Autoboyography
Page 53

He swallows, and a muscle tics in his jaw. “I’m sorry.”
He’s sorry? I want to tell him what I did—because it was two betrayals—but I don’t actually think I could get through the words without breaking. Right now, we’re speaking quietly enough that no one can hear. But if I broke down and started crying? It would be obvious to anyone watching what kind of conversation we’re having. I’m not ready for that, and even after everything, I want to protect him, too.
His face is arranged in a perfectly patient expression. I can see in this moment what a great missionary he’ll be. He looks attentive and completely sincere, but somehow . . . peacefully removed.
I meet his eyes. “Did you ever picture me in your life after this semester?”
He looks confused for a beat. I know it’s because what came next was always an abstract thought. He had plans, of course—book tour, mission, returning home, and finishing school, probably meeting some sweet girl and following God’s plan—but I never figured into any of it. Maybe early in the morning or in some secret, dark corner of his mind, but not in any real way that mattered.
“I don’t think I pictured much of anything,” he says carefully. “I don’t know how the book tour will be—I’ve never done it. I don’t know what leaving on a mission will be—I’ve never done it. I’ve never done this, either.” He gestures between us with his index finger, and it feels somehow accusatory, like it’s something I hoisted onto him.
“You know what I don’t get?” I say, running a hand down my face. “If you never had any intention of anyone knowing, or of it meaning anything, why did you dangle me in front of your family and your church? Did you want to get caught?”
Something flashes across his face, and the calm, disconnected mask is gone. Has the thought never occurred to him? His mouth opens and closes again. “I . . . ,” he starts to say, but there’s no more room for easy answers or sound bites from a church manual.
“I know you said you prayed, and prayed, and that God told you that being with me wasn’t wrong.” At this, Sebastian breaks eye contact to look behind him, making sure we’re still alone. I bite down my frustration—he followed me here, for crying out loud—and push on. “But when you did that, did you actually take time to think about how this fit into your future, and who you are, and what it means to be gay?”
“I’m not—”
“I know,” I growl. “I get it. You’re not gay. But did you ever look inside yourself while you prayed and try to find the seed of who you are in there, instead of just asking God over and over for permission to look?”
He doesn’t say anything else, and my shoulders sag. I just want to go. Without any idea why he came to find me, I can’t fix this for either of us. Sebastian is going to go, and I have to let him.
I stand for the first time in what feels like hours. I get light-headed as blood flows to my legs, but it feels good to be moving, to have a goal again: Autumn.
I move to pass him and stop, leaning in to whisper and getting caught in the familiar smell of him. “I don’t actually care if you break my heart, Sebastian. I went into this knowing it could happen and I gave it to you anyway. But I don’t want you to break your own. You have so much space in your heart for your church, but does it have space for you?”
• • •
I hear the music as soon as I get out of my car. The windows of Autumn’s small, two-story house are closed, but the pounding bass of her screaming death metal rattles them in their frames. She’s moved from sad and hiding under her covers to death metal.
All in all, this is a good sign.
I’m usually the one who cuts the grass in the summer, and right now it’s in need of a good mowing; unruly tufts of green creep along the edge of the sidewalk. I make a mental note to bring the mower over later this week . . . if Autumn lets me. We might not even be speaking.
With a steadying breath, I ring the bell, knowing she’ll probably never hear it over the music. There’s no movement in the house. I pull out my phone and dial her number again. My head snaps up when—for the first time since last night—it actually rings instead of going to straight to voice mail. She doesn’t answer, though, and it goes to voice mail anyway. I leave yet another message: Autumn, it’s me. Please call me back.
Stuffing my phone in my pocket, I try the bell again before sitting down on her front steps for the long haul. I know she’s in there; I’ll just have to wait.
I’m up to twelve cars, two dog walkers, and one mailman passing by before I finally hear something. The music cuts off so quickly that the sudden silence leaves my ears ringing.
I twist around in time to see a red-eyed Autumn peeking her head around the door. In my rush to stand I almost pitch myself off the porch, and the corner of her mouth twitches up into a smile.
My chest grows carbonated with hope.
“I saw you pull up,” she says and, squinting into the bright afternoon, steps out onto the porch. It means she’s known I’ve been here for nearly an hour. “Figured I better come out before the neighbors call to report a squatter.”
“I tried to call.”
“I saw.” With a sigh, she looks out into the yard before squinting up at me again. “Maybe you should come in?”
I nod eagerly. She pulls the door open wider and steps back into the darkness, waving me in with a pale hand.
Her living room is a literal blanket fort, the way it always is when she needs to hide out from the world: The curtains are pulled shut, and the TV is on but muted. Pillows and blankets engulf the couch, and in the corner is a package of Chips Ahoy! that looks like it’s been torn open by a band of ferrets. Her phone is sitting placidly on the coffee table. The screen is lit with notifications. I bet they’re all from me.
I’ve been in this house a thousand times, had dinner here, done homework, watched countless movies on this very couch, but I’ve never stood here like this, with a mountain of awkward between Autumn and me. I don’t know how to scale it.
I watch as she moves to the couch, kicking the majority of the blankets to the floor before waving me over. We hardly ever talk out here. We’ll watch movies quietly on the couch, eat food in the kitchen, but always—for as long as we’ve been best friends—our conversations happen in her bedroom.
I’m not sure either of us is ready to go back in there yet.
My stomach is in knots. What was the point of sitting at school, calming my thoughts all morning if, now that I’m here, I can’t think of a single thing to say?
I look at her and try to focus. When I came over last night, she had on a pair of pink-and-black pajamas. A flash of color pops in my head, chased by the question: Did she get dressed? Or did she climb immediately into the shower?
Did she try to wash away what happened as quickly as I did?
She’s wearing a pair of sweats now, and a U of U shirt we got at a game last summer. They were playing BYU, and we wanted U of U to beat them so badly we were scouring the ground for lucky pennies and making wishes in fountains. It feels a hundred years away from where we are now. Her hair is pulled to the side and twisted into a single braid. It looks wet. Why am I relieved that she showered? My thoughts trip down another tangent: I remember how Sebastian’s hair felt against my face as he kissed down my jaw to my chest, but I have no recollection of whether Autumn’s hair was up or down last night, whether I felt it at all.