Autoboyography
Page 57

This, I think, is what it feels to have a heart broken. I let out some garbled sound of sympathy.
“Finally, Dad said, ‘Do you mean attraction or behavior, Sebastian?’ And he never uses my full name.” He swallows, with effort. “I told him, ‘Either. Both.’ And he went on essentially to say that our family believes that the sacred acts of procreation are to be shared only between a man and his wife, and anything else undermines the foundation of our faith.”
“So, basically what you expected,” I say carefully. I mean, it’s a testament to how messed up the situation is that I’m hearing this and thinking, Could be worse! “Do you think they’re open to the conversation at least?”
“This was a week ago,” he whispers. When he looks up at me with tears in his eyes, he adds, “No one has spoken to me in a week.”
• • •
A week.
A week!
I can’t even fathom not speaking to my parents for a week. Even when they’ve been on work trips, they call and check in nightly and require detailed updates that go far beyond the scope of their mildly distracted at-home check-ins. But Sebastian has been living in a house with a family that moves around him as if he’s a ghost.
I don’t know when exactly we move on, but it’s not long after he tells me this. It’s like there’s nothing I can say that makes it less terrible. I try, but I fail, and eventually just focus on making him lie back next to me, staring up at the tree, and telling him all the stupid gossip Autumn has told me.
Oof. Autumn. I need to go there at some point.
But not yet. Right now we’re holding hands and lying side by side. Our palms grow slippery and clammy, but he doesn’t let go, and I won’t either.
“What have you been doing?”
“Moping,” I tell him. “School. Mostly moping.”
“Same.” He reaches up with his free hand, scratches his jaw. It’s stubbly for once, and I’m into it. “Well, and church. I’ve been practically living there.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.” He rolls his head to look at me. “I leave on tour three weeks from today. Honestly, I don’t think my parents are going to be able to keep this up when the book comes out. I know they’re proud. They’ll want to share that pride with everyone.”
I’d forgotten about the book. It’s like the tour just sort of bled into his mission and stopped having any legitimate purpose. I am a brat. “And they won’t want anyone to see them being assholes.”
He doesn’t say anything to this, but that means he doesn’t disagree, either.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t want to bad-mouth your parents because I know you guys are super close. I’m just pissed.”
“Me too.” He shifts, putting his head on my shoulder. The next eight words come out thin, like he’s run them through his thoughts so many times, they’re worn down, frayed: “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this worthless.”
This is a knife to my gut, and in a heated flash, I want him to get the fuck out of Provo. I hope his book sells a million copies in a week and everyone loses their mind over how great he is. I hope his ego gets enormous and he becomes unbearable—anything but that shaking tenor of his voice saying those words again.
I pull him to me, and he rolls to his side, letting out a choking sob into my neck.
So many platitudes pile onto the tip of my tongue, but they’d all sound terrible.
You’re amazing.
Don’t let anyone make you feel worthless.
I’ve never known anyone like you.
And on and on.
But we’ve both been raised to care greatly what our family thinks about us—their esteem is everything. On top of that, Sebastian has the looming judgment of the church, telling him wherever he looks that the God he loves thinks he’s a pretty foul human being. It’s impossible to know how to undo the damage they’re doing to him.
“You’re amazing,” I say anyway, and he chokes out a sob-laugh. “Come on, kiss me. Let me kiss that amazing face.”
• • •
Mom finds us like this—crying-laughing-crying in a heap under the Snuffleupagus tree—and one look at our faces sends her into triage mode.
She claps a hand over her mouth when she sees Sebastian, and tears rise to the surface of her eyes nearly immediately. Mom pulls us up, hugs me, and then wordlessly takes Sebastian into her arms—he gets the longer hug, the one with the soft Mom words spoken into his ear—and something breaks loose in me because it makes him cry harder. Maybe she’s just saying things like “You’re amazing. Don’t ever let anyone make you feel worthless.” Maybe she tells him she understands what he’s going through and that it will get better. Maybe she’s promising him weekly deliveries of bumper stickers. Whatever it is, it’s exactly what he needs because the tears eventually stop, and he nods down at her.
The sun is starting to set, and there’s no question he’s staying for dinner. We wipe the grass from our pants and follow Mom inside. It’s late spring, and even though it gets pretty warm during the day, the temperature drops like a rock once the sun goes away, and it’s only now that I realize how cold it was out under the tree. Inside, my parents have a fire going in the living room. They’re blasting Paul Simon from the stereo. Hailey is sitting at the kitchen table, carving out her chemistry homework with dark, resentful scrapes of her pencil.
It’s suddenly impossible to get warm. We laugh, clutching each other in this sort of surreal, high way—he’s here, in my house, with my family—and I pull Sebastian down the hall with me, handing him one of my hoodies from the coat hooks near the front door. It’s deep red, with the S-T-A-N-F-O-R-D stamped across the front in white letters.
He patiently lets me zip it for him, and I admire my handiwork. “You look good in those colors.”
“Unfortunately, I’m already enrolled at a local university.”
For now, I think. God, his decision to embrace this—us—impacts so many things. If he wants to stay at BYU, he can’t be out, period. Even being here he’s essentially breaking an honor code. But there are other schools. . . .
This is unreal. I look down the hall at where my parents are bent over, laughing over my dad’s hysterical distaste for touching raw chicken. They both seem to have put their worry away for the night, realizing that we need this—a few hours where we can just be together like any other couple. The only instruction they give us is to wash our hands before dinner.
“Speaking of college, though.”
I startle when he says this because it hits me: It’s been only a few weeks that we’ve been apart, but so much has happened, future-decision-wise. He doesn’t know where I’m moving in August.
“I assume you’ve heard back from most places?”
“Yeah.” I reach forward, zipping down his sweatshirt just enough to get an eyeful of throat and collarbone. His skin is this perfect kind of smooth and tan. I want to get him shirtless and have my own photo shoot.
I’m stalling.
“So?”
I meet his eyes. “I’m going to UCLA.”
Sebastian falls wordless for a few tense seconds, and the pulse in his neck picks up pace. “You’re not staying in state?”