Page 35 of For Your Heart
I was sixteen.
I never told Sammy the truth. Not that I agreed to date her because that’s what would make my mother happy. Not that I was gay. Not that I was never going to be good enough.
There was never one thing that bothered me about Sammy. She wasn’t overly snooty or spoiled. It wasn’t until I stopped trying to live up to what my mother wanted four years later in college that Sammy became something other than my partner.
She became an obstacle. Always passive aggressive with her remarks about my decisions and how things such as my career choice should be a decision we discussed together. Which really meant, she wanted that control.
Then there were the subtle comments about how much I’m upsetting my mother. How she’s such a wonderful woman that I shouldn’t want to disappoint her. That she’s given me every opportunity and I should thank her in a better way.
Just after my college graduation, Jordan and River convinced me to try counseling. Therapy. Anything as long as I start talking to someone outside of my family life. When I announced to my mother and fiancée I’d found a therapist, at first there was a riot. They were genuinely upset that I would let the world see that I wasn’t perfect.
“But I’m not perfect,” I told them. “You’ve done nothing but make that perfectly clear my entire life.”
Boy did that comment come with a heavy guilt trip on how my mother tried and tried to give me everything. Every push or shove in one direction was only because she wanted what’s best for me. She wanted for me what she never had.
My therapist said she wanted control. I’ve given her control my entire life and now she was going to dig her claws in trying to keep it.
Mom suddenly became super supportive of my therapy. A self-proclaimed advocate that people should talk to someone when they feel the need to. She wasproudof me for taking that step and knowing my own mental insecurities better than anyone else.
Sammy was back to being the perfect girlfriend. Perfect partner, companion, friend.
I knew it for what it was. Well, I knew as soon as my therapist made it clear. Manipulation. If they behaved in a way that made me feel good, then clearly there was nothing wrong.
Except that no matter what lie I lived for them, it was a lie. I don’t like women and I’m fucking miserable at home. Not because Sammy is awful. But because I’m not straight and I hate pretending to be.
Even acknowledging this, it took me almost six years to find the courage and strength to tell them. Yes, that long. When I did, it felt like a house had been taken from my shoulders. I was near tears that I could breathe for the first time. When I broke off my engagement to Sammy and moved, for the first time in my life, I felt like everything was going to be okay.
That was not even close to being the case. Personally, for me and my mental health, I was a whole lot better. But my mother became a monster, and Sammy never went away.
Honestly, I hadn’t seen her for three months or more, so I thought thatmaybeshe’d figured it out. Obviously, I’d been wrong.
I’m a pretty easy-going guy. I’m usually pretty happy and painless to get along with. It takes a lot to make me mad. Truly mad.
Showing up at my place of employment and calling me her husband, acting like the last year hadn’t happened just because that’s what she and my mother want? Yeah, that’s enough to put me into a tailspin.
Even after she left, I kept spiraling. Why can’t they just leave me alone? Why does everything have to be so fucking difficult? Why can’t I have their support and love like a normal family gives their child?
I don’t even know what my mother has against homosexuality. It’s not religion-based, since she vehemently doesn’t believe in any god. Seriously, her words on organized religion are worse than what she has for ‘the gayness.’ Yes, that’s a thing in her mind.
The only thing I’ve gotten from her is that it’s unnatural. To her, that’s what it means. “You can’t give me a grandbaby with another man.” Who said I wanted a child anyway?! And if I had one, you think I’m going to let them around you and your toxicity?
These are not things I’ve said. There’s an eight-year-old boy inside me who didn’t hit a home run at their very first baseball game ever that still desperately longs for their mother’s approval and pride. So I keep these thoughts to myself. Though it doesn’t make them any less true. If I had a kid, I don’t think I’d let my mother around them. In fact, I’m sure I’d have to move very, very far away, never give her my address or place of employment, just to assure that she never comes near my child.
Hell, I’d probably change my damn name.
I’m so blinded by my anger and lost in the misery that always follows a visit with my mother or Sammy now that I don’t notice I’m home until there’s a knock at my door. It takes me several minutes to blink through the fog inside me and look around. I’m still in my entry hall, slipping out of my second sneaker.
Turning around, I brace myself at the door. If it’s my fucking mother—
It’s not. Damon stands on my steps and looks at me. No smile. No greeting. Just looks at me, waiting. What does he want me to say right now? Did I do something in my angry haze that I don’t remember? My chest tightens.
“Shh,” he says and is in my space within the next second. I want to break down. I can’t do that in front of Damon, though.
I’m distracted when his mouth covers mine. It’s a hard, hot, demanding kiss that has me immediately groaning and all my blood rushing south. It’s sloppy, full of excess tongue and clashing teeth.
The door slams shut and then my clothes are coming off. I try to help but I can’t. I’m just a fumbling mess as I try to keep up and maintain his hold on my mouth. Sucking out my breath until I feel light-headed.
Damon slams me against the wall, pulling one of my legs up and wrapping it around his thigh. His slick fingers are shoving into my ass. I groan, bucking my hips against him. My fingers dig into him, dragging down his arms as I try to get more. More. This isn’t enough.
