Page 151 of Shadowman
He peeks at me, lips sloped. “The only thing I have written down in here are some random scribbles on the floor of my old cell.”
“Well, hopefully I can check it out one of these days…”
Trevel’s head slants, deep, interesting eyes skimming me over in that way he does… So fuckingdifferentfrom the way everyone else looks at me.
“You’re going to regret encouraging me, Raph,” he breathes. “I’ll be writing you poems nonstop.”
I’m trying hard to fight the awkwardness I’ve felt around him since the blowjob. It doesn’t make much sense. I’ve hooked up with my fair share of people I consider friends over the years in here, carrying on afterward as if nothing happened. I never had any problem looking them in the eye…
I mean, it’s the whole reason the mattress has a fucking hole in it.
But I don’t know, something about Trevel Fenwick chokes me up more than anyone else. He’s this mysterious presence who showed up out of nowhere, flashing that crooked, taunting smirk and restless longing in his purple eyes.
Whatever the reason, I’msurewe can continue fooling around without it meaning anything too serious for either of us. Because if the alternative is not doing it anymore… Well, I’m not confident I can pull that off.
“Byron, I have to tell you…” His voice pulls me out of my thoughts once more. “This book is extremely enlightening.”
My lashes flutter. “Like how?”
“Well, for starters, it directly contradicts your wholeI’m straight outside of prisondefense,” he sneers, and I scowl.
“What’s your point?”
“You had a boyfriend.” His smirk widens.
“Michelangelo wasnotmy boyfriend,” I grumble. “We were just fucking.”
“Doesn’t read that way…” he sings.
“Yea, well, I guess I’m a better writer than I thought,” I grunt.
Trevel sighs, slapping the book shut and turning to face me. “Look, I’m not here to pull anyone out of the closet. It’s none ofmy business, other than that I happen to consider you a friend, and I could tell from the moment we met you were begging to finally letyourselfout.”
“That’s bullshit,” I scoff. But I know he’s right, and I hate myself for the knee-jerk defensive lies that pour out like a reflex.
“Byron… This is not a coincidence,” he says firmly, but with an air of encouragement. “What are you so afraid of?”
Frustration builds inside me, a rolling discomfort in my gut that travels up into my chest. “I’m not afraid of shit.”
He leans in closer, until barely an inch separates our faces. I gulp, gripping the railing with white knuckles. “Then tell me the truth.”
This reaction is so familiar, it’s baked into me at this point. The fear… I know it so well, and I hate it. Idespisethat he’s right… They all are.
Everyone who looks at my behaviors and says,“Why can’t he just be honest?? What’s stopping him?”
Because they’re all right. I have no reason to fear the truth anymore.
I’ll never see my parents again. Losing what little love and support I had from them in the first place doesn’t matter. Let’s not pretend they weren’t already disappointed in me, queer or not. And honestly, the feeling of being with Michelangelo was good enough that I would have gladly sacrificed their approval to keep it.
They’ve never given a fuck about me. Who I want to be… Who Iam.
Might as well be the best damn disappointment they could ever disown, right?
So what if it’s not what I expected? Doesn’t that make it better?
Being surprised by yourself…
“You can do it, Raphael,” Trevel whispers, his hand sliding over mine where it’s holding on to the railing for dear life.
