is being forced to live a life that’s not his own.
He can’t simply be who he is. Which, again if I’m right, is something I find absolutely heartbreaking. But ultimately, it is up to him to take control of his life. Nobody can do that for him. Dylan lets out a loud breath, a mix of emotions etched upon his face. I can tell he wants to talk but is either too afraid to or just doesn’t know how.
“Talk to me, Dylan,” I begin. “Tell me what’s going on inside of you.”
“What’s going on inside of me?”
I nod. “It’s obvious you didn’t invite me to coffee to talk about your paper,” I continue. “And you look like somebody who wants to – or maybe needs to – talk. So, talk to me.”
He looks at me for a long moment as if trying to figure out how to begin – or whether he’s able to open up at all. He controls his emotions so well, it’s hard to read him. But I can tell that he needs to talk. He needs to get whatever it is on his chest out and in the open.
He shakes his head. “I – I don’t know,” he mutters. “I don’t even know where to begin.”
“Let’s start with why you asked me to talk today.”
He chuckles. “You sound like a shrink now.”
I give him a shrug and a grin. “If it helps, I’ve taken some psych classes.”
A genuine laugh escapes him and he looks up at me. “I asked you to talk because you don’t seem the judgmental type,” he says. “I know we don’t know each other all that well but I feel like I can talk to you.”
“That’s a good read then,” I tell him. “No judgment from me. Tell you what, why don’t you start by telling me why Bimbo Barbie looked at you like she wanted to tear your face off?”
That rueful grin touches his lips again and he looks away. “We broke up.”
“I gathered that. But why?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he mutters.
“I think you do,” I press. “I don’t think you would have asked me to coffee if you didn’t.”
He lets out a long breath and runs a hand through his hair. I can see he’s struggling pretty bad right now and it’s not just his inability to speak about what’s really on his mind. I can see the turmoil inside of him and see the frustration – and even pain – it’s causing him.
“It’s okay, Dylan. Whatever it is,” I reassure him. “You’re safe talking to me. I promise.”
He purses his lips and gives himself a quick nod as if he’s settled some internal debate. He takes a drink of his coffee then looks up at me.
“We were at a party after the game the other night,” he says, though his voice sounds far away as if he’s disconnected from the story he’s telling. “She took me up to my room in the frat house and wanted to screw.”
“Sounds normal.”
He shifts in his seat and I can tell he’s getting uncomfortable. I have a feeling that whatever the crux of the problem is, we’re starting to get to it.
“I wasn’t into it,” he says softly. “I didn’t want to have sex with her that night.”
I shrug. “It happens. Nobody’s on all day, every day.”
“Yeah well, don’t tell Mandy that,” he grins. “She expects to be serviced on command.”
I watch Dylan closely and see that it’s not just her being an unreasonable, self-centered bitch that’s bothering him. I can see it’s something much more and much bigger than that.
“So I’m guessing she didn’t take being turned down all that well,” I prompt him.
He gives his head a small shake. “No, she accused me…”
Dylan lets his voice taper off and he shifts in his seat again. I can see his discomfort growing and part of me thinks he’s going to get up and go rather than let himself be this uncomfortable. I’m surprised though when he doesn’t leave – and even more surprised when he looks up at me and starts to speak again.
“She accused me of being gay for not wanting to fuck her,” he states bluntly.
The laugh is bursting from my throat before I can stop it. As I sit there laughing, Dylan looks at me totally aghast. His face darkens and I can tell he’s getting pissed so I do my best to bite back my laughter and get serious.
“Sorry,” I tell him. “The way you said that, you made it sound like she accused you of being a pedophile or serial killer or something.”
He opens his mouth to reply but then closes it again, obviously thinking better of the comment he was about to make – which I assume was going to be something along the lines of those things being equal. But Dylan remembered his audience and reined himself back in. Kudos to him for that because being gay isn’t a choice, nor is it a bad thing. And it certainly has nothing in common with being a pedophile or a serial killer.
“I’m not gay,” he spits.
“Okay, so why does it bother you that she said you were?”
He shrugs but I can see just how deep it had gotten under his skin. His face is dark and twisted with rage. His eyes are wild and his nostrils are flaring as his breath quickens. The idea that somebody he was sleeping with accused him of being gay has lit a fire under him. Or rather, what others might think of the accusation if it got out, is what lit a fire under him.
I can see it in his eyes, he’s terrified others might think he’s gay – as if it’s the worst thing in the world he can be.
“Because I’m not,” he snaps. “I’m straight. I like pussy. I like women. I don’t fuck around with guys.”
A small grin pulls the corners of my mouth upward. “You seem pretty defensive about it.”
“Dude, I’m an athlete,” he elaborates. “I could have any girl on this fucking campus right now. All I have to do is say the word.”
“Fair enough,” I say. “So why is one girl’s opinion getting you so worked up?”
“Because it’s not true.”
“Then anybody who knows you would know it’s not true,” I note. “Still not something to get worked up about, is it?”
He shifts in his seat and won’t meet my eyes for a long moment. I think on some level, he knows his reaction is irrational and he’s trying to figure it out. His reaction though, has only reinforced my original belief that he is gay – but he’s so deep in the closet, he won’t let himself believe or accept it. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m reading all the signs incorrectly. It’s happened before. Not often, but it has happened and maybe that’s the case here. But his overreaction to what she said, coupled with his unwillingness to talk to his friends about it – resorting to talking to me about it instead – kind of makes me think I’m right.
He is practically squirming in his seat by this point and he glances at his watch, which I take to be a sign that he’s grown too uncomfortable and is about to split.
“Listen, thanks for talking to me,” he says as he gets to his feet. “But I have to meet some people.”
“Yeah, yeah, no problem,” I respond. “You’re welcome to talk to me anytime.”
“I – I appreciate that.”
He turns and leaves, walking across campus briskly, as if he can’t get away from me and the conversation we were having quickly enough. As I watch him go, I think about everything he said – as well as the things he didn’t say. And I keep wondering why he came to talk to me – because as somebody who’s openly gay, can relate to what he’s going through? Or am I just a sympathetic ear?
I don’t know the answer exactly but I find the question entirely intriguing and I plan on finding out why he sought me out in the first place.
