"Sure you don't want to come?" Wes asks as he appears in the kitchen.
I'm sitting at the counter feeling drained, nursing a glass of water absentmindedly as Grace moves about.
"No thanks." I decline again.
Wes tics as he steps into the small foyer to find his shoes. "You sure?"
I nod, following it with a "yeah". I don't have the energy to go out. The past few days have been eventful in a not so great way.
"What am I? Chop liver?" Grace asks, feigning hurt as she holds a spatula in her hand.
"You wouldn't have fun." Wes says. "We're just going to do a bunch of drugs and pass out."
Grace smiles, the banter that they've always had present as she says "Ugh boring, well remember what I always say..."
"Don't share needles." Wes finishes for her, cussing at the end before he adds, "but really I'll be with Mack."
I don't miss the smile on his face when he says her name and when I turn back around as the door click shuts Grace is staring at me.
"What do you think about Mack?" She asks.
The spatula is still in her hand as she leans against the counter as if Wes is still in the room and we're trying to keep the conversation discreet.
"They obviously like each other."
She hums her agreement. "Think he's over Laurel?"
Wes and I haven't talked much about Laurel or their break up. But he seems okay with it, maybe even relieved.
"Yeah."
She taps the counter with the spatula, her eyes drifting toward the door where Wes was moments ago.
"What's holding him back then?" She asks.
For all that Wes is and all that he's gone through, he doesn't hold back. He's become more bold, more confident as the years have gone by.
"I don't think anything holds back Wes."
Grace pauses, both of us staring at each other before her expression softens and her hand reaches across the counter for me. There's a stain right where our hands meet from a bottle of red wine that Darren swiped from his mom at the end of our senior year. The memory is faded and foggy in my mind but I remember Ellie screaming and Savannah desperately trying to clean up the crimson liquid before it soaked into the cheap Formica counter.
"You don't have to let things hold you back either Brett." Grace says gently.
I scoff, accidentally, but it's a genuine reaction because it feels like all I do is let things hold me back. It's how I was raised. Grace releases a slow breath, her fingers squeezing my arm.
"All you need to do is live a life that makes you happy."
She makes it sound so easy. And maybe it would be if she had been my mom from the get go.
"I know you're still worried about your parents and their beliefs but those don't have to be yours Brett. You're allowed to be your own person. You're allowed to do what makes you happy."
Her green eyes are soft and full of love as she tries to force the words into my soul. It's not the first time she's told me some version of this and it's not the first time I sat there wanting to believe it.
"I don't know if you and James will end up together, you might not and you'll be okay. But what's not okay is letting your parents have so much control over you and your life. Don't give them that."
I swallow down a lump that's lodged itself in my throat, surrounded by a home that's only ever shown me love and acceptance, with a woman who provided that. A woman I have wished countless times had been my mom. Why did I have to grow up with my parents? With their strict stifling rules? And their overbearing political and social views? Why did I have to be gay? Especially under that roof? It wouldn't have mattered had I been Grace's son.
But somewhere in all of my what if's, I know that Grace is right. I've spent my entire life, bending to the rules and opinions of my parents. Even after they tossed me aside. And I don't want to feel this way anymore. I don't want to be alone.
I know it's not as easy as flipping a switch. I can't just stop fearing things. But I came home for a reason. And I'm not going to let that reason slip away without trying.
I tell Grace "thanks" leaving my water abandoned on the counter after a hug and slip away to my room. As soon as the door is shut, I stare at my meticulously made bed with its tight corners and anger rips through me. Why am I still making my bed like this? Why is my room still devoid of anything that represents me?
Bounding to my bed, I tug at the corners, pulling them from their folds. I tear at the smoothed out comforter, balling it up and leaving everything disheveled as my chest heaves, my teeth ground together.
It's at this moment that the anger that consumes me ebbs away and I'm left with the realization that I hate my parents. I hate them.
