Freed, page 5
While that makes him dangerous to me, it is also something I find absolutely exhilarating. For the first time in my life, I can just be myself around somebody. I can let my guard down and be who I am without fear of judgment or punishment.
Not that I’ve been able to do that with Wes. It’s not quite that easy after twenty-one years of relentless programming from my dad. Wes seems to think it’s a simple matter of flipping a switch and all of the sudden, I’ll be a new person and live a shiny, happy new life. That I’ll be able to pursue my passion for literature and have some magical, happily ever after.
But it doesn’t work like that. Not in the real world.
“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” I say, shaking my head miserably. “Everything in my life was going just fine and now – it’s all falling apart around me.”
Wes sits back in his seat, taking a drink of his coffee and watches me, waiting for me to continue. And at first, I don’t feel like I have anything to say. I’m having a hard enough time figuring out what it is I’m thinking or even feeling these days, let alone finding a way to give voice to them.
“Nothing makes sense to me anymore, Wes,” I tell him. “And I don’t know why it’s changing.”
“I think it’s because you’re two people right now.”
I cock my head and look at him. “Two people?”
He nods. “There are two people inside of you – who you think you should be, and who you are.”
I run a hand through my hair. “I guess that makes sense in a way.”
“Sooner or later, you’re going to have to kill one of them,” he presses. “There’s only room for one, Dylan. If you keep trying to be both, you’re going to drive yourself mad.”
I sit back and take a long swallow of my drink, processing his words. Lately, it has seemed like there’s another side of me that’s struggling to get out. I don’t know what that side of me looks like right now though. I’m scared of it – especially in light of what happened between Wes and I last week and my thoughts on it.
I know I should be yelling at him right now. Telling him to get away from me. I should be reminding him for the millionth time that I’m not gay and that I want nothing to do with him. But the truth of the matter is that I have never felt more comfortable around anybody as I do with Wes. I know I can tell him anything and he’ll listen. And although we’ve only been hanging out a few weeks now, I can safely say I’ve never felt closer to anybody in my life.
What does it all mean?
“I like you, Dylan,” he says. “And I hate to see you tearing yourself apart like this.”
“I wish I knew how to stop it,” I say. “But I don’t even know who I am, Wes.”
“I think you do.”
I shake my head. “I have no idea. Everything is just so fucked up in my head right now that I barely know up from down.”
“Deep down, I think you knew who you are, Dylan.”
“I’m not,” I say weakly. “I’m not like you.”
“The way you kissed me back the other day tells me otherwise.”
My stomach roils and my lips burn as I think about the kiss – a kiss that never should have happened. But one I can’t stop thinking about. I quickly gather all my things and shove them haphazardly into my bag, wanting nothing more than to be alone for a while. I need to get my head back on straight and stop my head and my heart from going where they seem to want to go. There’s simply too much at stake for me.
“I – I have to go,” I stammer.
Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I walk away from the table and Wes quickly. I hear him behind me though and a moment later, he’s walking right beside me. I do my best to avoid his gaze – to ignore him completely. But he won’t let up.
“I’m worried about you, Dylan.”
“I’m fine,” I reply. “There’s nothing for you to worry about.”
“There’s plenty for me to worry about,” he says. “I care about you.”
“I told you, I’m fine.”
Wes grabs me by the arm and spins me around so I’m facing him. I yank my arm away from him, my irritation flaring as I cut a quick look around, worried that somebody is going to see me with him. I’m sure from the outside, it looks like some kind of lover’s spat and that’s the last impression I want to give off.
“Still worried people are going to think you’re a fag, Dylan?”
“What do you want from me?”
“I want you to stop pretending to be somebody you’re not,” he insists. “I want you to start being the person you and I both know you really are.”
“You don’t know shit,” I hiss.
Wes snorts, a wry grin on his face. “I know a lot more than you think.”
“You really don’t.”
I turn to go and Wes grabs me by the arm again, more forcefully this time. I spin around and plant my hands on his chest, giving him a shove backward. He stumbles back a couple of steps and looks at me with a blend of concern and frustration on his face.
“All of that shit you’re feeling right now? That big knot of emotion in your chest?” he starts, “That’s only going to get worse the longer you deny it, Dylan. There’s cracks in that wall you’ve built up inside of yourself already. Those cracks will grow and grow, and then what?”
“You tell me since you seem to have all the answers.”
“About this, yes I do. I’ve been here, Dylan,” he presses. “And let me tell you that when that wall eventually crumbles – and it will – you are going to explode. You think you’re a mess now? Just wait. It’ll get worse.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
I turn to go but Wes grabs hold of me again and spins me around. I once again yank my arm away and stand face to face with him, my irritation slowly bleeding into anger. I ball my hands into fists at my sides
“Talk to me, Dylan.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Hey, what the fuck’s going on here?”
I turn and find Spencer striding toward us, his eyes locked onto Wes. Spencer stands beside me, his tall, bulky frame seeming to dwarf Wes.
“What’s the problem here?” Spencer asks.
“I’m having a private conversation with Dylan,” Wes replies. “You mind?”
Spencer looks over at me and I shake my head, frowning. “We’re done,” I say. “There’s nothing left to talk about.”
“Dylan, I –”
“He said there’s nothin’ to talk about,” Spencer growls. “Now why don’t you take your fairy ass out of here?”
“Stay out of this, Spencer,” Wes fires back. “This has nothing to do with you.”
“He doesn’t want to talk to you,” Spencer responds. “So leave him the fuck alone.”
“He’s a big boy, I think he can tell me to leave himself if he doesn’t want –”
Wes’s words are cut off as the air in his lungs is driven out with a loud whoosh. Spencer’s movements were fluid and lightning quick as he stepped forward and drove his fist into Wesley’s stomach. He doubles over then falls on his ass, clutching his gut, and moans miserably as he fights to catch his breath. Spencer takes a step forward and looms over Wes, pointing at him.
“Leave him the fuck alone, faggot,” he snarls. “Do you understand?”
Wes holds Spencer’s gaze unflinchingly, his face dark with anger. He lets Spencer’s question hang in the air between the two of them crackles with electricity and the whispered promise of violence. But Wes finally breaks eye contact, apparently deciding against ratcheting up the anger between them anymore than it already is.
“Come on, man. Let’s get out of here.”
I turn and look back over my shoulder as we go. Wes has gotten to his knees but is still clutching his belly and fighting to catch his breath. I feel terrible not only that it happened but that I’m leaving him like that. I never wanted anything like that to happen. The last thing I wanted was for Wes to get hurt.
“You okay?” Spencer asks.
“Yeah, I’m good,” I reply. “Thanks for getting me out of there. But you didn’t have to punch him.”
“Needed to make sure he got the message.”
“Kind of hard to miss it.”
“Good, Then I hopefully won’t need to repeat myself.”
I cast one last glance behind us as Spencer and I head for our frat house. All I want to do right now is get blindingly drunk and high.
Chapter Six
Wesley
He knocks on my door again, more insistently this time, making it difficult to ignore it. I already know who’s at the door but what I don’t know is how he found out where I live since I’ve got an apartment off campus. I consider turning the music up and letting him knock until his knuckles bleed. But there’s that piece inside of me that cares about him and wants to talk.
Groaning to myself and feeling like a weak pushover, I walk to the front door. I take a deep breath and let it out before opening it to find Dylan standing there with his hands in his pockets and a sheepish look on his face. I lean against the door frame and stare at him for a minute.
“What do you want?” I finally ask.
“I was hoping we could talk.”
“You made it pretty clear the other day that there was nothing left to talk about,” I snap. “Oh, and I’m fine by the way. Thanks for checking up on me after your goon punched me.”
“Look, I’m sorry Spencer did that,” he says. “I didn’t ask him to. I didn’t know he was going to.”
“Fantastic. That makes it all better.”
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Can we talk?”
My insides are a churning mess of emotions – frustration chief among them. But my feelings for Dylan are woven throughout everything else, which is blurring all the lines. I promised myself that I wasn’t going to keep beating my head against the wall with Dylan. After what happened the other day, I decided that he was either going to accept who he is or he wasn’t. And if he did, it would have to be on his own schedule. I’d tried to shepherd him down that path, tried to help him avoid all the missteps and potholes that had caused me so much pain, and he’d turned me away.
So I figured that if he didn’t want my help, then he wasn’t going to get it. So be it.
But now, standing here face to face with him, I feel my resolve crumbling. Those sparkling green eyes of his have a way of melting my defenses and making it difficult for me to hold to the promises I’ve made to myself.
I let out a loud breath and step aside, pushing the door inward to let him in. Dylan gives me a tight smile and walks into my place, his head down, his posture pensive. I close the door and lead him into the living room.
“Have a seat,” I gesture to the couch.
He sits as I walk over to my desk and turn off my playlist on Spotify, plunging the room into silence. I turn and look at him but he’s staring at the floor, his apprehension radiating off him like heat from the sun.
“You want something to drink?” I offer.
He shakes his head. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”
I turn my desk chair around and sit down. We sit like that, with nothing but the sound of the clock on the wall ticking for several long minutes, the awkward strain growing between us by the second. I sigh.
“What did you want to talk about, Dylan?”
He looks at me like a chastened puppy, his eyes wide, his face etched with nervousness.
“I – uhhh – I haven’t seen you around in a little while,” he starts. “I tried to catch you after class and –”
“Yeah, I’ve been keeping my distance. I have this thing about not getting my ass beat,” I retort.
His gaze falls to the ground again and an expression of sorrow blended with pain crosses his face. I can tell he genuinely feels bad about his friend hitting me but I’m not about to let him off the hook for it just yet.
“What do you want, Dylan?”
He looks up and the expression on his face breaks my heart but I know I need to stand firm. Especially now. I can’t help him if he isn’t going to help himself. And if he’s not going to help himself, I can’t get caught up in him because his life will be an emotional roller coaster. I’m in a good place within myself and I’m not going to jeopardize that. Not for anybody.
“I’m just so confused, Wes.”
“I know you are,” I say. “I told you that there isn’t room for two people inside of you. I told you that eventually, the dam would break.”
He nods. “I know. I just don’t know what to do about it.”
“The first thing you need to do is accept who are you,” I encourage him. “Who you really are.”
He shakes his head. “That’s the problem, I don’t know who I am. I’ve told you that.”
“And I’ve told you that you do,” I state. “You’re just unable or unwilling to accept it.”
He looks at me for a long moment. “You think I’m gay.”
I open my mouth to reply but then close it again, wanting to give myself a moment to formulate a thoughtful response. I know what I say is going to be important to him so I want to give it a thought before I blurt something out.
“Ultimately, what I think doesn’t matter. What you think and what you’re willing to accept is what’s important, Dylan,” I begin. “What I think is that you’re not comfortable in your own skin. I think you know that when you’re with a woman, something isn’t right. Something’s missing. And I think you’ve felt that way for a long time.”
He sighs and scrubs at his face with his hands. His eyes take on a faraway look, as if he’s scrolling back through the memories of his life, searching for answers.
“When I was eighteen, I went to the prom with Katie Sanderson. Gorgeous girl. Most beautiful girl in the school,” he starts. “Anyway, after prom, we went to the hotel room I’d booked for our private afterparty.”
I nod in understanding. “And let me guess, it didn’t go well?”
He shrugs. “I mean, it went well enough, I guess. We had sex and everything,” he tells me. “But I didn’t enjoy it. As I was fucking her, I couldn’t help but think it just didn’t feel right.”
It’s a story I’ve heard countless times before from my friends. Hell, it’s my story too so I can relate to exactly where he’s coming from. At one point in time, I was him.
“But I knew that was kind of expected of me – screwing the prom queens and the cheerleaders,” he continues. “That’s what somebody in my position was supposed to do so I did it. But honestly, it never felt right.”
I nod. “I’ve been there, Dylan,” I say gently. “I get it.”
“What did you do?” he asks. “I mean, how did you finally get comfortable being who you are?”
“I just made the decision to stop living for others,” I reply honestly. “I made the decision to live for myself.”
A wry grin touches his lips. “You make it sound so easy.”
I shake my head. “Believe it, it’s not easy. Not at all,” I respond. “But I came to realize that I owed it to myself to be true to me. I learned to love and value myself.”
“And what happened then?”
“I’m not going to lie to you, Dylan,” I say. “I lost friends when I came out. I haven’t spoken to my father since then – he obviously didn’t approve. It sucks and it’s hard.”
Dylan looks down at his hands, his expression darkening. “Was it worth it?”
I nod without hesitation. “Without a doubt. Living my life on my terms, for myself, and not trapped by somebody else’s definitions or expectations is the greatest gift I could have given myself,” I tell him. “Not having to pretend to be somebody I’m not and living my life free and without regret? Yeah, it’s worth it.”
Dylan lets out a long breath and sinks back into the couch, his face reflecting the turmoil in his mind. I remember all too well just how scary this is. Not knowing what’s going to happen or whether you’re going to be accepted by your friends and family – or not accepted. That all too real possibility of being rejected hangs over everything and is the biggest driver of the fear.
At the same time though, I can’t coddle Dylan. He’s going to have to learn to stand on his own two feet. Of course I’ll be here for him if he wants to finally walk that path, but I can’t keep holding his hand if he continues to deny his true nature.
“Why did you come here today, Dylan?”
He looks up at me as if I startled him, his eyes wide and frightened. He chews on his bottom lip and looks up at the ceiling as if lost in thought. He looks like a man considering his entire life and isn’t finding it particularly flattering. Finally, he looks back at me, his face grim and the light of confusion shining bright in his eyes.
“I guess because I feel like I can trust you,” he says softly. “I feel close to you in ways I can’t understand or explain, Wes. I know I can talk to you in ways I can’t talk to my other friends.”
I give him a tight smile and get to my feet. “I’m going to get a bottle of water,” I say. “Would you like one?”
“Yeah, sure.”
He nods then looks down at the floor and as he does, my heart breaks for him. He looks like a man who’s on the verge of becoming completely unmoored. Like a man who knows he’s about to be lost at sea with no land in sight and is doing everything he can to keep that from happening. He’s swimming as hard as he can toward the shore. And he’s looking to me like a life preserver. He’s looking at me like somebody who can help pull him out of the water and back to safety.
Dylan’s entire identity – his entire state of being – is wrapped up in being a straight man. It’s the way he’s lived for all of his twenty-one years and is the only thing he knows. Without his cheerleaders and prom queens, without his alpha male jock buddies, and his sense of self-worth that’s tightly interwoven with his perception of masculine heterosexuality, Dylan doesn’t know what to do with himself.
I go into the kitchen and pull a couple bottles of water out of the refrigerator. When I turn around though, I give a start and nearly lose my grip on the bottles. Dylan is standing in the doorway, his eyes fixed on me.
