Page 83 of Perfectly Us
Is that selfish of me? Definitely. Maybe it makes me the villain, but I don’t care. I’d walk right past the lever and drop to my knees in front of him, pretending I don’t hear the train as it passes by on the broken track.
***
The rickety dock creaks in front of us as Shiloh and I sit on the grassy bank at sundown.
I used to come to the lake, to this exact spot, so many times after Clay died. Sometimes I’d scream at him for leaving me. Other times I’d reminisce about the fun times we had.
It’s also the spot where the connection between me and Shiloh strengthened. Where he told me about what happened to him last year. Where his fingers pressed to mine, the soft touch hesitant. Unsure.
“Dad told me he met you at the coffee shop,” I say, watching as a small frog hops into the water. “It was totally on purpose. He wanted to get a read on you.”
Shiloh softly inhales, then releases it. “Your dad is a little scary.”
“Yeah, I guess. Deep down, I think he means well. Our relationship is complicated.” I don’t know what it is about this lake that makes it easier to open up about things, but I start talking and can’t stop. “I came out to my parents a week after Clay’s death. We were sitting at the dinner table, forks scraping plates but no one actually eating. Clay knew I was gay, and he was so supportive. He told me to be brave. To be my true self no matter what. Now that I think about it, I think he was saying goodbye in a way. Preparing me for a future without him. I don’t know.”
Shiloh grabs my hand but keeps his gaze forward. I take comfort in the warmth of his palm, in how his long fingers link with mine.
“Maybe it was seeing Clay’s empty chair beside me at the table, or maybe it was the constant ticking of the grandfather clock that was so damn loud, but I kinda snapped. No one would talk about Clay. About why he did what he did. They just sat there at the table, zoning out like he never existed. And I lost it. I yelled at my dad. Blaming him. Which isn’t fair, I know. But I was fifteen and just lost my brother. It all came out in one big rush. I said Dad couldn’t accept Clay for who he was, that he put pressure on him to be something else. Then I said he was doing the same to me.”
I stop when my voice starts to crack. I don’t like crying, especially not in front of other people.
When I have some composure back, I continue. “You see, Dad used to say things sometimes.Stop being a little girl, he would tell me when I cried about something. Or when I talked with my hands a lot and laughed in a way he thought was too feminine, he’d say,Don’t do that. People might think you’re queer.Just stupid shit like that. But it made it harder when I realized I was gay. Scared me. It’s why Clay told me to be brave. At the dinner table, all of that pent-up anger and sadness exploded from me, and I came out to them.”
“What did they do?” Shiloh asks.
“Dad said I was selfish, that our family has been through enough and I should be ashamed. He then threw his plate in the sink, food and glass going everywhere, and left the kitchen. Mom sat there, staring at the wall. Just like with Clay’s death, we didn’t talk much about me being gay after that either. Because that’s what my parents do best. Avoid shit.”
“Why do you think your dad wanted to meet me?” Shiloh takes another calming breath.
“Maybe it’s his way of showing me that he’s trying to do better. I hope so anyway.”
Or maybe Dad was only sizing Shiloh up in that extremely judgmental way as a scare tactic. Only time will tell, I guess.
Cicadas sing in the trees behind us, the nostalgic sound soothing. Some people think the bugs are obnoxious, but I like them. It’s not summer until I hear them.
“About the other night…” Shiloh says, releasing my hand. He pops the rubber band on his wrist, the soft snap joining the whirring of the cicadas.
I kind of hate the sound, mainly because I know what it represents. That he’s inwardly struggling. That he has to do something to prevent his mind from going to a dark place.
“You don’t have to talk about it,” I tell him.
“That’s the thing. I want to. Need to.” Another snap. “I lied to you, Alex. Hell, I’ve lied to my dad, my therapist, and everyone else close to me. And that lie has been eating away at me, bit by bit.”
I peer over at him, seeing how the last traces of sunlight falls across his face.
“You asked me once if I wanted to die the day I… when I…” Shiloh shakes his head, wringing his hands in front of him. A soft snap against his skin, quickly followed by another. “I said no. But I was lying. A lie I doubt anyone actually believed. No matter how many times I say it wasn’t a suicide attempt, it’s obvious. But I denied it. In doing so, I don’t think I ever truly faced it.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. He taps it against his fingers. Once. Twice.
“I wrote a letter to my dad,” he says, and the tapping stops. “He never saw it though. When I came home from the hospital, I shoved it into the back of my desk drawer and pretended it didn’t exist. Because its existence meant that what I did wasn’t an accident. And it scared the hell out of me. So I blocked it out, pushed it to the back of my mind. I started having these weird dreams not long after. I thought I was chasing something, when really, I was running away. The other night, when I woke you up, I finally faced it, Alex. It sounds dumb saying it out loud.”
“It’s not dumb.” I rest my head on his shoulder as I stare at a ripple in the lake. “Acceptance is an important part of moving on.”
I try to hide how much his admission breaks my heart. Knowing he actually wanted to die at one point? Being so close to never seeing his shy smiles or taste his lips, feel his heart beating against mine? It’s soul crushing.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Shi.” Tears brim in my eyes.
He turns his face and kisses my temple. A shudder passes through his body. “Me too.”
