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Los Angeles is about as far from the eastern shore as you can get while still staying in the continental United States.
That’s kind of the point.
New York is only four or five hours away, depending on how fast you drive. It’s too close; you can make it a quick weekend trip.
So L.A. it is.
Getting out is the goal.
I waver a little on L.A. when Beau tells me he can’t go. Who am I without him? He’s been a constant in my life since we were little kids; loving him has been a constant, too.
Not that I’d ever tell him that. He’d freak out. I don’t know if the rumors are true (if they are, he’s never told me), but I do know that regardless, Beau isn’t immune to the homophobia that permeates our entire town.
I need to get out.
I can’t stay in this place, not even for Beau.
And once I leave, I’m never coming back. Maybe he’ll be able to come visit me – or even move there himself – later. I can’t imagine my life without him, but I really can’t stay.
When I look over at him as we walk to the ice cream shop, I’m briefly taken aback by how beautiful he is. The way his hair looks like fire in the sunlight, the freckles that cover his face, his bright brown eyes, the way his piercing always draws my attention to his lips.
Not that I need any help for that.
I shake my head and try to focus.
We’re getting ice cream. It’s a normal summer day. I’m hopelessly in love with my best friend, who I might never see again once I leave.
He doesn’t love me back – not like that. He never will. I’m used to it.
Maybe in L.A. I’ll get a real boyfriend, but I doubt it. I’m too fucked for anyone decent. I’ve never even really kissed anyone before – it’s impossible to imagine anyone staying once they see the scars, and that’s just the surface.
Beau nudges my rib, and I try not to wince at the pain it brings. Beau doesn’t know. He can’t know. He’d lose his goddamn mind.
He might not be in love with me, but he does love me.
Most people can’t stand to see the people they love hurt.
We get our ice cream and wander around town with it until we eventually settle on the swingset at the playground. I avert my eyes when Beau’s tongue darts out to lick away a little melted ice cream.
I save any thoughts about Beau’s tongue for later, when I can feel horribly guilty about it in peace.
“I’ll miss you.” I say it without thinking.
Beau freezes, a strange look on his face.
After too long a pause, he says, “It’s my fucking parents’ fault.”
We don’t talk about feelings. We’re guys. Beau’s had enough rumors following him around about secretly being a homo to be comfortable with anything like that.
I wonder if I can ever tell him.
I know I won’t.
-
When I get home, my dad is still at work, and my mom is just on the wrong side of sober. I still kiss her cheek and ask her about her day.
She tells me to take off my shirt. I don’t want any trouble, and I definitely don’t want her to tell my dad I’ve been being difficult, so I do as she asks.
I know the drill by now.
She’s a nurse; she inspects my bruises, pokes at me, makes sure it’s nothing we can’t keep secret.
I know by now there’s a measure of control in my dad’s rage. He’s never broken a rib, or given me a black eye. He’s careful about it. He’ll beat the shit out of me, but just enough for me not to have to go to the hospital.
I’ve given up on wondering what I ever did to disappoint him so much. I’ve always done whatever he’s asked. I excel at school. I have a lot of friends – beyond Beau; friends my parents actually approve of.
My only real deficit is wanting to fuck Beau Dolan, and I’m pretty sure my dad hasn’t figured that out yet, because I’m still alive.
I put my shirt back on and pop the ibuprofen my mother gives me. She offers me a sip of her glass of wine. I decline.
Sometimes I almost think she might love me. That feeling only ever lasts until my dad gets home.
“You just need to give him some space, Miles,” she says, like I haven’t been doing my best to avoid him since I realized I could never make him love me.
Still, I nod and say, “I know.”
I do my chores and go to take a shower when I’m done.
Under the spray, I think about L.A. What I’m going to do there. I’ve already decided that I’m going to be out. Maybe I’ll even join a GSA or whatever they’re called.
Inevitably, though, my thoughts turn to Beau. L.A. would be better with him there, I know it. He needs to get out, too. We wouldn’t need anything as long as we had each other.
And then, because that’s truly pathetic, I think about Beau’s tongue. His freckles (do they really go all over?). His shoulders. His hands. His lips. How would it feel to kiss him with that lip ring? How would it feel to have those lips wrapped around my dick?
I’m never going to have the real thing, I know, as I wrap my hand around my dick and I lose myself in the fantasy where he does everything I desperately want him to do.
I try to muffle my moan when I come. I watch my come as it circles the drain.
Beau would never speak to me again if he knew about this.
I couldn’t blame him.
I wouldn’t waste time on me, either.
-
You’d think that the cutting would come on nights when he hits me.
It usually doesn’t.
I can’t always explain why it happens, but at least I’ve moved to my upper thighs.
My mom never asks to see my legs.
-
I spend every second I can that summer with Beau – to the point where I start to get a little nervous that he might be able to tell. I don’t think I’m obvious, but Beau knows me better than anyone else.
I don’t know how I’m supposed to leave him.
But I have to.
I can’t stay here.
I’ve clung to the idea of getting out so long that staying really would drive me to actually kill myself.
I think about it sometimes. The way to hurt Beau the least and my dad the most. I don’t think I’ve found it yet.
When I think about getting out, I don’t want to die. I know that getting out alive is a million times better than dying here.
Sometimes I think about making it. I don’t exactly know what I want to do with my life. In my situation, it’s hard to have finite ambitions beyond getting out.
But I know if I ever have kids, I’m never laying a hand on them. It’s the bare minimum, but I know to me, it would feel like an accomplishment.
It’s hard to picture the distant future. I don’t even know what getting out will actually look like.
Will L.A. secretly be awful? I’ve never lived in a city, and our odd class trips to D.C. were restricted to the Smithsonian. Maybe I’ll hate city living. Maybe everyone will think I’m some backwoods redneck. Maybe I’ll be even more miserable over there.
But at least I won’t have to see my parents.
I can actually have a chance to be myself.
And I won’t get that here.
Beau and I spend the summer like we always do – like I’m not leaving at all. It’s his way of coping, I guess. For me, I don’t know how to say everything I want to – at least if I still want Beau to put up with me.
Maybe I’ll get over this all in L.A.
I haven’t been able to move on for six years, but maybe somehow, leaving will be the final kick I need.
Who knows?