Callum's Colours

Sam

My hands shake as I grip the phone, clammy. It's rings end abruptly and are shortly followed by the dry voicemail announcement. After the amount of voicemails I've tried to leave, it's become a familiar sound.

"Hey Ryan, man it's me," I pause awkwardly, unaware of how to talk when his voice isn't constantly interrupting, "Anyway, please call me back."

I let my thumb hover over the save voicemail button before dragging it across to press delete.

I sigh heavily before collapsing back onto the bed, cringing at the amount of crappy voicemails I've already recorded but not sent.

According to my watch it's eight am. Ryan must be at school by now and already preparing for the football match.

Even so, surely by now he could've answered his phone.

Palms itching, I imagine turning up at the match, surprising him. Then I envisage his embarrassment and pretending not to know the "gay boy" in front of his friends.

My chest aches.

Then the name calling, shoving and pushing that I would surely endure after the release of the tapes. Especially at a football game, where the harshest jocks and wanna be's will be sure to mock anyone different.

Instead of calling again, I use my phone to log onto Poems For Poets.

As I scroll through the website, I finally check Sam's message from last night.

Hey man, what's up!
I'm visiting Florida in a few days as a surprise for passing my GCSEs. Do you wanna meet up? I don't know where you live exactly but I'm sure we could figure out a way? It would be sick.
Speak soon.
P.s I love your recent poem "Callum's Colours" although I hope it wasn't about you?

By the end of the message my hands are quivering.

My mind fogs from from excitement. I shakily check the time- 5:15 am. From where he lives in Britain the time zone must be about 11pm.

I reply quickly, thrilled at the prospect of some luck after the past week.

Sam!
That would be amazing. When are you coming over? I'll send you my address in a minute.
I could do with some company right now. I really hope you'll be visiting near by.
Callum.

I avoid mentioning the poem, although my cheeks flush at the complement. I send the message and my address before the excitement can turn into anxiety.

Something about meeting him, after years of only messaging, makes my hands dampen.

I can't help but cringe at the private stories I've told him. From being the first person who knew I was gay to my emotional breakdowns. Suddenly realising he's not just a username makes me flinch.

I throw my phone on the bed and stand to stare in the mirror, imagining his first impression of me.

Fat.

I shake my head, trying to remember to stop obsessing over my body. Even so, I make an effort to pull down my baggy T shirt until it hangs way below my hips.

For some reason most people have the expectation of gay men being muscly and fit. I can't help but be the opposite. Not huge or particularly un pleasant, but just average.

Imagining Sam seeing me for the first time, finally understanding my weight insecurities, is a terrifying idea.

I sigh and turn over the mirror until I can only see its back, annoyed with my reflection.

The phone lights up beside me on the bed. For some reason my pulse quickens, desperate to see the message.

I almost smile when the notification is from Sam. I try to scan his message, detailing the visit.

The words blur. I scrunch my eyes when I realise how similar this seems to when Caleb and I first became a couple. Excitable messages, hopes to meet, sharing secrets and plans.

My fists clench and I fiercely mutter, "Sam is not Caleb."

Even though I'm alone and fully aware that I look insane, it feels good to say it.

My eyesight clears so I focus on the message.

Callum,
I'm so hyped that you're free! It's going to weird but I guess good. Anyway, I'm excited.

I breathe heavily when I realise it's not just me who seems hesitant.

I know Florida's pretty big, but I figure we'll be able to meet? Anyway here's the address.
I hope you can.

My hands loosen when I read the name of the city. I collapse onto the bed.

Miami.

I almost whack my head against the wall with frustration.

Instead I reply in the most sensitive manner I can manage.

Sam.
I would love to meet with you but unfortunately I like in Jacksonville, at the other end of Florida. You seem to have a packed schedule and I'm not sure I can drive for six hours. I'm sorry man.
Maybe next time? C.

I decide not to send it yet. And even though I know I have to think realistically, the disappointment is too depressing.

Although I consider driving I know it just won't work. In my crappy car with no petrol money, it'll break down before I even leave Jacksonville. I see no other logical option than flying, but just the idea makes my hands clench the underside of the bed.

My toes curl.

I almost flick off the website and try to call Ryan again but instead give up. Maybe I should just accept that we are over. That is, of course, if our friendship was ever actually a thing.

I try to force the memories of Ryan visiting me when I was upset, driving me home and making me happy away but they refuse to leave.

No matter how I try to handle the situation I can't help but think about how Ryan would react.

Because I know he wouldn't let me walk away.

I sigh and shake my head, fully aware that I shouldn't be thinking like this. Besides, Ryan isn't me. I keep reminding myself that he tried to kiss me, not the other way around.

But I can't stop the doubt that I should be doing more to help our friendship.

I stand up and, despite every brain cell screaming for me to stop, I pocket my phone and jog down the stairs.

I ignore my pounding head and pull on my trainers. Because I know exactly what Ryan would do. He would do whatever I wanted most.

He would support me at the game.