Out

Parker comes to terms with a relationship that has to be kept secret.

I don’t eat ice cream anymore. You wouldn’t eat ice cream, either, after you’ve seen it melted and festering at the bottom of a trashcan for a full summer’s day. Combine that with bratty children screaming for rainbow sprinkles after they clearly asked for chocolate and the humidity of mid-July and just the thought of ice cream will make you sick. My summer was colored by disappointment: lazy days spent with friends I suddenly realized weren’t as fulfilling as friends I had made in college, coupled with nights working at the ice cream place down the street. The only other person who worked as consistently as I did was a guy three years older than me who got expelled from our high school. He was great company if you enjoyed watching someone make inappropriate passes at girls much too young for him while he worked behind the counter.

My summer wasn’t supposed to be like this. I was sure of that. Everyone who looked at my résumé told me I was bound for a summer in New York City, not wasting away my days sweating behind an ice cream counter, gaining no practical skills for my future. Waste was the only way to describe it.

When people talk about seasonal depression, they talk about that looming sadness that comes with the bitter chill and perpetual gray of the winter season. Spring and summer come with the promise of brighter skies and warmth to melt ice threatening to freeze into apathy. But does it work in reverse? For me, the winter promises me warm drinks and layers to add and a closeness that forms from nights around a calm fireplace while the weather outside continues on blustery and unnoticed. Spring and summer make me sticky and sweaty and uncomfortable; I walk outside each day only to feel as if any semblance of comfort is dashed away by my overactive sweat glands. And when I’m sweaty, I’m irritable and most things become harder to enjoy. If I had it my way, I would eliminate spring and summer all together.

Wyatt walked unassuming into my place of work on a rainy day. Almost no one came in that day to get ice cream. Wyatt was one of those people I hadn’t paid much attention to in high school; we had moved in different circles. I almost didn’t recognize him when he walked in. His hair was styled and cleaner, his skin clearer. He walked with impressively good posture, something my round-shouldered self was immediately jealous of. “I didn’t know you worked here,” he said, as I handed him his melting ice cream. I shrugged. 

“I wish I could say I didn’t.”

“What? I love this place.”

“Trust me, if you were on this side of the counter,” I said and leaned in closer and whispered, “you wouldn’t.” Wyatt chuckled at that. I remember wondering why the sound of his laugh made me smile so much. He stayed a while to talk, finishing his ice cream while we made small talk. A small part of me wanted to think he was flirting with me but, instinctively, I quieted down that voice inside of me. When he finished his ice cream, the conversation meandered to a stop. I could have kept talking; I wanted to keep talking. When it came time for him to leave, Wyatt grasped the countertop and said, in a low voice, “Parker, it’s been great catching up with you. I’d love to do it again.”

My mouth hung agape for too long. I scrambled to collect my thoughts. “Yes,” I replied too quickly. He suggested Commons Park. He could’ve suggested anywhere and I think I would’ve said yes. I watched Wyatt pull out of the parking lot and thunder rumbled in the distance.

He was late that day. I was sitting in the only discernible shade in Commons Park�"beneath the roof of the crumbling gazebo set in the back corner of the park. I think most people would consider “park” to be a bit of a misnomer for what was the large, square expanse of unkempt grass behind the parking lot for Main Street. Years ago, it was used for the town’s summer concert series�"the old wooden stage still remains. What was once a prime location for events and community bonding was now mostly known as a place for stoners to congregate away from the prying eyes of parents or police. I hadn’t been to Commons Park since I was in middle school. My friends and I would walk home from school and, if the weather was nice, we’d scrounge together the few dollars we had to get pizza from Michael’s and eat it on the stage before going home for the night. Wyatt was from the next town over. Maybe he had only heard about Commons Park in passing or glimpsed the sign for it while passing through. Maybe he didn’t know no one used it anymore.

I watched Wyatt’s car pull into the gravel parking lot, the wheels kicking up a cloudy smoke. Anxiously, I wiped the sweat that had collected on my brow and fanned myself in a half-hearted attempt to cool myself down. Suddenly, I felt my body come to life as a mess of frenetic energy. If someone had asked me to spell my name, I’m not sure if I could have at that moment. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and willed myself to gain some composure before he got any closer to me. When I opened my eyes, Wyatt was walking toward me with, to my horror, a basket in tow. Had he really packed a picnic for us? My idea for the day had involved meeting at Commons Park only to go somewhere to eat or driving to some other destination. I didn’t think this was the destination. And a picnic? It was so self-consciously cliché I could feel my heart beginning to race. What was already a sweaty occasion for me was becoming a sweatier one.

When he reached the gazebo, he looked as fresh-faced and calm as ever. He smiled brightly at me but he furrowed his eyebrows. “What are you doing in the gazebo? It’s so nice out.”

Great, it was 90 degrees outside and this boy didn’t understand why I wanted to be in the shade. I shrugged and made a passing comment about the temperature. Wyatt didn’t seem to hear, or care, for he insisted we sit in the sun. Reluctantly, I left the respite of the gazebo and into the blazing sun. Wyatt and I exchanged small talk, chatting about our days, asking each other the initial first date questions. During this, Wyatt set up the picnic he apparently planned for us�"he had even brought a blanket for us to sit on. He always made sure to show he was listening, though. His brown eyes opened wider or he nodded appropriately, adding a comment here and there. I watched as his shirt stretched over his torso as he leaned over to spread out the blanket, as he reached into the basket for the food and drink. His smile didn’t fade once. The warmth Wyatt was emitting was less like the blaze of the sun and more like the calming waves of heat from a fireplace on a cozy winter’s night.

Wyatt reached for grapes inside the picnic basket. One at a time, he placed a grape in his mouth, taking the time to chew each one carefully. The conversation had reached a lull and both of us had resorted to silence. Instead of grappling for words, I found a certain peace in the silence. It wasn’t awkward, it just was. I took the time to look at me, following the lines of his body. He didn’t look at me, just out at the empty field. His question came as a surprise. “Do your parents know…?”

His voice trailed off like he wanted to finish the sentence but I knew where he was going. I set my sandwich down. “Yeah, definitely. When I came out I decided I wanted to just get it all over with.”

Wyatt only nodded. He fiddled with the cuffed legs of his pants, keeping his eyes focused on his feet. My mouth opened, knowing what I wanted to say but words did not come. I let the uncomfortable silence persist. Slowly, his hands left his jeans and moved closer to mine, inching toward my fingers spread on the blanket. He brushed them delicately.

“What about your parents? Do they know?” His slight touch summoned some confidence in me.

Our eyes met briefly. Something in the curve of his mouth told me he was grateful for the question. I tried to make my smile comforting�"encouraging, maybe�"but I was all nerves. He sighed and looked out at the field again. “No…they don’t know. No one knows, actually.” Wyatt turned to look me straight in the eye this time. I nearly choked.

“Oh, I’m�"”

 “It’s just complicated.” His tone shifted and the words came out easier now. He was explaining himself, something he must have been used to at this point. “People at school know, of course. But home is just different. It’s not a big deal. I’m only home for the summer.” The words spilled out. When he was done talking, he shrugged. I struggled for a response. He barely broke eye contact with me. Wyatt was studying my face. “Is that okay?”

Once again my mouth opened to speak but words didn’t arrive as quickly as I hoped. The question was direct and confident, not looking for approval. My answer seemed meager. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s fine.”

 “I mean, it’s just I’ve told this to guys and sometimes it’s a deal breaker. People like to show off, you know? ‘Here’s this new boy I’m seeing,’ and all that. Sometimes boys are just looking for sex and that’s…fine.”

His hand moved closer again, this time his fingers resting on top of mine. He brushed them gently over and over. I looked away, refusing to let my facial expressions betray me. Looking up at the sky, I cursed my lack of sexual experience. I knew this conversation had to come but I was rendered unprepared. His fingers remained intertwined with mine, resting on the itchy picnic blanket. Looking back at him I steadied my voice. “Oh, I’ve never had sex.”

 It was my turn to shrug this time. A shrug was casual. Wyatt squeezed my hand but did not acknowledge it. His eyes stayed with mine. “That’s fine. I just wanted you to know where I’m at. I come with certain…parameters, I guess.” He chuckled. I pulled my hand out from under his and nodded too much.

 “Oh, definitely. We don’t have to show off. It’s no one else’s business anyway, right?”

Wyatt leaned back on his elbows. “Good.”

He kissed me before the date ended. As my eyes closed, I stopped worrying about whether I was sweating too much or being too boring. I stopped caring about my summer not living up to expectations. Wyatt didn’t care that he was here for the summer. His concerns were less with the future and more with the present.

We went on several more dates like that. There wasn’t a week where we didn’t meet at least once. They were always in intimate settings, away from the stares of people we knew�"on nature trails deep in the state park, in restaurants far removed from either of our towns, once even at an aquarium that took an hour to drive to. Sometimes Wyatt would just visit me at work. He would order an ice cream and find excuses to stick around when it wasn’t busy. We spoke while I pretended to clean equipment or refill ice cream flavors. When other coworkers were around we never spoke emotionally, unless it was quick or in hushed tones. This was the most important to Wyatt. Our dates�"our burgeoning relationship�"were hushed, never discussed in the open. I lay awake at night wondering whether Wyatt’s story was true. The one thing that was salvaging my summer was something I couldn’t even divulge. Doubt began to creep in.  Maybe he was completely out and he was just embarrassed of me, only humoring me with dates because he was bored. Doubt was at a maximum when Wyatt’s parents went away for the weekend. They were staying with friends at a beach house. Wyatt had planned on going earlier in the summer but told his parents he needed to pick up another shift at work.

That Friday night Wyatt invited me over. His house was similar to mine, thoroughly lived in with a hint of mess in every room. Families breed messes. No matter the effort put into cleaning a home, a busy family can’t keep an immaculate living space. His home felt familiar. Wyatt had one of those enormous couches in his living room�"the L-shaped ones with cushions that enveloped you and put you to sleep right away. It was raining that night. A summer thunderstorm billowed outside. The thunder sounded feeble as I sunk further into Wyatt every moment. My head was on his chest and his heartbeat was louder than the thunder.

 I pictured my first time in a bed. Always. The couch was an unexpected twist in the story. At first, my mind wouldn’t shut down. I kept thinking his parents were going to walk in; I had to remind myself my life wasn’t a National Lampoon movie. My first time was a rush and tumble of two bodies. Wyatt led the way but gave me the control. At least, he made me feel like I was in control. It was more than beautiful. It was on a couch in suburbia but I could’ve sworn I had transferred to a different plane. I was converted; transcendentalism was real.

It was only after the next several times that I realized maybe I was being dramatic. It was no less special but I could now understand that I was not, in fact, transcending time and space. Doubts disappeared. Our secret delighted me. The world wasn’t good enough to know.

We were driving home one night. My heart was feeling particularly light. It was the closest I had felt to anyone in a while. It was on nights like this, when we were at the restaurant eating dinner, that I wanted nothing more than to kiss him or move closer to him. Resisting intimacy in public was hard. But the moments where we shared of each other, when our restraints were cast aside, kept me through the discreet public moments.

Approaching his neighborhood, I turned off the main road and onto the meandering residential lanes. Wyatt was frantic with nervous energy. I took a hand off the steering wheel and put it on his knee. He pulled away instinctively. “Stop here, I’ll walk the rest of the way,” he said, looking at me seriously, his expression almost grave.

 “That’s stupid, we’re so close.”

“Seriously, Parker. Please.”

My eyebrows furrowed, I pulled off to the side of the road, in front of a dark house. Concern must have been written on my face. Wyatt put his hand on my knee and squeezed it. “I just think my parents are getting suspicious. They’ve…they’ve noticed we hang out all the time. They keep asking me about girls and girlfriends. They never do that.” The words were a struggle for him to get out. “I hope you understand.”

He grabbed my hand quickly before leaving the car. I watched him walk away, willing him to turn around. A silent plea. My mind raced as I drove back home. The questions I had for him piled up in my mind like a neglected pile of clothes. I wanted nothing more than to touch him and let him know that things wouldn’t be that way forever. “It gets better” and all the other clichés I could think of. I had been adhering to his rules all summer. His relationship with his parents and life as he grew to know it hinged on the secrecy. As much as I longed to tell the world that I was going on dates with this boy, I kept it to myself. I whispered it to myself out loud as I went to bed each night, as if hearing the words made it more real. It didn’t bother me.

Until he stopped answering my messages. His back as he walked away from my car was my last glimpse of Wyatt. I couldn’t get a hold of him. He had to have read those messages. I know he did. But no replies came. I started to drive by his house. Sometimes his car would be in the driveway, sometimes it would not. Once again the summer devolved into nothing but sweaty days and nights where I was angry and bitter and defeated. The history of Wyatt and I disappeared overnight. Sure, it was a brief history, but that burst of joy that came and went so quickly that July was gone. How terrifying to know that one person could have that much control over your experience. I let him open me up more than anyone. One stitch at a time, he cut through me. Wyatt walked into my life and I handed him the keys to my happiness, to my peace. That was gone and I would’ve gladly let the happiness back in. But I no longer had the keys.

I fell quickly back into my old pattern. I moped at home in solitude, counting down the days until I was back at school. On occasion, I would venture outside and bring my laptop with me to the coffee shop on the corner. It was on one of those rare occasions that I saw Wyatt. Sunlight streamed in through the large windows that looked out onto the quiet street. When I walked in, I was forced to greet several people from my high school graduating class, people I never wanted to see again. They lounged in oversized chairs and sofas. Inside, it was quite crowded. I could blend in.

I was in the back corner, watching a movie on my laptop when the charming little bell went off to signal someone’s arrival into the store. I looked up out of habit. He didn’t notice me. He was still walking in the same way, frame carried high. My eyes couldn’t help but follow him all the way to the counter. It was very likely he was just going to walk out without seeing me. The day would have carried on as normal. I tried to make as much noise as possible, dragging the legs of my chair across the floor, clearing my throat. Wyatt had received his coffee. He took it to the nook on the other side of the room. Feeling as though I was going to vomit, I ripped my headphones from my ears and stood up. Stowing my anxiety away, I moved in three quick motions to where Wyatt was standing. It took him a moment�"what felt like years�"but he eventually looked up. It took his mind a second to process but his eyes widened. Sounds too throaty to be words escaped from his mouth as he grappled to find words appropriate for the situation. But there were none. I grabbed his face and I kissed him. Almost immediately, he rebuked me. Pushing me back, I bumped into the nook and upset a carafe of milk. At least one person looked our way. I looked on horrified as I saw Wyatt staring back at me, betrayal in the lines of his face. “F**k you,” he said to me, hoarsely, as if he had just been screaming. He left his coffee and made his exit with his head down.

Breathing heavily, I returned to my seat in the corner. I could feel the eyes following me. Some girls we both knew were giggling awkwardly to themselves. Confusion hung in the air and customers awkwardly returned to their conversations. I looked out the large storefront windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of Wyatt. He was gone.