“Aw, you guys are so cute,” Nat says as Lys snaps a photo of us.
“I’m so posting this right now,” Lys says. “Caption: Roosevelt High alumnus Gavin Davis wins Boyfriend of the Year award.”
It is a perfect day. Before the show we go to Fisherman’s Wharf and eat clam chowder in sourdough bread bowls. We take pictures with the Golden Gate Bridge in the background, hair whipping around our faces in the wind. We go to Chinatown and the Castro, where I buy a crazy pair of orange sunglasses.
“It’s like gay Disneyland!” Lys says, grinning at all the paraphernalia: T-shirts with gay pride slogans, rainbow-colored everything. She buys a button that says Born This Way in rainbow letters.
Rent is amazing, of course. I don’t let myself think about college, about the promise I made you.
“We’ll get there someday,” you murmur against my hair during intermission. “I promise.”
I squeeze your hand and nod. “I know.”
No day but today, they sing. I wonder if by not sending in that application I made the biggest mistake of my life. But then you lift my hand and kiss my palm and I tell myself—again—that I made the right decision.
I did.
*
I CAN HEAR them shouting from the street.
First, The Giant’s baritone, a threatening growl. Then my mom’s voice, softer and uncertain.
You’ve just dropped me off and I’m tired and birthday happy, but as soon as I hear them I slow down and stop a few feet from the door, immediately tense.
“She already pays her cell phone bill, buys her own clothes,” Mom’s saying. “She’s just a kid—”
“No, she’s not. She’s eighteen. I was helping my family when I was sixteen. You’re spoiling her.”
I stand there on the walkway, unable to move.
“She’s in high school. I’m not going to make her pay rent, Roy, that’s—”
“Who owns this house?” he shouts. “Whose name is on the deed?”
“Roy—”
“Who pays the mortgage every month?”
“Honey, please—”
“Who, goddammit?”
“You,” she says, so quiet I can barely hear her.
“A hundred dollars a week,” he says. “She needs to learn to be a responsible adult.”
“I understand where you’re coming from,” she says, her voice quivering. I’ve never heard my mom go to bat for me like this. “But why don’t we have her put that money aside for college? She’s going to need so many things—”
“This conversation’s over.”
“But—”
“Get the fuck out of my face, Jean. I’ve had a long day.”
There’s the sound of a cupboard slamming and ice falling into a glass. I lean against the garage door and close my eyes. Why can’t I have one day, just one day without The Giant stomping all over my life?
I force myself up the walkway. There’s a cold wind and it blows through the big tree in our front yard, the bare branches shaking like angry fists. I pull open the door and walk inside. The Giant is sitting on the couch now, watching golf. Mom is in the kitchen, doing dishes. She turns around when I come in.
“How was it?” she asks. The smile on her face doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Great. It was really fun. Thanks for letting me go.”
“There’s a little something for you on your bed,” she says. “It’s not much, but…”
“Thanks.”
I’m a little dazed, numb. Does The Giant really expect me to start paying rent? Once the next show starts, I’ll be working less than usual. I won’t even make four hundred dollars a month.
I head into my room, suddenly exhausted. I wish it were this morning again, with you waking me up so we could go have an adventure.
My birthday present from my mom is in a bag with flowers on it. It’s the one we reuse time and again. I can’t remember who got it first—I think Gram put Mom’s birthday gift in it a few years ago. Inside is a dark green sweater, almost the exact color of my eyes, soft, with wooden buttons. It’s funny—I always feel like my mom doesn’t get me, but every present from her is perfect. It strikes me that my mom might know me better than I realize. I try it on. It’s cozy, with the sleeves going a little past my wrists. I set the sweater aside, then get ready for bed. My mom pokes her head in as I’m turning down the covers.
“Does it fit?” she asks, glancing at where the sweater lies over my desk chair.
I nod. “It’s really pretty. Thank you.”
She looks like she wants to say something else, but then just shakes her head.
“I’m so glad you had a good birthday. I’m sorry we couldn’t do more for it.”
The Giant had nixed our ideas for a party, reminding us that he wasn’t made of money and that it didn’t grow on trees.
“Mom,” I say, just as she’s about to shut the door. Her eyes slide to mine. “I heard you guys talking. About the money.”
She sighs. “Shit. I didn’t want to tell you on your birthday. I’m so sorry—there wasn’t much I could do.”
“I know. Thanks for sticking up for me.”
After she closes the door, I collapse onto my bed and call you.
“Hey,” you say, soft. “I thought you’d be asleep by now.”
I tell you what The Giant said and you are livid.
“What the fuck is wrong with him?” you growl.
“I don’t know,” I say.
We talk for a few minutes, but I’m falling asleep, so I tell you I’ll call back in the morning. What feels like minutes later, my phone starts vibrating. Two a.m. It’s you.
“Open your window, baby.”
“What?”
“I’m outside.”
I sit up, disoriented. Sure enough, I see you peering through the window. I carefully slide it up and you crawl inside, then pull me into your arms. I melt into you.
“They’ll kill me if they find you in here,” I murmur.
“They’ve been asleep for hours,” you say, just above a whisper. “It’ll be fine.”
I take your hand and pull you toward the bed and we get tangled up in each other for a good long while, skin against skin, our lips locked. We have to be careful because my bed creaks. We touch and hold and kiss in silence, the only sounds a gasp, a sigh, a quiet groan. When I come, you press your palm against my lips because it feels so good and for a second I forget we’re not alone in your house or your backseat and I can’t help but cry out. You roll off of me and pull me against you. I breathe you in: Irish Spring soap and your boy smell. Your hair is a wild mess and it makes me immeasurably happy to run my hands through it.
“I’ll always take care of you,” you whisper. “Always.”
When I wake up in the morning, you’re gone. There’s an envelope propped against my alarm clock. Inside are four hundred-dollar bills. And a note.
Rent for November. Fuck The Giant. I love you.
TWENTY-THREE
This is how I love you best:
You’re onstage, flinging your body around as your pick cuts across your strings. You and your electric guitar dance a wild, ecstatic round and then your mouth is against the mic and you’re singing about us, about what it feels like to make love to me, and it’s too dark for anyone to see me blush and I’m proud and embarrassed all at once.
Closer, closer I want inside
You’re the place where I can hide
Steamy windows, my backseat