Freed, page 4
Dylan shrugs and looks uncomfortable. I think I already know what sort of grief he’s catching – it’s the exact thing he was worried about with his ex.
“They teasing you about being gay?” I ask gently.
He looks away and nods. Dylan is clearly trying to not offend me by being upset at the perceived slur of his sexuality but it’s also clearly bothering him quite a lot. I sit back and take a drink of my coffee. We’re sitting in the small park in a clearing that’s surrounded by trees situated behind the English building. It’s small, very secluded, and it was Dylan’s idea to meet here.
Obviously, with people teasing him about being gay, the last thing he wants is to be seen with a gay man. And while I could chafe about meeting out here in secret like this, I realize that I’m the only person in his life he can talk to openly and honestly. I could be wrong but I’m thinking that he’s starting to question his sexuality but can’t talk about it with anybody but me.
So despite the crush I have on him – have had on him for a while now – I kind of see it as my duty to help him onto the path of becoming who he really is.
“You know, I’ve been where you are,” I tell him. “I’ve gone through everything you have.”
He looks up. “You have?”
I nod. “It was my freshman year. Rumors started to make the rounds about me being gay since I didn’t have a girlfriend and wasn’t interested in one,” I tell him. “I was pissed off about it because I hadn’t embraced my sexuality at the time. I was seventeen years old, what in the hell did I know?”
He takes his coffee and sets it down on the table. “So you didn’t know you were gay until –”
I shake my head. “I think I always knew. Somewhere deep down,” I admit. “I tried to deny it and had plenty of girlfriends to keep up appearances. Slept with a lot of girls back in the day trying to prove everybody wrong. But it never quite fit – I never quite fit.”
I’m hoping that sharing my story will make it easier for Dylan to accept who he is – a gay man. I’m more convinced than ever that he’s simply deep in the closet and still in the denial phase. But I really can’t deny the parallels between his story and mine. I understand the pressures he’s facing all too well simply because I lived them.
Oh, I didn’t grow up in a wealthy household like he did – something that creates a whole extra set of pressures. But like Dylan, but I had a father who was very outspokenly disapproving of homosexuality. On top of that, I was an athlete and the meatheads I played ball with were as tolerant of gays as my father. So for a lot of years, I hid my sexuality by denying the urges that were natural to me and drowned myself in a sea of women.
But deep down I knew it wasn’t right. That I was living a lie.
“So what happened?” he asks. “How did you…”
His voice trails off and I can tell he’s trying to find a way to phrase it without sounding offensive or insensitive.
“I was seeing somebody in my freshman year. His name was Donovan. Great guy. I cared for him a lot,” I say as my mind drifts back in time. “I remember we kept it on the down low – he kept it on the down low for me since I wasn’t out. But I knew it bothered him.”
I look down at my hands which are wrapped around my coffee cup and although the memories I created with Donovan are fond and fill me with a semblance of happiness, I still feel the sting of pain as sharply today as it did all those years ago.
“And what happened?” Dylan prompts me.
I sigh. “We were out one night. We just went to dinner and were coming back to the dorms,” I go on. “We crossed paths with a group of frat boys and they started in on us immediately. I guess I wasn’t as good at pretending to be straight as I thought.”
A rueful laugh passes my lips but Dylan sits stone still and utterly silent. I see the light of compassion in his eyes and can tell he hates what happened to us – his compassion is a trait most of his friends don’t possess.
“Anyway, they were giving us hell. Calling us homos, fags – every slur in the book,” I tell him. “We eventually made it back to the dorms and Donovan was pissed. He’d wanted to beat the shit out of them but I made him back off and he wasn’t happy about it.”
“Why?” Dylan asks. “Why didn’t you just let him pop those guys?”
“Because in my head, that would only be confirming what they already thought. At the time, I thought that if we ignored it and didn’t retaliate, it would somehow prove to them I wasn’t gay,” I explain. “Donovan told me everybody already knew and that I was the only one pretending they didn’t. He made me choose – come out, live free, and be with him openly, or lose him. He said he wasn’t going to live a life in the shadows anymore. He said I made him feel like our relationship was something to be ashamed of and he wasn’t going to do it anymore.”
“So that’s how you came out?”
I shake my head. “No,” I reply softly. “I let him walk away. It took another six months for me to fully understand what he said and to accept myself for what I am. By that time, he’d already moved on.”
“Damn,” Dylan says. “That’s harsh.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. It hurt me a lot,” I reply. “But it taught me some important lessons. And maybe if I hadn’t gone through that pain, I wouldn’t be who I am today.”
“What do you mean?”
“It taught me that denying who I am is going to hurt far more than it helps. It taught me to stop being ashamed of who I am – that there is nothing wrong with me,” I state. “And if somebody is offended by who I choose to love, the problem is theirs, not mine. I learned to love and accept myself for the first time in my life.”
We lapse into silence for a moment as both of us process my story. I can see the wheels spinning in Dylan’s head and I would kill to know exactly what he’s thinking. I’m wondering if what I said is making it any easier for him to embrace his true nature. I wonder if somewhere deep within him, he realizes what he is.
I know it’s not going to be an overnight thing. He’s had twenty-one years of denying who he is and the reinforcement of that he’s received from everybody in his life. Dylan has been trained and conditioned to be a typical alpha male. He’s never been taught that it’s okay to be who he is. It’s going to be a struggle but I know that once he accepts himself for what he truly is, Dylan’s life will be so much better for it.
“That’s the most important lesson you can ever learn, Dylan,” I urge. “Being true to yourself. Embracing your true nature and being who are you. Living your life without apology or regret.”
“I wish it was as easy as you make it sound.”
“It doesn’t have to be that difficult,” I reply.
He laughs wryly. “You don’t know my dad,” he says. “Or my friends.”
“No, I don’t know them personally. But like I said, I’ve been in your shoes,” I tell him. “The faces change but the cast of characters is the same. The attitudes don’t change, unfortunately.”
“Yeah, maybe,” he says softly.
“And the longer you let them dictate who you are – to you – the harder it’s going to be for you to break those chains later on.”
He sighs and falls silent, staring down at his coffee cup. He looks miserable and it breaks my heart for him. All I want at that moment is to go over and comfort him. I want to wrap my arms around him and pull him close to me. I want to run my hands through his hair and tell him everything’s going to be okay. And more than anything, I want to help him accept who and what he really is.
“I think it might already be too late,” he whispers.
I shake my head. “It’s not,” I press him. “You can break those chains right now. All you need to do is decide to live as the person you really are. To stop living your life by somebody else’s rules or letting them define you. You have to make that decision and then follow through on it.”
“I don’t even know who I am, Wes.”
As much as I want to tell him who I know him to be, I would be doing the exact thing I’m telling him to rebel against – defining him rather than letting him define himself. He’s got to come to realize who he is on his own and there’s nothing I can do to force it. The harder I try to push him toward that path, the harder he’ll push back against me and I could wind up doing more harm than good.
“Well, the man I know is a good man with a good heart. He stands up for people, regardless of who they are,” I start. “And among other things, the man I know has a passion for literature and wants to follow that passion in life.”
He sighs then takes a drink of his coffee, refusing to meet my eyes again. I can see some of what I said resonates with him and he’s trying it on like a new set of clothes, just testing it out to see how it feels. A moment later though, his face falls and I can see the current reality he’s living creeping in around the edges and casting a pall over everything again.
He glances at his watch and gets to his feet. I follow suit and without a word, we both start walking back toward campus. I have so much more to say to him but I know I can’t press too hard right now. I need to give him some space and time to absorb what I said, process it.
All I can hope right now is that he truly listens to what I said and gives it serious thought. All I can hope is that what I’ve said to him helps nudge him toward finding a way to accept himself. Love himself. And live his life openly and without regret.
Dylan pauses at the edge of the clearing and turns to me. I turn and look at him, feeling my heart skip a beat or two as I look into eyes his sparkling green eyes. We don’t speak for a long moment but as we stand there, I feel like something is clicking into place between us. I don’t know if he feels it, or realizes what it is if he does, but there is some connection being made that nearly takes my breath away.
Seizing on the moment, I step forward. My heart thundering inside of me, I lean closer and press my lips to Dylan’s. The moment our mouths touch, I feel like my every nerve ending is tingling with electricity and when the tips of our tongues gently swirl around one another, I’m almost lightheaded.
But then Dylan quickly steps back, his expression stricken as he blanches. He pushes me away looks at me and I see the fear and confusion etched into his face. My stomach is churning, folding in on itself and I’m suddenly gripped by fears of my own.
“I – I’m not gay, man,” Dylan protests. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m sorry Dylan,” I muster. “I got carried away –”
“I’m not gay, dude,” his voice is firm. “I’m not gay!”
“Okay, okay,” I say, holding up my hands in surrender. “I overstepped and I apologize.”
Dylan stands there staring at me for a long moment before he turns and disappears through the trees as he runs back to campus, leaving me there feeling like a piece of shit. Had I misread him? I don’t think I did but I’m not infallible. I could have assessed him all wrong.
I realize that if I’m right, Dylan is deep in the closet and I know he isn’t anywhere close to being open about living as a gay man. Me kissing him like that probably scared the hell out him. And if I’m wrong and he is straight, I probably freaked him the hell out. Either way, I fucked up by letting my emotions – and my hormones – get the best of me. I gave into my crush and my desire and now I feel like I just fucked everything up. Or at the very least, set it back substantially.
“Way to go, idiot,” I grumble to myself.
With a loud sigh, I head back toward campus on my own, trying like hell to figure out how to salvage things between me and Dylan.
Chapter Five
Dylan
It’s been almost a week since Wes kissed me in the woods behind the English building and I’m still trippin’ out about it. I’ve avoided him completely just because I haven’t wanted to deal with it. I don’t know how many times I’ve told him I’m not gay and it pisses me off that he kissed me anyway. I trusted him. I talked to him and opened up in ways I don’t open up to people normally – and I feel like he took advantage of that.
Over the last couple of days though, something inside that cloud of anger roiling around inside of me has changed. It’s shifted. I didn’t want him to kiss me. I never asked for it. But as I’ve gotten a little time and distance from it, I’m starting to see that it didn’t feel – wrong. As I look back on it, I realize that there was something about that kiss that sort of unlocked something inside of me. Something that, as I recall it, feels – right.
But it can’t feel right. That’s just wrong. I’m not gay. I’m not into men. And the fact that I’m even thinking it felt right in any way whatsoever is freaking me the hell out. I know things have been changing inside of me for a little while now and I’ve been kind of fucked up in the head lately, but I don’t know what to think about any of this.
I sigh and look down at the books on the table in front of me, trying to occupy my mind with schoolwork rather than the pile of shit that’s currently taking up space in my head. I half listen to the conversations of the people walking by and at the tables surrounding me on the patio in front of the coffee house. I’d tried studying in the library but it’s a nice day out and I didn’t want to be cooped up so I figured some fresh air would do me some good.
A cool breeze blows past me, sending a few of my papers skittering off the table and onto the sidewalk in front of the coffee house.
“Shit,” I mutter.
I quickly get out of my seat and start gathering up my wayward papers, grumbling at the people on the patio for not having the courtesy to help. I grab a page that was heading for the fountain across the quad then turn around – and find myself face to face with Wes. He gives me a soft smile and offers me the three pages he’d picked up off the ground.
“I believe these are yours,” he says.
His voice is rich and smooth and sends a shiver down the length of my spine. I look into eyes that are a frosty blue and feel my breath catch in my throat. Wes is tall and trim, he’s got an athletic and lean runner’s body, and has neatly cut hair the color of deep space and tawny skin. And the fact that I’m looking at him, thinking the thoughts I am right now, is tripping me out even more.
I take the pages from his hand. “Thanks.”
I return to my seat and stack my papers together then set a notebook on top of them to keep them from flying away in the first place. My stomach lurches when Wes takes the seat across from me and sits back, staring at me with those intense blue eyes. We stare at each other in silence for a few minutes, the air around us awkward and strained.
“I haven’t seen you in a bit,” he finally breaks the wall of ice between us.
“Yeah. Been busy.”
“You sure?” he asks. “Or is it because you’re uncomfortable around me now?”
I look around to make sure nobody is listening to us – this is not a conversation I want anybody overhearing. But everybody seems wrapped up in their own conversations or has their face buried in a laptop or a phone, so I doubt they’re paying attention.
“What do you expect, Wes?” I reply. “You know I’m not – like you.”
He arches an eyebrow at me. “Are you sure, Dylan?”
“Of course I’m sure,” I snap. “What the hell kind of question is that?”
He sighs and looks down at the table for a moment before raising his eyes to mine again. He gives me a sympathetic expression and a tight smile.
“Look, I haven’t wanted to push you about this – I still don’t,” he tells me. “I just – I can see that you’re struggling. Bad. And I want you to know that I’m here for you.”
“Thanks, but I’m doing fine.”
“You don’t look like it. You look like shit.”
I roll my eyes. “Thanks. Great pep talk.”
“All I’m saying is that you look like you haven’t been sleeping. Or at least, not very well.”
A wry smile touches my lips. It’s like he can read my mind or something. I know he said we have similar stories but I don’t see it. I don’t see where the parallels run – mainly because I’m straight. And yet despite that, it’s like Wes can see into me. It’s like he can lay me bare and see what’s going through my mind and heart simply by looking at me.
“I haven’t,” I admit. “I’ve been sleeping like shit for the last week.”
“I’m not surprised,” he replies.
I’m excellent at controlling my emotions and my reactions – most of the time, anyway. I do my best to avoid giving away what I’m thinking or feeling. It’s a survival tactic I had to learn early on in my home. If there’s one thing my father can’t tolerate – though, there are many, many things he can’t tolerate – it’s what he calls excessive displays of emotion.
I remember once when I was about six or seven, I got a very thorough spanking because I cried. It didn’t matter that my cat had just died, my dad didn’t want to see me cry. He said it wasn’t manly and made me look like a weak little girl. When I wouldn’t stop crying over my cat, my dad beat me with his belt so bad, I couldn’t walk for two days. I could barely lay on my back because of the pain in my ass.
So yeah, I learned to keep my emotions in check pretty early on in life. I’ve gotten so good at it, people can never tell what I think or feel about anything. They say they get more emotional connection from a stone. Which is the point. I keep everything tightly controlled and my emotions under lock and key inside of me so that nobody ever knows where I stand.
My dad says being able to keep people from knowing what you think or how you feel about something is a position of power. It means they can never take advantage of you or use your emotions against you. I find it kind of sad to live in a way that you’re so closed off from everybody and the world around you, but he says it’s a vital skill to have in business.
Wes has been something of a surprise to me. I’ve never had somebody who could see through me so easily. Nobody in my life has ever been able to pierce that armor I surround myself with to get to the heart of the things buried deep inside of me. With nothing more than a look, Wes has been able to take my measure in ways nobody in my life ever has.
