Dinner was easy even if they didn’t talk much. They felt comfortable with each other not saying anything. They had a few drinks with the meal, walked home, and saw the vodka still on the coffee table so Spencer invited him for a drink.
“I shouldn’t but I really want to,” Josh said.
“A small one,” Spencer said.
They went into the living room and sat. Spencer poured a drink for each of them, Josh’s first then his own, set down the bottle and picked up his glass. They clinked them together before touching the glass to their lips. Josh downed his in gulp and Spencer sipped a little, set it down.
“One thing,” Spencer said.
“What?”
“It’s not for shots. This is sipping. It’s top shelf.”
“Really?” Josh asked.
“Here try another one but drink it more slowly this time,” Spencer said.
Spencer poured him another drink and Josh raised it again, they clinked glasses, but this time Josh sipped at the vodka.
“That’s pretty good,” Josh said.
“Thanks,” Spencer said.
“My boyfriend, Paul, likes this kind of stuff. God, I guess I shouldn’t be calling him my boyfriend, although it’s not official.”
“You moved out,” Spencer said.
“I guess,” Josh said.
“Did you say anything to him?”
“I left him a note,” Josh said. “It was tough. We’ve been together over two years.”
Spencer didn’t say anything. He wanted to say the relationship was over when his boyfriend hit him. He wanted to say it was over when he moved out. He wanted to say it was dead and couldn’t be repaired. He sat back against the sofa, his glass on his thigh he let himself relax.
Josh set his glass on the coffee table and began to run his finger along the lip of the glass.
“I didn’t want to do it. I feel bad. I feel like I should have said something but I also kind of feel like both of us knew it was over. It’s tearing me apart but I shouldn’t hate to go home,” he said.
“You don’t have to,” Spencer said.
It’s easy, he thought, you can be anything you want to be, go anywhere you want to go, and all those lies we tell each other but really a person’s life is small, their group of friends is small, their family... did he have a family? Were they for him after he came out?
“He’s not a bad guy. It’s as much my fault as it is his.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it’s dumb but we’d challenge each other, say stupid things, and you know how there’s some things you know you shouldn’t say but you do it anyways. I’ve done it. I’ve said those stupid things.”
“But did you attack him? Did you actually start the violence?”
Josh clenched his jaw at the thought, at the insinuation. They had wrestled, struggled, but no he had never hit Paul first, but he did set him off sometimes. And at first it had been just some small accident but each time the boundary got thinner. It was some mixture of discipline and humiliation.
“I didn’t start it. Sometimes I’d hit him back, at first anyway, but then even that got out of control. I knew he’d win. I knew he had it in him. I always restrained myself.”
He thought about when he’d hit Paul back and Paul would return with more force, more intensity. He thought about the look in the man’s eyes. He felt like crying but stopped himself. He didn’t want to show weakness over the man, not here, and not now.
“Hey Josh, you don’t have to go anywhere. You don’t have to go back. The pot was a little thing, I’m just glad you’re safe.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, but you still owe me one, brand new, no thrift store one with scratches in it.”
Josh let out a nervous laugh. He downed his drink and set the glass down. He felt tired and drunk. He sat back against the sofa.
“I should get up and go finish my workout,” Josh said.
“Why don’t you stay here and watch some television?” Spencer asked.
“That sounds so much better,” Josh said. He kicked off his shoes and put his socked feet on the coffee table next to the bottle.
Spencer looked to the socked feet. It was a minor annoyance. He’d say something later. He downed his drink, put the glass on the table, and picked up the remote. He turned on the television and they were both illuminated by the images there. He looked to Josh. There were so many things he wanted to say, so many things he wanted to do.
Was he a wounded puppy? Was he being too protective? What was it like to be in a relationship with someone with that kind of past? But his thoughts were silenced by the alcohol and the sound of the television as he looked up to the screen.
Monday, February 24, 2014
Monday, February 17, 2014
Ch 18 - Minor Things and Deadly Poisons
Before he had a roommate Spencer could expect things to be exactly how he left them when he returned home, the few times he left dishes in the sink at least he knew they were his but living with Josh was different. Josh was absent minded, though well intentioned, but he forgot things. Usually it was small things like his phone or his keys, sometimes a pair of scissors or a knife, once a pizza he left in the oven too long though luckily they were both home at the time.
The worst of it was the pot of water he left on the stove top. Spencer opened the front door of his apartment to an awful smell. “What the hell?” he said aloud as he entered, conscientious to leave the door open he went into the kitchen where he saw the pot was empty, the bottom and sides had turned white. He turned off the electric coil and moved the pot. He let out a grunt of frustration before he looked down the hallway to the closed door of Josh’s room. He started to walk but thought of a better idea so he retrieved the pot and went to his new roommate’s door. He knocked as calmly as he could bare.
“Hello?” Josh said from the other side of the door.
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah sure,” Josh said.
Spencer opened the door and looked into the room to see Josh on the floor in the middle of doing sit ups. He was shirtless and his exercise shorts were bunched down around his thighs. He looked to the young man’s muscled chest and then up to his eyes. He had seen his friends, many other men naked, in bed, during sex and the locker room but there was still something about him there, real and touchable. He fought the urge to panic but he realized he wasn’t saying anything at all. He thought about the dishes in the sink, about the mess on the coffee table.
“What’s up?” Josh asked.
Spencer held up the pot so Josh could see the insides.
“Oh crap,” Josh said, “is it bad?”
“It’s ruined,” Spencer said.
“What’s that smell?”
Spencer turned the pot in his hand.
“Really?” Josh asked.
“Poisonous too,” Spencer said. “It could have killed you.”
“Really?”
“Maybe, I don’t know. It supposedly can kill birds. That doesn’t matter. We need to talk.”
“Yeah sure,” Josh said. He began to get to his feet and Spencer turned around and walked back to the entrance where he closed the main door, returned the pot to the stove, and got a bottle of vodka and two glasses that he carried into the living room.
Moments later Josh walked into the living room wearing a sleeveless shirt and nervously biting his lip. Spencer invited him to sit down on the sofa.
How could we be so different, Spencer asked himself, but then he looked to the young man’s hands, his forearms that were muscled, hard and veiny. While I was inside on my computer he was out doing something, skateboarding, running, or playing football.
If they started to talk about sports, but more importantly teams and players Spencer knew he’d be lost and Josh would have the upper hand. He smiled at Josh who seemed equally anxious, maybe more.
Josh looked as if expected Spencer to strike him, hit him in some way, maybe a slap. Was that it? Some regular pattern of hitting the young man, yelling at him maybe, humiliating him maybe that caused him to flinch, to dread being near his boyfriend.
“You owe me a pot,” Spencer said.
“Okay,” Josh said. He reached down to his socks and pulled at them, ran his fingers up to his shorts, pulled at them.
“I’m not mad, not really, kind of annoyed,” Spencer said. “I’m pretty sure one of us could have been killed by it.”
“I wasn’t thinking. I just got into my routine. I’ll pay for a new pot.”
“Good,” Spencer said. “But uh, I think we should let the place air out. Would you want to join me for some dinner?”
“Yeah, that would be great, let me put some clothes on,” Josh said.
Josh got up and walked back to his room. Spencer heard the door close and he slapped his own forehead. The dishes, the mess, he told himself, when he comes out, when he’s got some clothes on then I’ll say something to him over dinner.
The worst of it was the pot of water he left on the stove top. Spencer opened the front door of his apartment to an awful smell. “What the hell?” he said aloud as he entered, conscientious to leave the door open he went into the kitchen where he saw the pot was empty, the bottom and sides had turned white. He turned off the electric coil and moved the pot. He let out a grunt of frustration before he looked down the hallway to the closed door of Josh’s room. He started to walk but thought of a better idea so he retrieved the pot and went to his new roommate’s door. He knocked as calmly as he could bare.
“Hello?” Josh said from the other side of the door.
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah sure,” Josh said.
Spencer opened the door and looked into the room to see Josh on the floor in the middle of doing sit ups. He was shirtless and his exercise shorts were bunched down around his thighs. He looked to the young man’s muscled chest and then up to his eyes. He had seen his friends, many other men naked, in bed, during sex and the locker room but there was still something about him there, real and touchable. He fought the urge to panic but he realized he wasn’t saying anything at all. He thought about the dishes in the sink, about the mess on the coffee table.
“What’s up?” Josh asked.
Spencer held up the pot so Josh could see the insides.
“Oh crap,” Josh said, “is it bad?”
“It’s ruined,” Spencer said.
“What’s that smell?”
Spencer turned the pot in his hand.
“Really?” Josh asked.
“Poisonous too,” Spencer said. “It could have killed you.”
“Really?”
“Maybe, I don’t know. It supposedly can kill birds. That doesn’t matter. We need to talk.”
“Yeah sure,” Josh said. He began to get to his feet and Spencer turned around and walked back to the entrance where he closed the main door, returned the pot to the stove, and got a bottle of vodka and two glasses that he carried into the living room.
Moments later Josh walked into the living room wearing a sleeveless shirt and nervously biting his lip. Spencer invited him to sit down on the sofa.
How could we be so different, Spencer asked himself, but then he looked to the young man’s hands, his forearms that were muscled, hard and veiny. While I was inside on my computer he was out doing something, skateboarding, running, or playing football.
If they started to talk about sports, but more importantly teams and players Spencer knew he’d be lost and Josh would have the upper hand. He smiled at Josh who seemed equally anxious, maybe more.
Josh looked as if expected Spencer to strike him, hit him in some way, maybe a slap. Was that it? Some regular pattern of hitting the young man, yelling at him maybe, humiliating him maybe that caused him to flinch, to dread being near his boyfriend.
“You owe me a pot,” Spencer said.
“Okay,” Josh said. He reached down to his socks and pulled at them, ran his fingers up to his shorts, pulled at them.
“I’m not mad, not really, kind of annoyed,” Spencer said. “I’m pretty sure one of us could have been killed by it.”
“I wasn’t thinking. I just got into my routine. I’ll pay for a new pot.”
“Good,” Spencer said. “But uh, I think we should let the place air out. Would you want to join me for some dinner?”
“Yeah, that would be great, let me put some clothes on,” Josh said.
Josh got up and walked back to his room. Spencer heard the door close and he slapped his own forehead. The dishes, the mess, he told himself, when he comes out, when he’s got some clothes on then I’ll say something to him over dinner.
Monday, February 10, 2014
Ch 17 - Domestic Abuse
Early Saturday morning, Spencer, Triston, Bobby, Darrell, and Walter
sat quietly in the diner booth looking at the food that had just been
delivered. Bobby had been graphically describing his new boyfriend’s
genitals when he spotted the waitress headed their way and stopped.
There was no one else nearby and at first he had waited for her to leave
but then they fell into silence as they looked over their food. It was
recovery food for everyone except Darrell who hadn’t been drinking.
“What were we talking about?” Darrell asked.
“My boyfriend’s balls,” Bobby said.
“So he’s an athlete?” Spencer asked.
Each of them laughed a little. There was a lull in the conversation, in movement, but finally Walter picked up his fork and stabbed it into the chili cheese fries he had ordered.
“Somehow it doesn’t look as good as it sounded,” Walter said.
“Do you want my pancakes?” Bobby offered. “I shouldn’t have ordered so many carbs.”
“Still trying to keep that six-pack?” Triston asked.
“I’m going for an eight,” Bobby said. “He loves to play with them.”
“I’m not this hungry,” Spencer said.
They looked around at each other. Triston leaned on the table with his elbow and scratched at his scalp, clearly irritated.
“What’s wrong? We can get it to go. Maybe give it to a homeless person,” Spencer said.
“Nothing, it’s just I have this friend and he’s trying to get out of an abusive relationship,” Triston said.
“Damn,” Spencer said.
“And he’s gay?” Walter asked.
“Yeah,” Triston said.
“Really?”
“Yes, really, he’s gay. Gay people can be in abusive relationships,”
Walter looked around at the other men. It was something that had never occurred to him. Being gay was hard enough, getting into a relationship was supposed to be the reward. But abusive?
“You did know that it can happen right?” Darrell asked.
Walter nodded.
“Really?” Bobby asked.
“No,” Walter said before letting out a nervous laugh. “I mean, I didn’t think. That’s messed up.”
“Who?”
“You guys haven’t met him. I know him from the store. He’s a really nice guy.”
“How can we help?” Darrell asked.
“Well, he needs a place to stay,” Triston said.
“He can stay with us,” Darrell said, “on the couch.”
“It would be crowded,” Bobby said.
“We could manage,” Darrell said.
“He can stay with me, at my place,” Spencer said.
They all looked to him. Spencer had been living alone longer than they had been friends. He bragged about having his own dorm room in college. The few nights, the few mornings he spent with them was an act of convenience, some act of desperation.
“Really,” Spencer said. “And I promise I won’t creep him out.”
They stared.
“Too much,” he said, “I promise I’ll wear my underwear in the morning.”
“That’s more than you do for us,” Triston said.
It was an agreement Spencer felt proud about as they went to bed, when they woke up, and even when Triston called the man in question. They agreed that Triston would bring him to Spencer’s apartment that evening.
Spencer went home hours earlier than normal to clean up. He made sure the last load of dishes was in the dishwasher, his bed was made, the coffee table orderly, the bathroom was scrubbed, and there was nothing embarrassing under any of the furniture in his living room. He was ready fifteen minutes before they were supposed to meet. When he got the text message from Triston saying they were running late he rubbed the palms of his hands on his jeans nervously before pouring himself a drink, then feeling self-conscious he downed it, washed out the glass, and returned everything to normal before he went into the living room and sat on his couch.
A little while later there was a knock on the door and he got to his feet, double checked everything mentally before he opened the door to find Triston in the hallway with a backpack standing next to a handsome young man carrying a duffel bag.
“Hey Spence,” Triston said.
“Hey,” Spencer said.
“I’m Josh,” the young man said offering his hand.
They shook hands and Spencer invited them inside, directed them to set the bags down against the wall before they went into the living room to sit. Spencer had expected him to look wounded, to have a black eye, busted lip, or maybe a visible scar but he didn’t. Josh was handsome, young, and masculine. He moved with a prepared, self-conscious effort. There was something naive, even innocent about him. It was hard to believe someone could mistreat him, abuse him.
They talked for an hour about life, the world, and their jobs in a circular introduction. Josh was quick to ask either of them a question and listen to the response. Spencer and Triston felt comfortable with each other, joked with each other, and it was easy to respond, to pontificate until either of them ran out of steam, found that he was dominating the conversation and so he would think of something to ask, something to say and wait.
After they felt like they had introduced themselves they talked about house rules, obligations, and responsibilities. Spencer was surprised that Josh would be up earlier than him because he worked the morning shift as a barista as well as a lunch shift at a restaurant across town. He said he’d have to get used to the new bus routes but he’d survive. They talked a little about their jobs until it felt complete. They looked around at each other.
“Want to watch some television?” Spencer asked.
“Sure,” Josh said.
“What were we talking about?” Darrell asked.
“My boyfriend’s balls,” Bobby said.
“So he’s an athlete?” Spencer asked.
Each of them laughed a little. There was a lull in the conversation, in movement, but finally Walter picked up his fork and stabbed it into the chili cheese fries he had ordered.
“Somehow it doesn’t look as good as it sounded,” Walter said.
“Do you want my pancakes?” Bobby offered. “I shouldn’t have ordered so many carbs.”
“Still trying to keep that six-pack?” Triston asked.
“I’m going for an eight,” Bobby said. “He loves to play with them.”
“I’m not this hungry,” Spencer said.
They looked around at each other. Triston leaned on the table with his elbow and scratched at his scalp, clearly irritated.
“What’s wrong? We can get it to go. Maybe give it to a homeless person,” Spencer said.
“Nothing, it’s just I have this friend and he’s trying to get out of an abusive relationship,” Triston said.
“Damn,” Spencer said.
“And he’s gay?” Walter asked.
“Yeah,” Triston said.
“Really?”
“Yes, really, he’s gay. Gay people can be in abusive relationships,”
Walter looked around at the other men. It was something that had never occurred to him. Being gay was hard enough, getting into a relationship was supposed to be the reward. But abusive?
“You did know that it can happen right?” Darrell asked.
Walter nodded.
“Really?” Bobby asked.
“No,” Walter said before letting out a nervous laugh. “I mean, I didn’t think. That’s messed up.”
“Who?”
“You guys haven’t met him. I know him from the store. He’s a really nice guy.”
“How can we help?” Darrell asked.
“Well, he needs a place to stay,” Triston said.
“He can stay with us,” Darrell said, “on the couch.”
“It would be crowded,” Bobby said.
“We could manage,” Darrell said.
“He can stay with me, at my place,” Spencer said.
They all looked to him. Spencer had been living alone longer than they had been friends. He bragged about having his own dorm room in college. The few nights, the few mornings he spent with them was an act of convenience, some act of desperation.
“Really,” Spencer said. “And I promise I won’t creep him out.”
They stared.
“Too much,” he said, “I promise I’ll wear my underwear in the morning.”
“That’s more than you do for us,” Triston said.
It was an agreement Spencer felt proud about as they went to bed, when they woke up, and even when Triston called the man in question. They agreed that Triston would bring him to Spencer’s apartment that evening.
Spencer went home hours earlier than normal to clean up. He made sure the last load of dishes was in the dishwasher, his bed was made, the coffee table orderly, the bathroom was scrubbed, and there was nothing embarrassing under any of the furniture in his living room. He was ready fifteen minutes before they were supposed to meet. When he got the text message from Triston saying they were running late he rubbed the palms of his hands on his jeans nervously before pouring himself a drink, then feeling self-conscious he downed it, washed out the glass, and returned everything to normal before he went into the living room and sat on his couch.
A little while later there was a knock on the door and he got to his feet, double checked everything mentally before he opened the door to find Triston in the hallway with a backpack standing next to a handsome young man carrying a duffel bag.
“Hey Spence,” Triston said.
“Hey,” Spencer said.
“I’m Josh,” the young man said offering his hand.
They shook hands and Spencer invited them inside, directed them to set the bags down against the wall before they went into the living room to sit. Spencer had expected him to look wounded, to have a black eye, busted lip, or maybe a visible scar but he didn’t. Josh was handsome, young, and masculine. He moved with a prepared, self-conscious effort. There was something naive, even innocent about him. It was hard to believe someone could mistreat him, abuse him.
They talked for an hour about life, the world, and their jobs in a circular introduction. Josh was quick to ask either of them a question and listen to the response. Spencer and Triston felt comfortable with each other, joked with each other, and it was easy to respond, to pontificate until either of them ran out of steam, found that he was dominating the conversation and so he would think of something to ask, something to say and wait.
After they felt like they had introduced themselves they talked about house rules, obligations, and responsibilities. Spencer was surprised that Josh would be up earlier than him because he worked the morning shift as a barista as well as a lunch shift at a restaurant across town. He said he’d have to get used to the new bus routes but he’d survive. They talked a little about their jobs until it felt complete. They looked around at each other.
“Want to watch some television?” Spencer asked.
“Sure,” Josh said.
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Ch 16 - No Promises
Walter beside him didn’t make Triston feel much safer as they pulled into the driveway of Walter’s parents’ home. Walter was in the driver seat. They looked to each other and smiled. He remembered what Walter had said to him, ‘don’t worry my father isn’t going to kill you’. Triston thought about their conversation, but now was the worst time to have regrets. They had been sitting in the living room, casually drinking beer and watching television.
“I have a weird question to ask you,” Walter said.
“How weird?”
“It’s not sexual. It’s about real life.”
“Okay,” Triston said.
“Well, my parents have seen posts of mine accidentally and they asked me about them. They’re worried about me. They asked if I was seeing anyone.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Well, I told them about you. Nothing specific just, you know, we’re friends.”
“What does that mean?”
“It sounded good at the time but I don’t know. It means you look out for me. I didn’t want to tell them I was having sex or in a committed relationship but that I had someone.”
“Okay,” Triston said. “I’m just your friend?”
“Well, they asked about you a couple times and said they wanted to meet you.”
“I’m not sure,” Triston said.
“Would you go with me to meet them?”
He wanted to say no but it felt as if the request had some force to it, a momentum or gravity that pulled him along. He was curious about meeting the people who had raised such a precocious young man, confident and naive, brave and unprepared. He expected them to be hippies, maybe nudists or college professors. He didn’t expect to find what he did.
They were greeted at the front door by his parents. They were both in their forties. His father had a pot belly. His mother wore a sweater. They reminded Triston of other people’s parents when he was growing up. They were polite, midwestern folk. They made sense here in a town far enough away from the capitol.
They were ushered inside to the living room, directed to the couch where they sat. His father went to the recliner and sat. His mother smiled and offered drinks. Triston wanted to order a double Scotch on the rocks but stopped himself. He looked around at the interior decorations, only the furniture was new and it all had a very rural sensibility but he didn’t take the man or his wife to be rednecks or white trash.
He looked to Walter’s mother who stood waiting despite having asked about drinks. Walter’s father looked as if he were accessing a file for what he was about to say. Triston knew it had been rehearsed, possibly between the two of them. He readied himself for any potential embarrassing statement, any accusation. Walter was nineteen, a good ten years younger than him.
“When our son told us about you we weren’t sure if we ever wanted to meet you. We wanted to discourage him but he has a way of getting the things he wants. We know there’s an age difference between the two of you. We know our son pretty well. He does dangerous things sometimes. It’s the ADD. We also know he has good intentions and is kind hearted.
“Looking at you, knowing that you came all the way out here not knowing us we appreciate your courage and your willingness. We think it says a lot about you. Our son here is a man, a young man, and though he’s out there living his own life we also feel responsible for him. It may sound strange but we think of you kind of like his older mentor and maybe, just maybe, you feel some responsibility for him. We hope you do.”
Triston stared at them. He looked to Walter who sat unmoving. For someone with ADD he had managed to stay calm through the whole speech. He wanted to say many things. He wanted to show them kindness. He wanted to promise them things. He wanted to clarify the relationship. A mentor was far from the boyfriend role Triston had thought he had. He wanted to say all those things but looking at the two of them he found a simpler thing to say.
“I’ll do the best I can.”
There, it was a way out, it meant he’d try but there were no promises. Walter’s father smiled and relaxed in his seat. His mother walked away to the kitchen. Triston looked to Walter who smiled before reaching down into his sock and scratching at his ankle nervously.
“I have a weird question to ask you,” Walter said.
“How weird?”
“It’s not sexual. It’s about real life.”
“Okay,” Triston said.
“Well, my parents have seen posts of mine accidentally and they asked me about them. They’re worried about me. They asked if I was seeing anyone.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Well, I told them about you. Nothing specific just, you know, we’re friends.”
“What does that mean?”
“It sounded good at the time but I don’t know. It means you look out for me. I didn’t want to tell them I was having sex or in a committed relationship but that I had someone.”
“Okay,” Triston said. “I’m just your friend?”
“Well, they asked about you a couple times and said they wanted to meet you.”
“I’m not sure,” Triston said.
“Would you go with me to meet them?”
He wanted to say no but it felt as if the request had some force to it, a momentum or gravity that pulled him along. He was curious about meeting the people who had raised such a precocious young man, confident and naive, brave and unprepared. He expected them to be hippies, maybe nudists or college professors. He didn’t expect to find what he did.
They were greeted at the front door by his parents. They were both in their forties. His father had a pot belly. His mother wore a sweater. They reminded Triston of other people’s parents when he was growing up. They were polite, midwestern folk. They made sense here in a town far enough away from the capitol.
They were ushered inside to the living room, directed to the couch where they sat. His father went to the recliner and sat. His mother smiled and offered drinks. Triston wanted to order a double Scotch on the rocks but stopped himself. He looked around at the interior decorations, only the furniture was new and it all had a very rural sensibility but he didn’t take the man or his wife to be rednecks or white trash.
He looked to Walter’s mother who stood waiting despite having asked about drinks. Walter’s father looked as if he were accessing a file for what he was about to say. Triston knew it had been rehearsed, possibly between the two of them. He readied himself for any potential embarrassing statement, any accusation. Walter was nineteen, a good ten years younger than him.
“When our son told us about you we weren’t sure if we ever wanted to meet you. We wanted to discourage him but he has a way of getting the things he wants. We know there’s an age difference between the two of you. We know our son pretty well. He does dangerous things sometimes. It’s the ADD. We also know he has good intentions and is kind hearted.
“Looking at you, knowing that you came all the way out here not knowing us we appreciate your courage and your willingness. We think it says a lot about you. Our son here is a man, a young man, and though he’s out there living his own life we also feel responsible for him. It may sound strange but we think of you kind of like his older mentor and maybe, just maybe, you feel some responsibility for him. We hope you do.”
Triston stared at them. He looked to Walter who sat unmoving. For someone with ADD he had managed to stay calm through the whole speech. He wanted to say many things. He wanted to show them kindness. He wanted to promise them things. He wanted to clarify the relationship. A mentor was far from the boyfriend role Triston had thought he had. He wanted to say all those things but looking at the two of them he found a simpler thing to say.
“I’ll do the best I can.”
There, it was a way out, it meant he’d try but there were no promises. Walter’s father smiled and relaxed in his seat. His mother walked away to the kitchen. Triston looked to Walter who smiled before reaching down into his sock and scratching at his ankle nervously.
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