I ignore the dig. “That’s the last thing they’ll ever approve. They’re terrified of the public finding out about Zach and me. They won’t even let us get photographed standing next to each other, let alone film ourselves without Jon at my house.”
It’s the first time I’ve mentioned the censorship to my parents. I say it with as much emotion as I can, so they can’t possibly miss how I feel about it. I guess, in a way, it’s a test. I want them to probe. To lean forward, and say, What do you mean? That’s not okay. Do you want to talk about it? How can we help?
Instead, Dad takes out his phone and mutters “work email,” and Mom’s face clouds. “Well … do you think it’s wise for him to come over at all, then? Maybe you should wait until the next gathering…”
I stare, aghast. “Are you serious? Mom, seeing Zach in private is all I have. He’s my boyfriend.”
“The question is, how serious are you, Ruben? You have the opportunity of a lifetime. Don’t throw it away on a high school relationship.”
I’m so hurt, so outraged, I can’t form a reply. Even Dad must think it’s gone too far, because he stretches, and gets up. “All right. I’m gonna have a shower before dinner.”
Mom and I face each other down. She chews on her bottom lip, doing her best to tell me how extremely disappointed in me she is with her face. It’s not exactly an unfamiliar expression to me. I can read her perfectly.
“We’ve already eaten,” she says to him finally, following him out. “There’s some ensalada Rusa in the fridge, and I can reheat you some tortilla from last night, if you don’t mind having that twice in a row…”
“I’m sure it’ll be great,” he says, his voice fading as they leave the living room.
That’s Dad’s usual contribution when Mom and I face down. Changing the subject, distraction, or escaping. It has a pretty good success rate as a de-escalation technique. Though it’d be nice if, just once, he had my back instead of shutting the conversation down. But he does like to take the easy, nonconfrontational route wherever possible.
Holy shit, did I just describe Zach or my dad?
I pull a face and turn to my phone to distract myself. I’m not in the mood for Freudian introspection tonight, thanks all the same.
There are messages from Zach and Jon waiting, as well as a missed FaceTime call from Zach. Obviously, they’ve both read the update email from Chorus.
Jon: Dad said Angel’s not allowed to take any calls while he’s checked in, but we can send him a message if we’re happy for it to be read by the staff there first. I’m going to put something together tonight. Anything specific you want me to say from you?
Zach: FINALLY!?!?
I smile, shoot Jon a get-well-soon message for Angel, then head to my room and call Zach.
“Hey,” he says, breathless. The floor behind him is littered with clothing. “So, I’m packing for tomorrow. Do I need to bring anything special?”
I raise an eyebrow and grin. “You’re only coming for one night.”
“Right, but I thought I’d check…”
“Anything you forget you can just borrow from here.”
He hesitates. “You sure?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t want to assume…”
I’m confused now. “Just bring whatever you could possibly anticipate needing. If you forget something, we’ll figure it out. I think you’re overthinking it.”
“I’m totally overthinking it. You’re right.” He lets out a breath that’s way too heavy for a conversation about packing enough socks and underwear. “So, possible activity suggestion: we make s’mores, then collect Jon from the airport and storm the Armstrong Center to check on Angel?”
“I wish.”
“I’m totally serious, dude. I have a whole break-in planned.”
I snuggle into my pillow while Zach summarizes the proposed crime, a plan that somehow includes chain saws, bubble gum, and an impromptu a capella performance of “End of Everything.” He’s talking total crap, and we both know it, but I don’t cut him off. It’s just nice to hear his voice, and pretend he’s lying beside me, whispering into the dark while we put off falling asleep. In the end, it’s not me who cuts him off, but a knock at my door.
Mom pokes her head in as we hang up. “I thought you were asleep already,” she remarks. “Then I heard voices.”
“I wouldn’t go to bed without saying good night.”
“Hmm, you better not.” A smile plays on the corner of her lips. “I’ve had too many nights without any kid to say good night to. It’s good to have you back.”
This is the thing about Mom. The thing that makes it so hard to know how to manage her. She’s got a nasty streak, but it’s not because she hates me. It’s just sort of … how she is. She has a soft side, too. In a lot of ways, the soft side makes it harder. If she was awful 100 percent of the time, it’d be easier to cut off contact without guilt. But knowing that to lose all the bad stuff, I lose the few good moments in the middle, where I have a mom standing in my doorway implying she missed me … even though the good stuff isn’t worth all the bad, it does make it tougher.
“Mom?” I ask.
“Yeah?”
What I want to say is, Zach and I want to come out. I’m worried they won’t let us. I’m worried what they’ll do to all of us if something doesn’t give.
But then our chat in the living room comes back to me, and I think better of it. “Can you take a photo of me tomorrow before Zach comes for my stories? If I can get Chorus’s permission?”
Her eyes sparkle. I feel dirty. Like I somehow just took responsibility for tonight’s disagreement. But sometimes, it feels worth it just to placate her. “Sounds great. Want the light on or off?”
“Off’s fine. I’ll go to bed soon. Night.”
“Good night, sweetie.”
See? To hear her voice like that, all happy and warm, is worth the dirty feeling.
Kind of.
My phone lights up, and I grab it to find a message from Zach already.
Hey so … you’re still on PrEP, right?