The gym that had once been my haven was now a powder keg. One more sly look or sarcastic comment, and I was going to set some shit off.
I tried to focus only on the tap-tap-tap of the speed bag, but the sounds of the gym were filtering into my Zen state almost as frequently as the constant replay of Ashton’s heart-wrenching Instagram video.
His face was etched into my mind. The bloodshot eyes with shadows lining them, how pale he’d been, his messy hair and oversized old sweatshirt. Ashton was too aware of who he was to ever be anything less than on for his Instagram followers, and I’d never in a million years have expected him to show himself without the glitz and the glamour. Let alone exposing his pain for the entire world to see.
I closed my eyes and kept up the rhythm, punching without seeing, and using my ears to keep the beat. It lasted all of thirty seconds.
“—dreaming about his rich little bitch boy.”
My eyes snapped open, and I whirled around. Bronson and another guy named Elliott were staring me down from their position by the heavy bag. I’d never had a problem with Elliott . . . until recently. Until the media coverage and the pictures making it plain that A-Town had been slumming it in the Bronx with some Albanian boxer before getting burned.
“Say it again.”
Elliott averted his eyes, but Bronson kept staring me down.
“I said you’re probably daydreaming about your bitch boy.”
His voice projected so the entire half of the gym could hear. The buzzing ambiance quieted. I stepped closer to him, one foot and then another, until I was right in his face.
“Now say it.”
The bravado drained out of him like water in a sieve. Little by little, the mocking left his eyes and his smirk curved downward into a scowl. But then he glanced around, knew we were being watched, and lifted his chin.
“I bet you let that bitch fuck you.”
“Would it bother you if I did?”
“Yeah. It’d bother me a lot.”
“’Cause you wish it was you?”
Enough chuckles sounded in the space around us for his pale face to go red, and his expression to twist. He shoved me backward hard enough for me to stumble into the bag.
“You’re lucky you can still step foot in here, Leka. We don’t fuck around with that faggot shit.”
I stepped to him again, squaring up and lifting my chin the way he’d done a minute ago. “Then do something. Put me out, motherfucker. Let’s see it.”
He lifted his fists, but his stance was all wrong. The smile on my face must have put a damper on his confidence, because he faltered again. He knew I could not wait to obliterate him.
“Do something, Bronson.”
A hand clapped on my shoulder, dragging me back.
“Val, stop.”
I gritted my teeth at the interference. “This doesn’t have shit to do with you, Mattie.”
“No, it don’t. But I’m getting in it regardless. Because if you knock his ass out, his boys will feel obligated to get in it, and then we’ll all be fighting.” Matt squeezed my shoulders. “Tony will flip.”
A glance in the direction of my trainer’s office made that plain as day. He was standing in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest, eagle eyes narrowed on me and Bronson. I dropped my hands and let Matt pull me away.
“Yeah, that’s right, bitch. Run.”
“Shut the fuck up, Bronson. Before I embarrass you in front of your boyfriend.”
Bronson’s eyes widened. He spit in my face just as Matt got between us, and laughed when Matt dragged me away. I exploded in cursing and shouting, doing my best to escape Matt’s grip so I could crush Bronson’s face against the concrete floor, but I was shoved into the locker room.
“Calm the fuck down, Val,” Matt said, breathing hard. “Jesus Christ. You have a tournament in a week.”
“I don’t care,” I snarled. “Don’t you understand? I don’t give a fuck about that tournament.”
Matt glanced over his shoulder before herding me farther into the dim room. “Shut up. You’re being really stupid right now.”
“Maybe I should have been stupid a long time ago.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
I sucked in breaths and spun toward the lockers. The adrenaline coursing through me had me wanting to swing a punch and crunch some metal, but breaking knuckles would guarantee a poor performance in the fight. Why did that even stop me? Why couldn’t I just break my own hands to get out of this thing? Because I honestly . . . no longer cared.
“I just want this to end, Matt. I just want it all to be over.”
“What are you talking about, man?”
“Everything,” I shouted. “This boxing bullshit. Me feeling indebted to Tony. Me working bullshit jobs because I never thought long enough about my own fucking future to figure out how to do anything else. Just all of it. I’m so sick of myself.”
Matt was quiet for a moment. When I turned to look at him, I saw he was texting.
“What, are you texting my sister?”
“Yup.”
“For fuck’s sake.”
He shrugged, unapologetic. “You need a Hana intervention.”
“No, I need a new life.”
Matt pointed to my locker. “Get your shit and let’s be out before we end up fighting with some fools. We can talk at your apartment.”
I wanted to argue. There was part of me that wanted to get in a fight. A real fight. Not a match with rules and gloves in the middle of a ring. I wanted to take out my aggression on a fool like Bronson. But the longer I sat in the dim coolness of the locker room, away from the sweat and humidity of twenty other guys’ bodies, the more my rage slipped away and depression returned.
“Yeah, aiight.”
We left the gym without looking at anyone around us. I heard Luis call out to me, but I ignored him. He seemed to be cool with me, but all I knew for certain was that he was more Bronson’s boy than mine, and my desire to smash someone’s face in had faded. I’d save it for the goddamn tournament.
My apartment was freezing when we stepped inside, and Matt immediately went to adjust the thermostat. Apathy carried me straight to the couch where I sat in the dark with my hood up and my leather jacket still on.
Matt returned and stood over me, frowning. “Man, just call him.”
“I tried. He won’t talk to me.”
“So fucking text him.”
“I did. He only replied to tell me he was alive. And . . . if that’s all he had to say, I don’t want to keep harassing him. Because it’s starting to feel like I’m fucking bullying him into talking to me. Trying to get him to feel bad for me.”
Matt sat on the other side of the couch, rubbing a hand over his head and frowning. “So, what’s your plan, then?”
“I have no plan. I’ll just hate my life forever.”
“Productive.”
I sighed slowly. “What do you want me to say, man? What the fuck would you do?”
“I’d grovel.”
“I tried! I even went by his place, and he wasn’t there. Knowing Ashton, he found somewhere to hole up to dodge everyone who would come looking for him. That’s what he used to do whenever something went down and he wanted to hide.”
The apartment lapsed into silence again, but I could feel Matt watching me. Wondering when I’d snap out of it and go back to normal. Come up with a plan instead of falling deeper into despair. But I couldn’t. I didn’t even want to. Getting over my misery would mean I was capable of being happy without Ashton, and I didn’t want that day to come. I didn’t want to be over the person I’d only had for one fucking week.
“Fuck.” I pressed my hands to my face, swallowing with difficulty. “This hurts so bad, man. I ruined everything. There’s no going back.”
“You don’t know that. Yeah, he’s hurting and angry, but if I go by that video—”
I dropped my hands and looked at him. “You watched it?”
“Yeah. How could I not? It was all over the news.”
It had been, and I wondered if Ashton knew that his farewell to social media, with him barefaced and tragically beautiful, had exploded. If he hadn’t been a household name before, he was now. His Instagram had gone from four million followers to nearly ten million. Every time I looked at the news or social media, there was an article or a blog post about him.
“If you saw it, then you know how badly I hurt him.”
Matt flashed a smile. “No offense, brother, but I don’t think that video was just about you hurting him. It was about his life in general.”
A rapid knock at the door saved me from responding. I didn’t make a move to stand, so Matt let Hana in. She stalked toward me in a blur of long scarves and windblown hair, too fixed on me to notice the way Matt’s face lit at the sight of her.
“What are you thinking, Valdrin?”
“I’m thinking that I’m done taking people’s shit.”
“So you’re going to get in a fight at the gym like a teenager?” She put her hands on her hips, standing over me and glaring. “You’re lucky Matt was there.”
An argument was on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t bring myself to pick a fight with Hana. Especially since she was right. I deflated against the couch again and looked through the slats in the window. It was dark outside, but the street lights shone through the shades like artificial sun.
“I don’t think you should do the tournament.”
“I’ll be fine, Hana.”
“No, I don’t think you will.” She sat next to me, putting her small, cold hands on my arm. “If you’re getting triggered like this at the gym, who knows how you’ll act once you’re in an actual fight?”
“It’s not like I’m bloodthirsty. I’m just fucking tired.”
“You’d be less tired if you told Tony, once and for all, that you don’t want to fight competitively, and dropped out of this tournament. And before you say anything,” she said, raising her voice before I had a chance to use my own, “I know your master plan is to go pro for two reasons only—to please Tony and to use prize money to pay for my college. And I’ll tell you right now that I won’t accept it.”
“Hana . . .”
“No. I work, I’ll apply for grants, I’ll apply for loans—whatever I have to do, except allowing you to continue doing something you don’t want.”
“Hana, please just—”
“No.”
I shifted my contemplation of the street light to her, and saw she was red-faced and her eyes were glassy. It was the first time we’d spoken frankly about why I continued to fight, and it was the first time I saw how angry she was about my reasons.
“Lekas are resourceful,” she said softly. “I’ll make it without big brother forcing himself to box.”
Through the years, Hana had become remarkably like our mother. Same independence, strength, and fierce stubbornness. There was no way I would be able to change her mind. And when I said, “I’m still doing the tournament,” she likely knew she wouldn’t be changing mine either.
“If you insist on fighting, I’ll be there to watch.” Hana looked over at Matt, who’d clammed up as soon as she’d stepped into the apartment. “Both of you.”
Matt’s face split in a large white smile. I just shrugged.
“Your choice.”
“It is my choice, and I choose to come.” She unwound one of the scarves from her neck, scowling at how it’d tangled with her hair. “Will anyone else be coming? Ashton, maybe?”
“Hana, you know that isn’t going to happen,” I said tiredly. “He won’t even speak to me.”
“Does he know about the tournament?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then you never know,” she insisted. “I know Ashton, and he would support you regardless of what happened. Wouldn’t you do the same for him?”
“Of course I would. But Ashton didn’t lie to me for six fucking years, Hana. He didn’t break my heart.” When all I got in response was another stubborn stare, I pressed my hands to my face again. “As much as I’d love to have him cheering me on, it’s not going to happen. I’ll go get my ass kicked, and then I’ll drag myself here alone. Because from what I can see? He and I are done.”
I was halfway out the door for my first day volunteering at Gateway when Hana called. I let it go to voice mail, failed to leave, and then called her back because Nunzio’s words had kept ringing in my ears.
“There’s not always weakness in forgiveness.”
And I wanted to forgive Val. Even though part of me was telling me I shouldn’t. But I missed him.
“Ashton,” she said, sounding surprised and delighted. Maybe she hadn’t expected me to call back. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I said automatically, then paused. “Well . . . no. Things actually aren’t great.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured.”
“Why? Did he tell you everything?”
She made a humming sound. “Yes. But even if he hadn’t . . . that video you put on Instagram went viral.”
I had an understanding of what it meant to go viral, but I already had a lot of followers. How much more viral could it go?
“People actually cared about my cheese-and-whine post?”
“More than cared. It sparked this big discussion about reality television and Instagram, and all of these other socialites and celebrities came out in support of you.”
It was not what I’d expected. In fact, it was the very opposite of what I’d expected. And my first thought was, I hope this doesn’t draw the paparazzi to Gateway. Cringing, I sat on the floor by the front door.
“I can’t believe no one told me.”
“I find that pretty hard to believe myself. I’m not kidding when I say it’s been on all of these talks shows. I’m pretty sure your follower count has tripled.”
“Ugh, this is so not the right time for this,” I moaned. “More attention is seriously the last thing I need. But maybe it took some of the heat off your brother. I know the paps were out in full force in the Bronx.”
“Hmm.” The sound of muffled talking filled the background, and Hana lowered her voice. “Actually, they’ve been hounding him more. People are pointing to him as the reason you broke down and made that video. Your fans are in full sleuth mode.”
“Oh. Fuck.”
“Yeah,” she said, and some of the friendliness vanished from her tone. “It’s not great timing. His fight is this weekend, and he’s . . . Well. Never mind that. But his trainer is pissed, and people at the gym have been annoying about the romantic link between you two.”
As angry as I still was at Val, and as hurt as I was by the betrayal, my stomach flipped at the idea of my ridiculous life ruining his training or interrupting his tournament. Regardless of everything else, he had to literally fight for everything he had . . . and I knew deep down that reality was why he’d done something so hurtful to me to make money.
“How can I fix this?” I asked softly. “What can I do?”
“I don’t know if there’s anything you can do,” she admitted. “It’s everywhere.”
“But—” I pressed the heel of my hand against my eye and ground my teeth together. “What if I make a statement about it? Say he’s straight and we’re just friends?”
Hana snorted. “And you think they’d believe you?”
“I don’t know. But it’s worth a shot if it would get them to leave him alone.” I wondered what he was doing now. Whether he was holing up in his apartment to avoid the scrutiny even though training and driving the cab basically required him to be around people all day. He was so private . . . it had to be torture for him to endure people looking at him, asking him questions, and wondering about his personal life. His sexuality. “Has he . . . Has anyone harassed him?”
“What do you think, Ashton?”
“Fuck!” I slammed my fist against the carpet. “God, I should have never convinced him to start spending time with me again. I should have never . . .” Kissed him. Touched him. Coaxed him into admitting his feelings. Confessed that I loved him. “Dylan is right about me.”
“Do not go there,” Hana said. “I know all about your brother and what he tried to get you to do. That is entirely different from homophobes jumping on my brother.”
“Maybe, but they wouldn’t be jumping on him if my life wasn’t such a circus. Everything I touch turns toxic.”
“That’s not true,” she said sharply. “If it was, Val wouldn’t be so miserable without you. He wouldn’t be so in love with you.”
Once upon a time, I’d prayed to one day hear those words. To feel them ringing true in my heart. And they did, despite everything, but tears still stung my eyes. “Can you tell him I’m sorry?”
“Why can’t you tell him yourself?”
“Because . . .” I rubbed a rough hand over my eyes. “Because I don’t think we should be around each other anymore. What we had together felt so easy and real and healthy, but now . . . I don’t know. I don’t know what’s real when it comes to his feelings for me, but I know I don’t want to make things any worse for him.”
The rush of voices rose again in the background of the call. “Ashton, I have to get to class, but I’ll tell you this much—you avoiding Val is the last thing he wants. He wants to see you. He wants to talk to you. When I say he loves you, I’m not using the words lightly. And I don’t think it’s a new development. He’s felt this way for years.”
The tightness in my chest increased as my yearning for Val reared up with the strength and capacity to consume me. I’d never wanted to be close to someone so much in my life. And I’d never felt so much like my presence could result in nothing but disaster.
“I know you love him too,” Hana said quietly. “And I know you want to stop avoiding him. If not, you wouldn’t have called. And you’d have started this conversation a lot differently.”
“Oh yeah?” I asked tearfully. “How’s that?”
“You would have asked why he took the money from your father, and why neither of us ever told you about it.” Her sigh came through heavy on the line. “But you didn’t ask, because you know why he did it. And you know why he hid it. He never wanted to hurt you, Ashton, even if that’s what wound up happening.”
“God. I know.” I dashed away more burning tears as they tracked down my face. “Fuck, I know. But I’m afraid that me just . . . acting like it’s all okay is me once again letting someone walk all over me and get away with bullshit they’ve done to me. And I’m so sick of being that way.”
“That’s fair. But if you change your mind, he could use your support this weekend.”
I sucked in another shaky breath. “At the fight? Wouldn’t that make it more of a media circus?”
“Maybe. But I know he doesn’t have a lot of people in his corner. If Val appreciates anything, it’s support from his family. His friends. And we both know he doesn’t have a lot of either.”
I nodded even though she couldn’t see me, keeping my eyes shut as I played out the possible scenarios in my mind. Weighing the pros and cons of showing my face in a hostile environment, supporting the man who’d torn my heart in two, and potentially drawing more attention to the fight. To Val. Or maybe none of those things would happen, and only he’d see me, and he’d know . . . that I still wanted him. I still loved him.
“Thanks for talking to me, Hana.”
“Take care of yourself, Ash. And please know that neither of us ever meant to hurt you. We just didn’t know you’d be so special to us for so long.”
It was almost a mirror of what Val had said to me the night he’d confessed, and it once again rang true. I hung up the phone but kept it in my hand, wanting badly to speak to Valdrin, but forcing myself to get up and walk out the door.
If anyone noticed that I was ten minutes late for my orientation at the youth center, they didn’t comment. A woman named Soniya gave me a tour through the facility, and I only saw Nunzio in passing, although he waved to me across the lobby and gave me a big smile. He was heading into a glass-enclosed room full of student desks, likely to teach a class.
“How do you know Nunzio?” Soniya asked as she led me up to the staff offices.
“We have mutual friends. He’s really great.”
Soniya bobbed her head in agreement. “He really is. One of the best dudes to come through this place. We were lucky to get him. It’s not every day someone gives up their benefits at the DOE.”
We walked through the upper level as she pointed out counseling rooms, administrative offices, and a couple of larger conference rooms. Gateway lacked the institutional feel of a lot of other places I’d been to, and I loved the warm colors and pictures of staff and kids on every wall. On one of the counselor’s doors, my eyes instantly caught on a familiar face—Brandon Decker.
Seeing his face brought dual impulses to the surface—to protect him from his family at all costs, but also . . . to talk to him because I thought we could understand each other. My family hadn’t threatened me with conversion therapy, but they’d done everything in their power to break me and make me their version of normal.
“What will I be doing?” I asked once we were in the large volunteer space. It was an open concept with desks dotted throughout the room, and floor-to-ceiling windows looking down at Spring Street. “We never actually talked about my volunteer duties.”
“I’m getting to that now.” Soniya led me to a desk tucked into a corner of the room. “This is gonna be your spot. There are usually a few other people in this room, but most volunteers show up at the end of business day from their day jobs. You’ll have the place to yourself most of the time.”
“I get a spot?” The desk was small—bright yellow and white and likely bought at IKEA—but there were office supplies, a chair, and a large empty bulletin board just waiting to be stuck full of pins and reminders. It was a place . . . for me. “I . . . This is . . . sort of amazing.”
She laughed and patted my shoulder. “Man, you’re easy to please.”
“I just— You . . . you have no idea what this means to me,” I admitted. “But, yeah. Thank you. Wow.”
“No problem. Not every volunteer gets a desk up here, but most of them are downstairs working with the kids and leading meetings, so they don’t need it.”
“And I will?”
She nodded. “The boss liked your cover letter, and he dug up some articles you’ve written over the years for magazines.”
“Oh God,” I moaned. “I only write about stupid stuff. Fashion and dating and social media.”
“That’s not stupid. That’s relevant. Don’t hate on what you’re good at or what you love.” Soniya waved me off. “But besides that, you frequently pimp foundations and charities on social media. And your recommendations probably get those places clicks.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But how does that help you guys?”
“You’re a good writer, you’re persuasive, and you have reach.” She jerked her thumb at the desk. “Your first assignment is to draft a new proposal for Gateway Pride—the athletic foundation we’re trying to fund. Nunzio said you made an oral case for it off the cuff in about three minutes. Let’s see what you can do in writing.”
I had to swallow a comment about having always been better at oral. Not the time, Ashton. Especially not when something as important as this was being dropped in my lap. I knew whatever I drafted would be looked over by other eyes, but the fact that even the early stages were being entrusted in me . . . was enough to make me tear up. I cleared my throat and put my hand on the back of the desk chair.
“Are you sure you want me to do this?”
“Yes.” She raised an eyebrow. “I’m the grants officer, and I want to see what you can do. An intern drafted the proposal last time, and both me and Nunzio thought it lacked passion. I wasn’t surprised when it didn’t move anyone to put down the money since we already have a rec center.”
“What’s the difference between the rec center and Gateway Pride, then?”
“The kids want it to be an actual league that will be able to compete. And we all love the idea of a bunch of queer kids dominating in basketball or hockey or boxing.” Her face lit at the prospect, dimples appearing in her cheeks. “Man, I hope we get this. I think you’d do a great job at bringing passion to the table, Ashton. It’s obvious that you care.”
There were so many reasons why my head was telling me this was a bad idea, and me cosigning it would maybe work against them, but I couldn’t say it. Not with her having faith in me and nodding in encouragement.
“Any specifics I should include or is this general?”
“I’ll forward you the outline our last grant writer had. It has the details such as the amount we’re hoping to get and the sports we want to include, like basketball, football, boxing, and soccer to start. Also, an outline of the budget, which includes coaches and trainers.”
My ears pricked up at the words trainers and boxing. “Do you already have staff in mind for this?”
“Not at all. And considering we won’t be paying much, I’m not sure how we’ll find them. But we have to start with the money.”
I nodded. “Um, I know this is really pushy, but if I knew someone who would be interested . . . could I pitch it to you guys later?”
“Of course.” Soniya backed toward the door, and her tiny grin was the first indication that she knew anything about my personal life. “Especially if it’s anyone like an amateur boxer who was a Golden Gloves champ.”
My face burned, but I didn’t deny it. I just forced a tight smile. “Who do I go to if I have questions? You?”
“Yeah, or my supervisor, Lynn. We’re right down the hall.”
“Sounds great.” I sank down into the chair and watched her turn to the door. “Soniya?”
She glanced back at me. “What’s up?”
“Thank you.”
Her face lit up with a smile. “No, thank you for volunteering. You have no idea how important it is to organizations like Gateway.”
Once I was alone in the room, I looked around, realized I hadn’t even brought my laptop, and decided to get started anyway. My phone pinged with her email within ten minutes, and I used the rough outline, the mess of the previous proposal, and pen and paper to come up with a new draft. After two hours of stream-of-conscious writing, I had way too much overexcited ranting about the benefit Gateway Pride would have on inner-city LGBT youth, but at least there was a lot of meat for me to pick at once I had my laptop.
It wasn’t until I wandered out of the room in search of lunch did I realize I’d been disconnected from the rest of the world for the entire morning, and I hadn’t thought about Val or the fight once. That all changed once I walked down the hallway and found myself face-to-face with Brandon Decker. Judging by the wide-open eyes and the semihorrified expression on his face, he recognized me immediately. And knew I was a little too close to his world for comfort.
Brandon backed up, ready to bolt, and I grabbed his arm.
“Wait.”
He jerked away. “What the hell are you doing here, A-Town?”
I cringed. “I’m volunteering here now. And it’d be great if you called me Ashton. Or Ash. Not . . . A-Town.”
“How about I call you Guy Who’s Sucking My Uncle’s Dick?”
Years of having people pin scarlet letters to every available surface on my body was the only thing keeping me from showing him just how bad that question jabbed at me. Instead, I said airily, “That gossip is about three weeks old, my love. As of now, your uncle despises me for running out on him with my boxer boyfriend in front of an audience.”
Some of the animosity fled Brandon’s expression. He looked me up and down with renewed interest. “Cool.”
“It’s cool that your uncle hates me because I unintentionally humiliated him?”
“Uhh, yep. That’s pretty cool.” Brandon lifted his hand. “Fist-bump.”
I fist-bumped him without hiding my confusion. “You know, I only started talking to your uncle because of you. He’s worried.”
“Oh please. He wasn’t worried when his asshole brother, aka my dad, pulled religion out of his gaping asshole and threatened to send me to some camp for gay kids.” Brandon crossed his arms over his chest and tossed his hair back, snotty and charming and packed with ammo made of sass. “Everyone knows Brett is super gay himself. I thought he’d have my back.”
“Okay, good point, but he feels bad about it now. I don’t think he knew how to respond.”
Brandon held up a palm, holding it out to my face. “Save it. I don’t need you doing his dirty work.”
“Believe me, doing your uncle’s bidding is the last thing I wanted to do. If you knew the—” Okay, describing the pornographic sexts I’d received from Brett was probably not the best plan when dealing with a teenager. I ran a hand through my hair, clenching a bunch of it in one hand, and frowned at him. “Okay, let’s backtrack, the only reason why I know your uncle is because members of my own super-shady and disloyal family wanted me to, um, hang out with him so he’d sign off on a deal with Townsend Telecom.”
Brandon’s jaw dropped. “Are you for real? Who does that?”
“My brother.” I rolled my eyes and stopped tearing at my hair. This was my first time talking to a teenager since I’d been one, and it was making me nervous. I had no idea how much to say, how to say it, or whether or not I was helping or hurting the situation by trying to nudge him in his super-queer and influential uncle’s direction for help. Brett might have been a dick to me, but there was a chance he could at least protect his own damn nephew. “I said no, and the thing with my boxer happened, so Brett backed out of the deal, and my brother wants to ruin my life. Well, he wants to ruin my boyfriend’s life. So, yeah, I’m definitely not doing anyone’s work. I just think . . . you should try to talk to the one family member you have who might be able to help you. Despite his initial lack of usefulness in this super-shitty situation.” I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Did that make sense?”
“Yeah . . .” Brandon was scowling again, his face twisted up almost comically. “But you realize you just gave me further evidence that my uncle is a douche bag and you’re still trying to say I should reach out to him?”
“Right, I do realize that. But he was a douche bag to me, not you. And you’re just a kid. Trust me, even if you have a lot of support here, it’s rough growing up in this city when you’re queer and have literally zero help or role models.”
“Speaking for yourself?” he asked shrewdly. “Because you are sort of a hot mess. But . . . like, the hot mess that everyone wants to be.”
“Because they don’t know how messy it is,” I replied. “Anyway, I’m not going to try to push you into this. It’s just a suggestion, okay?”
“Got it.” Brandon backed away from me and tucked his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “So, you’re really going to be volunteering here?”
“Looks that way,” I said. “Does that bug you?”
“I thought it would, but you’re not as stupid and annoying as I thought you would be.” Brandon grinned. “And maybe you’ll bring your sexy boxer around.”
“Ha. Maybe.”
Brandon crinkled his fingers in a wave before dashing off down the staircase. I was left staring after him, wondering if I’d had any positive impact in that conversation, and wishing I could call Val to ask his opinion. If anyone had more insight than me about the world Brandon and me had grown up in, with a perspective not skewed by privilege and money and corruption, it was Val. He’d always been my grounding source, and that hadn’t changed even now.
But calling him for reassurance after days of cold silence seemed like a bad idea. Especially since I’d have to bring up the money, and the agreement, and my father. And I’d have to tell him that I understood, even though the information had left me reevaluating everything in our relationship.
It wasn’t a conversation I felt ready to have right now. Especially not at my new place of semiemployment.
Later.
I’d talk to him later.
After he won that fight.