Lockers and Boxers (boyxboy)

Chapter XIX - Take Me to Church

 Gabe kisses me goodbye, but his lips land cold on my cheek. "See you tomorrow," he tells me. I pick up my backpack and open the car door.

"See you," I reply, dryer than I mean to. He glances at me, looking slightly concerned, and offers me an awkward smile. I offer him one back before closing the door.

What the fuck? I whisper to myself as Gabe drives off. Clearly, there's some kind of tension between us. Or am I the one creating it? I can't get the image of him and Ryan out of my mind. I want to shake Gabe and ask him, What do you see in me?

I walk up to my front door, deep in thought, almost tripping over the garden gnome (since when was there a garden gnome in the yard)? My hands shake as I put my key into the doorknob. Before I can even unlock it, my mom opens the door from the inside. Tears are streaming down her reddened face.

"Where were you?!" she shouts, her voice breaking. "I almost called the police! I thought you were dead." I take a deep breath. It's best to approach her calmly when she gets like this.

"I went to a friend's for a sleepover, remember? You told me that story about Stacy and the fiberglass?" She looks at me, bewildered.

"I don't—I don't remember," she cries harder. I pull her into a hug and slowly guide her inside, wanting to avoid the stares of the nosy neighbors. Suburban wine moms love a good breakdown to gossip about. I retrieve my keys and softly close the door.

My mom cries into my shoulder, and I stand there uncomfortably. I've never gotten used to this role. I let her weep for a few minutes longer before gently asking, "Would you like to sit down?" I feel her nod. I wrap my hand around her wrist and guide her to her room. She sits on her bed, looking down at the floor, her tears becoming less frequent.

She's wearing an oversized T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants with holes in them. I can tell that she's embarrassed. I always remind myself that it's not her fault, that it's her brain making her act like this. I love her, but I hope I don't end up like her. Does that make me a bad person?

Pushing that thought aside into the corner with my Gabe-related ones, I ask my mom if she would like a cup of tea. "Yes," she whispers, "thank you, Jake." I walk out to the kitchen, fill her "favorite" mug with water (a sloppily painted ceramic piece I made in second grade), and place a green tea bag in it. I get a glance of my reflection on the microwave door and release a long sigh. I can't believe Gabe kissed me while looking like this.

Two minutes later, the microwave beeps at me. The sound triggers a random memory of me melting LEGO figures on my mom's china with my childhood friends. God, how long ago was that? At least ten years. I wonder what my puny seven-year-old self would think of me now. And those friends, what they'd say with their squeaky childish voices. I still see them in the halls sometimes, their faces no longer so pure and innocent, their eyes darting away from mine. Guilt? Pity? Something else? Who knows.

I take the tea to my mom, enjoying the heat on my fingertips. She's lying down, her body rigid, staring at the ceiling. She looks like a corpse, I think. I set the mug on her nightstand. "Here's your tea," I say with my finest bedside manner. I again flash back to my childhood, my mother bringing me soup as I lay in bed with the flu.

I leave her with her tea, wondering if she'll even drink it. She can stay still for hours, not reacting to anything. It used to scare me; I'd think she was dead, but then I'd see the rising and falling of her chest, letting me know she was still alive. Physically alive, at least.

I walk to my room and collapse on my bed. I kick off my shoes and strip down to my boxers, opting to take a nap to quiet my ever-racing mind. I toss and turn in my sheets (which smell fucking awful; I really should wash them), feeling cold and lonely without Gabe. This will be your every day after he breaks up with you, I hear my mind say. I shudder at the thought. I take one of the pillows from behind my head and hug it, trying to pretend it's him. It's not the same. The pillow's not warm, not big enough, and smells nothing like Gabe.