Being gay is a curse when the homophobia you grew up with was so bad that you're homophobic yourself. Especially when you're into unavailable guys like your roommate, whose girlfriend is everything you're not (though appearances can be deceiving). S...
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I both loved and hated Christmas.
Loved it because it was a gay old time with lots of presents and delicious food and all that jazz, and absolutely hated it because it meant spending more time with the family. Although, admittedly, it wasn't as bad as visiting them—aunt Henrietta most of all, because all her judgmental friends were always here. I was glad my parents had sacrificed our home this year, because that meant I could escape to my room whenever I wanted.
I loved my mother, but she didn't really seem to understand that forcing me to socialize with a bunch of people that hated my guts was not helpful. She was sweet and supportive (thank God) but she was not the sharpest tool in the shed.
When she and my father started cleaning the house, I claimed the dinner table and laid it as pristinely as I could, because I liked putting things in order (and I'd end up fixing it if my parents didn't do it right anyway). It always made me feel good to see the results of organizing things. Like my closet for example, which was entirely color-coordinated. It was a sight for sore eyes.
"Emmett, don't forget to grab the silverware from the other hutch!"
"Yeah, yeah," I called out to my mother as she breezed past, rolling my eyes and walking over to the dining hutch in the corner of the dining area, where we had the fancy, expensive stuff that we only used when we had visitors. It was totally worth it, though. Henrietta had a habit of creaming her panties whenever we whipped out the gold-rimmed crystal glassware.
After I'd meticulously placed a goblet beside every plate, I asked, "When is David coming?"
My brother and I had never been very close due to him being four years older than me, and the fact that he now lived miles away didn't really help either. Nonetheless, I was looking forward to seeing him, because he always had wonderful stories to tell. Sometimes I got a little jealous of the awed looks he received from our family members. They never listened to my stories.
Prompted by my question, my mother angled her wrist up to check her watch, before letting out an excited gasp. "Oh, any moment now, dear!"
"I'll go wait outside," I said.
"Wait, did you—"
"Mom, I got everything," I interrupted, gesturing at the table. "Look."
"Alright," she sighed, admiring my handiwork. "Please put on a coat."
I put on a coat and sat down on the wooden bench out front, squinting at the end of the street in hopes of seeing my brother approach, but after a minute or so, a completely different person came walking up. My cousin raised both hands into the air to wave at me and I just frowned at the dark blonde in confusion until she reached me. "Why the hell did you come walking? All on your own? Not to mention, an hour early?"
"Hello to you too," she replied. "I just didn't feel like driving with Mom. Why are you out here?"
