Page 92 of Roommate
“I know you’re not,” I quickly agree. “We’re walking different parts of the path.”
“That doesn’t even begin to cover it,” he says. “It doesn’t matter how nice Griffin was to me just now. The timing is terrible.”
A very familiar panic begins to percolate inside me. “You feel this way right now because you had a scare. But once you have a little while to get used to the idea, you might realize that it’s not so terrifying to show people who you really are.”
“Not happening,” Kieran snaps. “That is not how it works for me.”
His sudden anger is so shocking that I spend a long beat trying to figure out how I made him so mad. And I’ve got nothing. “Look, I know your family is important to you.”
“You don’t know the first thing about it,” he says icily. “Griffin isn’t the problem.”
“Then tell me what is,” I fire back. He only scowls. “I’m not trying to paint some rosy picture for you. I promise you that. But your cousins love you. One of them is bisexual, for fuck’s sake. Your dad is kind of a dick already. Is he really going to get any worse if he knows you like men?”
I take a badly needed breath into the silence that follows. I don’t know how we got here, arguing about whether or not Kieran can come out. This whole thing is probably my fault. I should have locked the door after I got his Christmas present out of the car. And I shouldn’t pressure him. Especially on Christmas, for fuck’s sake.
“Rod,” he says tiredly. “It’s almost time to go. I have to go find a nice shirt to wear.”
“Make sure it’s a really straight-looking one.” It’s a cruel thing to say, and I know it. So cruel that his eyes widen in shock. He waits for me to explain myself, or at least laugh it off somehow.
But I don’t. I just sit back against the couch cushions and close my eyes. “You should go, so you’re not late.” That’s as conciliatory as I can manage to be.
“Are you ready to go?” he asks quietly.
“Yes.”
He gets up and climbs the stairs, while I sit on the couch feeling like a complete shit. Kieran had a stressful moment with his cousin, and instead of listening, I threw a tantrum. I pushed him away, because I’m terrified that he’s going to end up like Brian—trapped in the closet, with me in there with him.
It’s not an idle fear. Kieran clearly isn’t ready. This is all new to him.
But not to me, unfortunately. Nothing about this is new at all. And I promised myself I wouldn’t end up here again. I promised.
Kieran comes back down the stairs a few minutes later, wearing a nice blue button-down shirt that I cannot even compliment because I was already an ass about shirt choices. “We’re going together, right?” he asks. “Driving two cars is a waste of gas. And everybody likes to save gas.”
I listen to this rambling bit of logic, and it hurts my heart. If I’m going to be in a relationship, it has to be with someone who doesn’t need a solid alibi for sharing a ride with me.
And while I know that Kieran isn’t ready to come out on Christmas, I can easily picture myself sitting on this same couch next Christmas, with the same fancy cake waiting in the kitchen, asking myself how another year has gone by in our secret relationship.
I take a deep breath and do the difficult thing. “Kieran,” I say quietly. “I’m not in the right head space to go with you today. Can you take the cake I made and just tell anyone who asks that I need to catch up on my sleep? Or that I have a headache?” It’s not even a lie. I can feel a headache blooming behind my eyes.
“What? You said you were coming. Everyone will be there.”
That’s the problem, isn’t it? I’ve been trying to make a life for myself in Vermont. But every single person I know in this town is related to Kieran, either by blood or through my job. I’ve done it again. I’ve painted myself into a corner by falling for a man who requires me to hide how I feel.
This is all my fault. But it’s still going to hurt both of us.
“I shouldn’t have agreed to go,” I say as gently as possible. “I don’t want to spend the day pretending that you and I are just roomies who split the heating bill. Not on Christmas.”
“Oh,” he says, and then frowns. “But this morning you said you were excited to go.”
“Yeah,” I admit.
“What did I do wrong?”
I try on several answers to that question, and they all sound petty. You won’t hold my hand under the dinner table. After two whole months of exploring your sexuality, you’re not ready to change your life. “It’s not you, it’s me,” is what I come up with. “I’ve faked my way through many social gatherings before. I just can’t do it today.”
His forehead wrinkles, and I’m sure he wants to argue the point. But in the end, he says, “Okay.” And then he turns around and walks toward the backdoor, where his coat is waiting on a hook.
I follow him with the cake I made, so he won’t forget it.
