Paris Wills is a dreamer. His father always said he got it from his mom, an artist who was unlike any other. Her virtue was painting, and Paris' is poetry. No matter where he is, Paris finds inspiration for his poems.
In the summer after his sophom...
I've been sitting on my windowsill, looking out at Paris' house for almost an hour. My phone blinks 9:04 AM, and I grow giddy at the sight of Paris stirring from sleep. He must enjoy keeping his curtains open at night, something I'd never do. I need to sleep in darkness, awakened by any source of light. Especially on a day like today, with the sun peeking out from the clouds for one last hoorah before autumn fully rolls in. I'd love to get out and smell the refreshing sea breeze of the ocean waves, the gentle wind grazing my skin as I snap photographs of the frothy white foam crashing onto the pebbled sand.
Paris rolls out of bed, throwing back the covers. He's wearing fluffy sweatpants and a loose tee. I curiously gaze at him for the next few minutes as he ruffles his black curls and drinks from the glass of water on his nightstand. He appears calm in this moment, a simple figure in a simple world. Worry eludes him, washed away by content.
Soon enough he stumbles out of his bedroom, and I jump into action. Hurriedly I slip on a loose white tank top and short cyan swim trunks that hug my legs tightly. I dart downstairs, my parents seated at the kitchen island, my mom nursing a cup of coffee while my dad peruses the newspaper.
"Good morning," I singsong while packing a little backpack with two bottles of water, two towels, my wallet, car keys, teal aviators, and, of course, my camera.
"Where are you off to today?" My mom inquires, slipping me her interrogation stare while sipping her coffee.
"The beach. I thought I'd snap a few photos."
"Do you know how to get there?"
"I think I can manage. Besides, I have my own personal tour guide," I respond, hoping this will alleviate my overprotective mom's worries. I spent seventeen years growing up in one of the most dangerous cities in the country, and she's nervous I may get lost in the laid back beach town of Santa Barbara.
"You've met somebody already?" My mom asks in shock.
"Well aren't you the little social butterfly," my dad chimes in, looking up curiously from his newspaper.
"Yeah - it's the neighbor across the street. His name is Paris and he's going to be a junior at Santa Barbara High."
"That's great, honey. We're glad you've already made a friend. Maybe Paris can give us all a tour of the city sometime."
I manage to give my mom a nod, but the thought of sharing Paris with anyone else upsets me. I'm not possessive, but I enjoy the idea of keeping him to myself for a little bit. My own little secret.
After hearing all my parent's warnings and assuring them I'll return by dinner, I rush out of the house and stroll over to Paris' front door. Suddenly anxiety creeps down my back and materializes in my stomach, bubbling up into my throat. I never get nervous, especially when talking to other people. I've always been charismatic, the type of person who can keep up conversations with anybody. Except Paris isn't just anybody. He's incredibly unique, and I'd do anything to please him. Every time I look at him, I'm blown away by his striking features – his black curls, his resonating dark eyes, his lean frame, his jasmine scent, his affection for poetry, and his sweet delicateness that makes my heart yearn to cuddle him in my arms and protect him from every danger.
Without waiting any longer, I take on a brave face and knock on the front door, hoping Paris answers. Thankfully, he opens the front door almost immediately, halfheartedly trying to hide his smile. His curls are disheveled and there's violet bags under his eyes. Nevertheless, I'm enamored by how stunning he is.
"What are you doing here, Gray?" He asks in a sleepy voice, yawning big and bright like the sun rising in the morning. I smirk, loving the sound of "Gray" rolling off his delicate and loose tongue. He speaks with a lightness that I adore, one that makes him sound undeniably innocent. Maya and Tommy are the only other people who call me Gray, but I don't mind if Paris begins to use it too. It sends a little flutter through my heart, knowing that he's already given me a pet name.
"I thought you could escort me to the beach, since I'm new here-"
"You want me to show you around?" Paris interjects with a casual voice that almost sounds flirty, adoring it while simultaneously wishing I didn't want to taste his cherry lips.
"Will you do me the honor?"
Almost reluctantly, Paris nods, smiling at me in a way I've never seen before, showing off the most adorable gap between his two front teeth. It's almost unnoticeable, but still charming.
He invites me inside, and I happily follow, noticing a box of cereal on a circular table in the kitchen. Paris asks if I want to come upstairs and see his room, which almost makes me blush. I try to hide it, but I doubt he notices anyway. I follow him upstairs and walk into his bedroom, which isn't very different from what I'd already seen from my window. It's basic, with simple beige walls and old, crusty carpeting. His bed is fluffy, though, soft and comfortable on my skin as I wait for him to get dressed. It saddens me to notice that there are no posters, no knick-knacks, no books, no sight of anything remotely personal.
Paris keeps hollering at me from the bathroom, asking me if he needs to bring anything. I assure him I've got everything covered. Finally, Paris walks out of the bathroom, wearing baggy black swim trunks and a matching tee that hangs loosely from his thin frame. I stare at him for a moment, taking in the view of his freckled face and fluffy black curls, wanting to photograph each and every inch of his perfect masterpiece of a body.
I try to suppress these thoughts and push them out of my mind. I wish I could blow them away, like dandelion fuzz soaring into the horizon, never to be seen again. I want them to go away, more than anything. For years I've lied awake in bed at night, wishing I was straight. I may seem courageous and proud on the outside, but most of the time, I'm merely faking it. Nobody has any reason to suspect that I'm gay. I could come off as straight for the rest of my life. I'm terrified of the consequences of coming out. What will my parents think? What will people say when they see my walking down the street with my boyfriend's hand in mine? If only I could remove these thoughts from my mind, I would be able to escape all the persecution in the world. All the hate that comes from every angry, bitter, and selfish person in the world would never affect me. But it isn't that simple. It never will be. These feelings are not something I can turn off. They are a part of me.
Why should I wish to change? I don't mind liking guys – they're gorgeous and affectionate and perfect in every way. It's all the bullshit that comes with it, everything I have to put up with for the gender of the individual I love. If anything, the world should change. The world should learn to accept me for who I am, for a characteristic I have no control over. They tell me I'm twisted, that I can be "fixed." Yet I've never liked girls in my life. Does that mean I was born broken? Apparently, I was, and it's my job to fix it.
So I have to do what I can to take control. If that means making Paris nothing more than a friend, if that means accepting the world for the fucking shithole it is, then so be it.
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