My throat is tightening, and it’s getting hard to force the words out. Usually, I’d swallow the sensation down, and breathe until everything loosened up. Instead, now, for the first time in a long, long time, instead of my emotions coming out in a tangle of anger and anxiety, I don’t fight them.
“I decided to come out anyway,” I say, the words fractured. “Which is not against our contract terms. It was so, so important to me that I don’t have to lie about myself anymore. I want to be myself. I want to be allowed to have boyfriends without hiding them. And then … I … started … and they turned my mic off.”
The anger has disappeared from Mom’s face. Dad’s nodding, but it’s a severe sort of nod. A funeral nod.
Finally, tears well up in my eyes. And I don’t fight them.
For the first time in a long, long time, I just let them fall.
“They turned my mic off,” I repeat helplessly.
Mom rises to her feet and wraps her arms around me. I fall against her chest, and everything feels hot and humid and wet. The tears flow more freely now, and I break into sobs as she rubs a flattened palm over my back.
At least she’s stopped screaming at me. It won’t be the last time she does it, but at least, in this moment, I don’t have to deal with her fury on top of everything else. Right now, I’ll take it.
“It’s going to be okay,” she murmurs.
I don’t know how to believe her. But I try.
* * *
Jon’s mom calls a group meeting at her sister’s apartment in Orange County the next day.
When Mom and I arrive, Zach and his mom, Laura, are already there. Dad wanted to come with us, but he had to work and Mom convinced him she’d give him the rundown when she got home.
I make a beeline for Zach as soon as we step out of the private elevator, which opens into a hallway attached to the main living area. We throw our arms around each other while our moms give each other pleasant, if detached, greetings. All of our parents know each other, of course; they met during our performance at Camp Hollow Rock years ago, and have sat together at numerous concerts and events since. I suspect that Laura isn’t the biggest fan of my mom, though. I also suspect that’s mostly because Zach’s told her his very strong opinions about my mom.
Mrs. Braxton is a petite woman, shorter than Jon, with a halo of dark brown, curly hair, and a smile that’s usually beaming, but today has a tired, tight edge to it. Jon messaged us last night and told us by the time we’d landed back in LA, she’d already packed his stuff and taken it, as well as herself, to stay here for a while. I doubt either of them got much sleep last night.
She nudges a pizza box toward us. “Hungry?”
Mom blinks like she’s been assaulted with something hideous and confronting. “Oh. Pizza. Maybe later.” Her smile is convincing, now. Smooth recovery. “Thank you so much for hosting, Shantelle,” she says. “This was a wonderful idea, getting everyone together to strategize before we have the chance to be bowled over.”
“Help me move the boxes?” Jon asks Zach and me. We set about transporting the pizza from the kitchen counter to the coffee table and end tables. The dining table is only big enough for four people, so setting us up in the living room on the couches and armchairs was the best call.
“It’s good of you to squeeze us all in,” Mom’s saying to Mrs. Braxton. “If I’d thought of it, I would’ve offered our house. There’s more room for guests, and it has LAX.”
Zach’s head snaps up. He’s gripping a pizza box so tightly it’s buckling. He stays silent, though. Jon merely rolls his eyes.
“It’s no trouble,” Mrs. Braxton says. “I just wanted this done as quickly as possible. I’m so furious I could just, argh. I figured we need wine, and pizza, and an action plan.”
“Well,” Mom says, taking a seat at the kitchen counter. “I think we’re all furious. Chorus Management has no right to do this,” Mom says, repeating her heated words from last night. In her rage, she seems to have forgotten that Mrs. Braxton’s husband is our manager. “Our boys are the hardest workers I’ve ever seen, and they’re talented, and they’re good kids. And as for whether they come out or not, it was never management’s decisions to begin with.”
Exactly what she said to me last night, after I collected myself. Then she placed her hands on my shoulders. You’re my son. If they mess with you, they mess with me.
The words were meant to be supportive, but I was left feeling confused, and a little empty. Because the message received was, I’m the only one who’s allowed to hurt and limit you. And as grateful as I was to ultimately have my parents’ support, and for things to not be made worse than they were, it didn’t feel the same as real support. It didn’t feel the same as unconditional.
As she let go of my shoulders, I was reminded of the night of Angel’s accident, when I’d gotten sucked into the crowd. It was the crowd that’d almost drowned me, and then it was the crowd that saved me. It hit me that it had felt awfully familiar. It was the same sensation as receiving my mom’s version of love my whole life.
The elevator dings, and the doors open to reveal Mr. and Mrs. Phan, as well as Angel, and the noise levels in the apartment suddenly seem to quadruple. In the midst of the bustling as everyone relocates to the living room to get started, Mrs. Phan comes face-to-face with Jon, and she stops in her tracks, staring at him.
Jon cocks his head as he seems to realize she has something to say. “Hi,” he says, a question tingeing the edges of his tone.
“Hi,” she says warmly. She hesitates, then powers forward with her arms out and wraps Jon in a hug. He keeps his eyes open, wide and confused, as she squeezes him. “Reece told us you’re the reason he got help. We wouldn’t have known. Anything could’ve happened. Thank you.”
Mrs. Braxton watches with wobbling lips. When Jon’s released by Mrs. Phan, Mrs. Braxton holds her arms out from where she’s sitting in an armchair, and he sits on the armrest so she can wrap her arms around his middle.
Angel dives straight into the pizza, and Zach and I follow his lead. “I’m starving,” he proclaims, shoving a slice in his mouth as he scrolls his phone. “Hey, we’re trending.”