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...
Today is the first time I'm attending a dance with a date since Holly and I were together. It was also Winter Formal. I remember putting my tuxedo jacket on her shoulders as we shivered outside the gymnasium. Holly thanked me with a kiss, but not a single nerve trembled as her lips pressed against mine. Yet every nerve tingled when Aaron's arms enveloped me in a hug before he and Beth left the dance. I told myself it meant nothing, that I would learn to love the way it felt being with a woman.
Things are vastly different now, in ways I could've never imagined back then. Sometimes I wonder where Holly is now. I hope she's with somebody who loves her in a way I never could. She deserves what Paris and I have.
Standing in front of my bathroom mirror, I button up my white shirt and tuck it into my black slacks. My dad's letting me borrow one of the many belts he has for work, which is great because these slacks are a little loose around the waist. After I slip on my tuxedo jacket, he ties my bow tie because, despite my best efforts, I'm incapable. I tried following along to YouTube tutorials, but always got stuck on step one. Conversely, my dad ties it effortlessly. For him, it's merely a part of his daily routine. I hope I look as sophisticated as him. From the look in my dad's big eyes, I do.
"You look so mature, Grayson," my dad praises, tears welling in his eyes. The two of us turn and stare at my reflection. I've certainly aged these past few months. The once stubborn patches of hair I struggled shaving from my face have developed into a groomed stubble. My blond tresses have grown to the length of my shoulders, pulled back into a sleek bun. I hug my broadening shoulders and muscular torso, which slip nicely into the soft blushing pink tuxedo jacket. It's as if my inward maturations - falling in love, coming out, and falling even deeper in love - have contributed to my outward maturations. It's not an unwelcome development but rather a tremendous blossoming into the young man I've always wanted to be. I'm finally proud to be me, and that feels fucking fantastic.
With his arm comfortingly wrapped around my shoulders, my dad says, "I'm so proud of you."
He sniffles and I can't help but cry as well. For years I worried that my dad wouldn't be proud of me if he knew I was gay. I feared that he'd be ashamed of me, afraid to hug or kiss me. Would he tense at the mere thought of holding me? Would he turn from me in disgust?
Now, hearing my dad say that he's proud of me lifts my heart and makes me happier than he could possibly imagine. I don't have to worry anymore. My parents love me and support me. And I love and support me too.
As soon as my dad and I come downstairs, my mom's eyes spill with tears. A bittersweet mixture of joy and sadness pour at the realization that I'm months away from graduating high school and living on my own. Instead of dwelling on the future, my mom focuses on the present, snapping dozens of photographs while my dad steadies her with his soothing hand on her back.
Once my mom takes a sufficient amount of pictures, I grab the two pink carnation boutonnieres from the fridge and make sure the sparkling silver ribbons are tied tight. Paris let me pick out the boutonnieres and I hope he appreciates my little surprise. He should be here any second now with Vanessa and his dad.
At the sound of the doorbell, my pulse skyrockets and I rush into the living room. I take a deep breath and anxiously reach for the doorknob. My heart races and burning bile lingers in the back of my throat. I'm a nervous wreck and I have no clue why. Paris and I have been together for months. Except, tonight, I want everything to be absolutely perfect.
On the other side of the door, Paris stands, probably with a large smile plastered on his face and an enchanting sparkle in his midnight black eyes.
Not wanting to wait any longer, I swing the door wide open, ready for what's waiting for me on the other side.
One look, and I'm mesmerized.
Paris' jet black curls are poofy and sit on his head in a beautiful disarray. There's nothing but joy in his dark marble eyes, and his body clings tightly to his white tuxedo jacket and black slacks. His trademark jasmine scent lingers in the air and drives me wild. I take his hands in mine and breath in the intoxicating musk before pressing my lips against his, our mouths sizzling against each other in the light of the golden sunset behind us. It reminds me of the first time we kissed, our lips hungry for the touch of another in the dripping afternoon. I cling to Paris' tuxedo jacket as we pull apart, my senses dazed by the sweet taste of Paris lingering on my tongue.
From the moment I met Paris, I dreamt of spending the rest of my life with him.
Now, standing together in my foyer, snapping pictures, holding hands, embracing, kissing, pinning our boutonnieres onto each other, it felts like my dream may be a reality.
***
As we hop into my truck, Paris thanks me again for the pink carnation boutonnieres. When Paris saw them, he shed a single tear. I swiftly caressed his cheek and wiped the droplet away with my thumb, reminding him that I'm here to lift him up. I'll always be here to lift him up. Vanessa and Paris' dad let out a few tears too, appreciating my choice of boutonnieres. Since Paris' mom never got to see her son attend a school dance, I thought we could bring a part of her to the dance ourselves.
My parents, Vanessa, and Paris' dad all wave goodbye as we drive my truck out of our cul-de-sac. Paris controls the music, shuffling Lady Gaga (what else?). "Hair" plays while we make the short drive to Santa Barbara High School. When I was younger, I used to play this song in my bedroom on repeat, screaming the lyrics and wishing that, someday, I could push past the hatred I harbored for myself and love me for me. It felt incredible to listen to a song that encapsulated my feelings so perfectly. I was so afraid that my parents would hate me as much as I hated myself for being gay. Except, whenever I played "Hair," I was able to forget about all that for five short minutes and let myself be me. Now, everyday is like those five short minutes, and it's such a wonderful relief.
Though I've never shared with Paris how much this song means to me, he grips my right hand anyway, sensing my happiness. The two of us swing our hands back and forth and we share a quick glance before I return my focus to the road.
When we pull into the school parking lot, I squeeze Paris' hand, anticipation coursing through my veins. Tons of students are flocking to the gymnasium with dates and friends. The sun has dipped below the horizon, leaving a haze of muted violet and burning orange over the evening sky. I shift my truck into park and turn to face Paris, his shaded pupils drowning me in their gaze.
"Care for a dance?"
Paris' mouth curls into an elated smile, and I kiss him before he can respond.
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