Ryan and avery, p.23
Ryan and Avery, page 23
Avery won’t tell Ryan any of this happened.
He doesn’t want there to be any doubt.
He goes back to his room, and when he sits down on his bed, the first things he sees are the snapdragons Ryan gave him, a little ragged but still special. When they’re gone, he’ll replace them with a photo he took of them right after he got home from the cast party. Beside the photo will be the card that’s now beside the flowers: Here’s to many more. Love, Ryan. Avery hasn’t asked whether Ryan meant many more shows or many more flowers. He’ll never ask.
He’ll always take it to mean both.
* * *
—
For years, Ryan felt his life was a mostly unspoken negotiation with his parents.
This week, it’s become a more formal negotiation.
When Aunt Caitlin took him in, she stopped being a good go-between; there’s no question now in his parents’ minds which side she’s on. She’s tried hard to remain diplomatic—no, she’s not saying they’re bad parents or that their home is a bad place for Ryan, she’s just saying that right now her house is a better place for him, etc.
Ryan’s survival strategy has been detachment.
He’s told Alicia that he’s staying at Caitlin’s, but hasn’t said anything about moving out, because he doesn’t want to have to deal with all the inevitable follow-up questions. School has always felt separate from life at home, so he leans into that now; it’s not that he’s suddenly happy to be in class, but it gives him enough reason to pause all his other thoughts, to believe like everyone else that the future is something that’s happening next year after graduation, not tomorrow.
It’s only in those moments when he’s left with himself—driving in the truck, waiting for sleep, stocking shelves at work—that he does things like wonder about the difference between giving up and letting go. He feels his parents gave up on him a while ago, but they’re not letting go. He’s now given up on his parents, and trying to let go. But once he lets go, what does he hold on to? Caitlin? Avery? It’s not the same. He knows it’s not the same.
Caitlin tries to get him to talk. Says it isn’t healthy to fall so silent. But right now, the silence is his protection. Like armor, he knows he can’t wear it forever. He just wants to get through Saturday. Then he’ll take it off.
Saturday. Caitlin says he needs to talk to his parents, but has agreed it doesn’t have to be Saturday. She’ll meet them for lunch somewhere, keep them out of the house. She’s not going to lie—she’s told them he’s going to stop by to pick up a few things. Like underwear, he heard her tell them on the phone. And he thought, Wow, this is what it’s come to: My aunt and my parents are talking about my underwear.
It would be funny, only it’s not really funny.
That’s the truth he keeps most hidden in the silence: the fact that while he knows he’s making the right decision, it doesn’t feel right at all. He can’t stop doubting, even though he feels he doesn’t have a choice.
* * *
—
Avery gets up before his parents. Or at least he thinks he does—for all he knows, they’re awake behind their bedroom door, still hoping he’ll change his mind and spend the day with them. They’re not going to stop him, but they’re not going to make him breakfast, either.
He keeps quiet, and they don’t stir. He makes himself some cereal, grabs his car keys, and goes.
It’s only when he’s driving that he realizes how little thought he put into getting dressed, how unnervous he is about seeing Ryan again. He didn’t have to cross that boundary of self-consciousness; the boundary was no longer there.
Would it be different if this were a normal date, if he were driving to a movie or a restaurant? Maybe. Probably. But the fact is, this isn’t a normal date, and that is itself a marker of how far they’ve gone in so short a time. Even if his parents don’t see it that way, or maybe even see it as a negative, Avery is sure that it is true, and it is good.
He knows that love can be all-consuming. He’s seen friends erase themselves like that. But love doesn’t have to be defined by what or how much it consumes. It can be providing as well. Not all-providing. But…providing.
That’s what he wants from Ryan. That’s what he thinks Ryan wants from him. A providing, supportive kind of love.
What Ryan’s going through isn’t something Avery knows anything about, really. But Avery is young enough not to recognize this, not to be too intimidated by this. He still thinks that building a relationship with someone is about finding the things you have in common, not about steadily navigating the things you don’t.
Ryan texts to make sure Avery is on his way. At a stoplight, Avery sees this and texts back his estimated time of arrival. That’s what the map app on his phone is good for now: predicting the timing. In terms of directions, Avery’s got it down. This route has become personalized, familiar. Whatever happens, these roads will always remind him of Ryan, even though so many of the chain stores and chain restaurants he’s seeing can be found on other roads in other towns. Even when things turn sparse as he approaches Caitlin’s house, he smiles from a deep satisfaction when he knows exactly which way to turn. A left. A curve. A sudden right. Down a stretch of trees, water hiding behind but letting itself be found. Left onto her street. Another left into the driveway.
And there he is: Ryan waiting on the front steps. Now he stands, welcoming.
* * *
—
Ryan quickly explains that Caitlin just left, and will keep his parents busy so he and Avery can do what they need to do.
“She says hi,” he adds at the end. “She’s excited to see you.”
“I’m excited to see her,” Avery says. “But I’m gonna be honest—I’m more excited to see you.”
This is when Ryan realizes that he needs to step out of his headspace long enough to kiss his boyfriend, to enjoy his company for a few minutes before they get to the business of extracting him from his home. The kissing is so successful that his headspace transfers entirely to kissing headspace, and it’s Avery who has to separate them and say, “Don’t we have to go?”
Yes, Ryan reminds himself. They have to go.
He hoists the duffel he has waiting by the door, and they walk to his truck.
It’s not a long ride. Ryan has a lot to say, but he’s not sure he wants to say any of it. He wants to apologize for dragging Avery into his mess. He wants to thank Avery for being here…but he also doesn’t want to thank him too much, like it’s a big deal. The thing is, it’s good for Avery to be here, but it still doesn’t feel natural for Avery to be here. When they’re alone together, they are the leads of their own show. But put Avery here, in the middle of all this parent drama? It still feels like he’s a guest star. It still feels like Avery can’t possibly know Ryan well enough to be comfortable here. So Ryan’s uncomfortable, thinking about that.
He does some math in his head.
* * *
—
Avery’s not really paying attention, just letting his thoughts drift off in the passenger seat, when out of the blue, Ryan says, “Sorry. I’m guessing this is not what you thought we’d be doing on our tenth date.”
“Oh, wow,” Avery says. “Double digits.”
“I mean, when I’ve been to your house, it’s been really nice. My house isn’t going to be as nice.”
“It doesn’t have to be. And it’s not your house anymore. Not if you don’t want it to be.”
“Depends on who you ask.”
“I’m not asking your parents. I’m asking you.”
Ryan takes his eyes off the road, looks at Avery.
“Honestly?” he says.
“Yes,” Avery replies. “Honestly.”
“I have no idea. I am so angry and sad right now that I don’t trust myself to give an answer that’ll last.”
“Then that’s the best answer for now.”
“Okay. But none of that makes this a fun date.”
Avery reaches out for Ryan’s free hand. “Not all dates have to be fun. Not at this point. We have other priorities now.”
“Like?”
“Like, real.”
“Well, this will definitely count as real.”
Avery is relieved when there aren’t any cars in the driveway or the garage. When they get out of the truck, Ryan shoulders the duffel bag but doesn’t go to open the garage door. Avery can see him taking that pause, steeling himself from the inside.
Avery reaches out his hand, but instead of the whole hand, he offers his index and middle fingers, pressed together. Ryan looks at him quizzically.
“Double digits,” Avery explains.
Mission accomplished: Ryan has steeled himself, but not so much that he’s lost access to his heart. He offers his fingers, and the two of them link. Like that, they enter the house.
The first impression the house makes on Avery is one of smell: As soon as they walk in, they’re greeted by a scent that’s much more an approximation of pine than pine itself. The pine of cleaning, not of nature. This fits the decor, which is very orderly. It almost feels to Avery like a series of those rooms you see in museums, where the furniture is correct to the period, but it doesn’t look like anyone’s ever sat in it. In this case, the period could be thirty years ago, or maybe sixty. If it weren’t for the flatness of the TV in the den or the lack of cords on the phones, there’d be no sense of the current century.
Ryan lets go of Avery’s fingers, scratches his head as he looks around.
“I don’t think I need anything from these rooms,” he says. “Just my bedroom. All my stuff is pretty much there. Which is pretty weird, when you think about it. I guess I didn’t trust it to be anywhere else.”
This statement makes Avery sad, down to his core. But he doesn’t say anything. He’s here to listen, not to comment. Not unless he’s asked. He’s figured out that much.
Ryan’s bedroom door is closed. When he sees this, he says, “That’s strange.” And when he opens it, he goes, “Jesus!” Avery is expecting to look in and see it’s been trashed. But instead it’s…neat. Right-angles-no-clutter neat. From Ryan’s reaction, Avery is guessing this is not the room’s regular state.
“They couldn’t leave it alone,” Ryan says. “Seriously. I bet that’s the first thing she did after I left—made the bed, cleared away all signs of me.”
There are still plenty of signs of him, Avery thinks. But he can see how it might not feel that way. All the old toys are arranged with military precision, the shirts folded beyond recognition. There are a few posters on the walls—an Ansel Adams tree, a Scott Pilgrim. But the white walls create large gaps between them, as if there’d be too much trouble if they congregated close.
“Okay,” Ryan says. “Let’s do this.” He takes the duffel from his shoulder and hands Avery two boxes of trash bags from inside. “I’ll tell you whether something should go in a green bag or a black bag, okay? Let’s start with the clothes.”
Not “my” clothes, Avery notices. The clothes.
Avery is sentimental about his clothes. There are some shirts of his that might as well have their own names, since what Avery feels toward them is almost like friendship. They’ve been through a lot together, good and bad. Some shirts marked his elevation into the person he was meant to be. Even some shirts from his earlier life, the ones he didn’t give away once he made clear to his parents what he wanted to wear and what he didn’t want to wear—he has an attachment to them even if he’ll never wear them again.
Ryan doesn’t seem to have any such attachments. He goes through his drawers like he’s operating a weed whacker. He takes out each shirt, barely looks at it, and says either “green bag” or “black bag.” Quickly enough, Avery realizes black means keep and green means trash. (One or two also end up in the duffel, but Avery’s not sure what that means.) Sometimes Ryan will hold up a shirt to see if it still fits. But mostly he judges them without unfolding them. Same with his shorts. Socks. Underwear.
It’s definitely going quicker than Avery expected. And Ryan doesn’t even seem to find it weird that he’s handing over his old underwear to his new boyfriend.
I guess he’s comfortable with me, Avery thinks. And also he thinks, Ryan is throwing too many things away.
Avery wishes they were stopping to talk about some of the clothes. Maybe Ryan would offer him a shirt or two. He’s seen a couple that went in the green bags that he’d totally wear. But at the same time, he wouldn’t want to wear something Ryan never wants to see again.
Once the drawers are empty, Ryan turns to the closet. Or, more accurately, he turns against the closet, pulling shirts and pants off their hangers as if they were toilet paper some prankster had thrown in a tree. Some are clearly too small for him now—this is a childhood cleanup that has waited years to occur. When Ryan green-bags a fiendishly soft flannel, Avery risks a “Hey, this would probably fit me.” At first, he doesn’t think Ryan hears him…but then Ryan shrugs, says Avery can take it if he really wants it. Avery puts it aside. Ryan green-bags another nine or ten shirts in a frenzy. Avery remembers what those frenzies were like, when panic would wind his nerves tighter and tighter. He didn’t take it out on his clothes, but he did take it out on himself and the people around him, because it felt like if they didn’t see him exactly right at that moment, if he didn’t show himself as exactly right at that moment, then he’d never get anything he wanted.
Ryan stops. Stares at the near-empty space he’s created.
Avery waits.
“What am I doing?” Ryan asks.
Avery waits some more.
Ryan turns. Whatever has been fueling him is running low.
“I thought I’d keep what I wanted to keep and get rid of the rest. Leave no trace. But now that doesn’t feel right, either. It feels like I’m taking everything out on my room, and my room didn’t do anything to deserve that, you know? So what do I do?”
“You stop.”
“Just like that.”
“Yup. You’re having what I call a claustrophobic moment. I used to have them all the time. It’s when you get so caught in a moment, you lose all sense of its actual size. It squeezes in on you with really high walls, so it’s hard to see past. You think everything needs to be decided. You think if you don’t do something this very moment, you’ll never do it. But nine hundred ninety-nine times out of a thousand, you actually have time to stop. To look over those walls. Or maybe realize they’re easy to move aside. Like now. I don’t know that much about your parents, but I don’t think they’re going to change the locks as soon as we get out of here. I don’t think they’re going to come in here and burn your clothes. Tidy them up, sure. But I don’t think you need to decide everything today. Take what you want, and leave the rest for another day. It’s not going anywhere. And you’re only going to the other side of town.”
Ryan puts his palms together and moves his hands so his thumbs cross his lips. Then he puts his hands down. He takes a breath, releases it. His eyes never leave Avery.
“Thank you,” he says. “You’re right.”
“Let’s leave all the green bags here. You can go through them another time.”
“Okay.”
“And let’s focus on what’s important to you. What do you need?”
Ryan picks up the duffel and heads to his bookshelf, taking down a set of notebooks and putting them safely inside. He doesn’t explain what they are, and Avery doesn’t need him to. Then he gets his laptop and all the wires for his laptop. His phone charger. A few books that were sitting by his bed, and a few more schoolbooks from his desk. A couple of photos of him and Alicia and their friends. One of him and Caitlin. He leaves the one of him as a kid with his parents. Avery is pretty sure it would have ended up in a green bag, before. He thinks this is probably better.
Ryan picks up a teddy bear from the same bedside table from which he took the books. “Allow me to introduce you to Bartholomew Bear,” he says to Avery.
“Nice to meet you, Bartholomew Bear,” Avery replies.
Bartholomew Bear nods to Avery, then Ryan turns him for a talk.
“I’m leaving you in charge,” he tells the bear. “If Toucan Charlie starts to pull his old tricks, you know how to reach me. And don’t forget to feed the socks. You know what happens if they’re not fed.”
Bartholomew Bear nods.
Avery watches as Ryan smiles, puts Bartholomew Bear back in his place. He wants to stop time, seal off this room, let the day lift away so they could be here together without any pressure, without any concern. Avery wants the full tour, the relaxed tour. He wants to get to know Bartholomew Bear and all the rest of the animals. He knows this will only welcome him to love Ryan more, because he will know more of Ryan to love.
“It wasn’t all bad here,” Avery says to Ryan.
“No,” Ryan agrees. “It wasn’t. Not even close. But the best times were when I was alone. Or when friends were over.”
“Well, I’m a friend. And I’m over.”
“Yeah, well.” Ryan looks a little sheepish. “There was one thing I never did with any of my friends.”
Avery moves a little closer. “What was that?”
Ryan erases the rest of the distance, leans in, and whispers, “This.”
They kiss and kiss and kiss. Then Ryan pulls back and, in a move profoundly endearing to Avery, takes off his sneakers before lowering onto the bed. Avery follows both actions.
They roll around and kiss for a while. Then Avery stops, pulls back, and says, “You know…you’re a liar.”
Ryan raises an eyebrow. “Am I?”
“You said there was only one thing you never did with your friends. But I think there are lots of things you’ve never done in this room.”
Ryan holds up his hands in defeat. “You’re right. I lied. But I swear, it was only to get you into my bed.”
He doesn’t want there to be any doubt.
He goes back to his room, and when he sits down on his bed, the first things he sees are the snapdragons Ryan gave him, a little ragged but still special. When they’re gone, he’ll replace them with a photo he took of them right after he got home from the cast party. Beside the photo will be the card that’s now beside the flowers: Here’s to many more. Love, Ryan. Avery hasn’t asked whether Ryan meant many more shows or many more flowers. He’ll never ask.
He’ll always take it to mean both.
* * *
—
For years, Ryan felt his life was a mostly unspoken negotiation with his parents.
This week, it’s become a more formal negotiation.
When Aunt Caitlin took him in, she stopped being a good go-between; there’s no question now in his parents’ minds which side she’s on. She’s tried hard to remain diplomatic—no, she’s not saying they’re bad parents or that their home is a bad place for Ryan, she’s just saying that right now her house is a better place for him, etc.
Ryan’s survival strategy has been detachment.
He’s told Alicia that he’s staying at Caitlin’s, but hasn’t said anything about moving out, because he doesn’t want to have to deal with all the inevitable follow-up questions. School has always felt separate from life at home, so he leans into that now; it’s not that he’s suddenly happy to be in class, but it gives him enough reason to pause all his other thoughts, to believe like everyone else that the future is something that’s happening next year after graduation, not tomorrow.
It’s only in those moments when he’s left with himself—driving in the truck, waiting for sleep, stocking shelves at work—that he does things like wonder about the difference between giving up and letting go. He feels his parents gave up on him a while ago, but they’re not letting go. He’s now given up on his parents, and trying to let go. But once he lets go, what does he hold on to? Caitlin? Avery? It’s not the same. He knows it’s not the same.
Caitlin tries to get him to talk. Says it isn’t healthy to fall so silent. But right now, the silence is his protection. Like armor, he knows he can’t wear it forever. He just wants to get through Saturday. Then he’ll take it off.
Saturday. Caitlin says he needs to talk to his parents, but has agreed it doesn’t have to be Saturday. She’ll meet them for lunch somewhere, keep them out of the house. She’s not going to lie—she’s told them he’s going to stop by to pick up a few things. Like underwear, he heard her tell them on the phone. And he thought, Wow, this is what it’s come to: My aunt and my parents are talking about my underwear.
It would be funny, only it’s not really funny.
That’s the truth he keeps most hidden in the silence: the fact that while he knows he’s making the right decision, it doesn’t feel right at all. He can’t stop doubting, even though he feels he doesn’t have a choice.
* * *
—
Avery gets up before his parents. Or at least he thinks he does—for all he knows, they’re awake behind their bedroom door, still hoping he’ll change his mind and spend the day with them. They’re not going to stop him, but they’re not going to make him breakfast, either.
He keeps quiet, and they don’t stir. He makes himself some cereal, grabs his car keys, and goes.
It’s only when he’s driving that he realizes how little thought he put into getting dressed, how unnervous he is about seeing Ryan again. He didn’t have to cross that boundary of self-consciousness; the boundary was no longer there.
Would it be different if this were a normal date, if he were driving to a movie or a restaurant? Maybe. Probably. But the fact is, this isn’t a normal date, and that is itself a marker of how far they’ve gone in so short a time. Even if his parents don’t see it that way, or maybe even see it as a negative, Avery is sure that it is true, and it is good.
He knows that love can be all-consuming. He’s seen friends erase themselves like that. But love doesn’t have to be defined by what or how much it consumes. It can be providing as well. Not all-providing. But…providing.
That’s what he wants from Ryan. That’s what he thinks Ryan wants from him. A providing, supportive kind of love.
What Ryan’s going through isn’t something Avery knows anything about, really. But Avery is young enough not to recognize this, not to be too intimidated by this. He still thinks that building a relationship with someone is about finding the things you have in common, not about steadily navigating the things you don’t.
Ryan texts to make sure Avery is on his way. At a stoplight, Avery sees this and texts back his estimated time of arrival. That’s what the map app on his phone is good for now: predicting the timing. In terms of directions, Avery’s got it down. This route has become personalized, familiar. Whatever happens, these roads will always remind him of Ryan, even though so many of the chain stores and chain restaurants he’s seeing can be found on other roads in other towns. Even when things turn sparse as he approaches Caitlin’s house, he smiles from a deep satisfaction when he knows exactly which way to turn. A left. A curve. A sudden right. Down a stretch of trees, water hiding behind but letting itself be found. Left onto her street. Another left into the driveway.
And there he is: Ryan waiting on the front steps. Now he stands, welcoming.
* * *
—
Ryan quickly explains that Caitlin just left, and will keep his parents busy so he and Avery can do what they need to do.
“She says hi,” he adds at the end. “She’s excited to see you.”
“I’m excited to see her,” Avery says. “But I’m gonna be honest—I’m more excited to see you.”
This is when Ryan realizes that he needs to step out of his headspace long enough to kiss his boyfriend, to enjoy his company for a few minutes before they get to the business of extracting him from his home. The kissing is so successful that his headspace transfers entirely to kissing headspace, and it’s Avery who has to separate them and say, “Don’t we have to go?”
Yes, Ryan reminds himself. They have to go.
He hoists the duffel he has waiting by the door, and they walk to his truck.
It’s not a long ride. Ryan has a lot to say, but he’s not sure he wants to say any of it. He wants to apologize for dragging Avery into his mess. He wants to thank Avery for being here…but he also doesn’t want to thank him too much, like it’s a big deal. The thing is, it’s good for Avery to be here, but it still doesn’t feel natural for Avery to be here. When they’re alone together, they are the leads of their own show. But put Avery here, in the middle of all this parent drama? It still feels like he’s a guest star. It still feels like Avery can’t possibly know Ryan well enough to be comfortable here. So Ryan’s uncomfortable, thinking about that.
He does some math in his head.
* * *
—
Avery’s not really paying attention, just letting his thoughts drift off in the passenger seat, when out of the blue, Ryan says, “Sorry. I’m guessing this is not what you thought we’d be doing on our tenth date.”
“Oh, wow,” Avery says. “Double digits.”
“I mean, when I’ve been to your house, it’s been really nice. My house isn’t going to be as nice.”
“It doesn’t have to be. And it’s not your house anymore. Not if you don’t want it to be.”
“Depends on who you ask.”
“I’m not asking your parents. I’m asking you.”
Ryan takes his eyes off the road, looks at Avery.
“Honestly?” he says.
“Yes,” Avery replies. “Honestly.”
“I have no idea. I am so angry and sad right now that I don’t trust myself to give an answer that’ll last.”
“Then that’s the best answer for now.”
“Okay. But none of that makes this a fun date.”
Avery reaches out for Ryan’s free hand. “Not all dates have to be fun. Not at this point. We have other priorities now.”
“Like?”
“Like, real.”
“Well, this will definitely count as real.”
Avery is relieved when there aren’t any cars in the driveway or the garage. When they get out of the truck, Ryan shoulders the duffel bag but doesn’t go to open the garage door. Avery can see him taking that pause, steeling himself from the inside.
Avery reaches out his hand, but instead of the whole hand, he offers his index and middle fingers, pressed together. Ryan looks at him quizzically.
“Double digits,” Avery explains.
Mission accomplished: Ryan has steeled himself, but not so much that he’s lost access to his heart. He offers his fingers, and the two of them link. Like that, they enter the house.
The first impression the house makes on Avery is one of smell: As soon as they walk in, they’re greeted by a scent that’s much more an approximation of pine than pine itself. The pine of cleaning, not of nature. This fits the decor, which is very orderly. It almost feels to Avery like a series of those rooms you see in museums, where the furniture is correct to the period, but it doesn’t look like anyone’s ever sat in it. In this case, the period could be thirty years ago, or maybe sixty. If it weren’t for the flatness of the TV in the den or the lack of cords on the phones, there’d be no sense of the current century.
Ryan lets go of Avery’s fingers, scratches his head as he looks around.
“I don’t think I need anything from these rooms,” he says. “Just my bedroom. All my stuff is pretty much there. Which is pretty weird, when you think about it. I guess I didn’t trust it to be anywhere else.”
This statement makes Avery sad, down to his core. But he doesn’t say anything. He’s here to listen, not to comment. Not unless he’s asked. He’s figured out that much.
Ryan’s bedroom door is closed. When he sees this, he says, “That’s strange.” And when he opens it, he goes, “Jesus!” Avery is expecting to look in and see it’s been trashed. But instead it’s…neat. Right-angles-no-clutter neat. From Ryan’s reaction, Avery is guessing this is not the room’s regular state.
“They couldn’t leave it alone,” Ryan says. “Seriously. I bet that’s the first thing she did after I left—made the bed, cleared away all signs of me.”
There are still plenty of signs of him, Avery thinks. But he can see how it might not feel that way. All the old toys are arranged with military precision, the shirts folded beyond recognition. There are a few posters on the walls—an Ansel Adams tree, a Scott Pilgrim. But the white walls create large gaps between them, as if there’d be too much trouble if they congregated close.
“Okay,” Ryan says. “Let’s do this.” He takes the duffel from his shoulder and hands Avery two boxes of trash bags from inside. “I’ll tell you whether something should go in a green bag or a black bag, okay? Let’s start with the clothes.”
Not “my” clothes, Avery notices. The clothes.
Avery is sentimental about his clothes. There are some shirts of his that might as well have their own names, since what Avery feels toward them is almost like friendship. They’ve been through a lot together, good and bad. Some shirts marked his elevation into the person he was meant to be. Even some shirts from his earlier life, the ones he didn’t give away once he made clear to his parents what he wanted to wear and what he didn’t want to wear—he has an attachment to them even if he’ll never wear them again.
Ryan doesn’t seem to have any such attachments. He goes through his drawers like he’s operating a weed whacker. He takes out each shirt, barely looks at it, and says either “green bag” or “black bag.” Quickly enough, Avery realizes black means keep and green means trash. (One or two also end up in the duffel, but Avery’s not sure what that means.) Sometimes Ryan will hold up a shirt to see if it still fits. But mostly he judges them without unfolding them. Same with his shorts. Socks. Underwear.
It’s definitely going quicker than Avery expected. And Ryan doesn’t even seem to find it weird that he’s handing over his old underwear to his new boyfriend.
I guess he’s comfortable with me, Avery thinks. And also he thinks, Ryan is throwing too many things away.
Avery wishes they were stopping to talk about some of the clothes. Maybe Ryan would offer him a shirt or two. He’s seen a couple that went in the green bags that he’d totally wear. But at the same time, he wouldn’t want to wear something Ryan never wants to see again.
Once the drawers are empty, Ryan turns to the closet. Or, more accurately, he turns against the closet, pulling shirts and pants off their hangers as if they were toilet paper some prankster had thrown in a tree. Some are clearly too small for him now—this is a childhood cleanup that has waited years to occur. When Ryan green-bags a fiendishly soft flannel, Avery risks a “Hey, this would probably fit me.” At first, he doesn’t think Ryan hears him…but then Ryan shrugs, says Avery can take it if he really wants it. Avery puts it aside. Ryan green-bags another nine or ten shirts in a frenzy. Avery remembers what those frenzies were like, when panic would wind his nerves tighter and tighter. He didn’t take it out on his clothes, but he did take it out on himself and the people around him, because it felt like if they didn’t see him exactly right at that moment, if he didn’t show himself as exactly right at that moment, then he’d never get anything he wanted.
Ryan stops. Stares at the near-empty space he’s created.
Avery waits.
“What am I doing?” Ryan asks.
Avery waits some more.
Ryan turns. Whatever has been fueling him is running low.
“I thought I’d keep what I wanted to keep and get rid of the rest. Leave no trace. But now that doesn’t feel right, either. It feels like I’m taking everything out on my room, and my room didn’t do anything to deserve that, you know? So what do I do?”
“You stop.”
“Just like that.”
“Yup. You’re having what I call a claustrophobic moment. I used to have them all the time. It’s when you get so caught in a moment, you lose all sense of its actual size. It squeezes in on you with really high walls, so it’s hard to see past. You think everything needs to be decided. You think if you don’t do something this very moment, you’ll never do it. But nine hundred ninety-nine times out of a thousand, you actually have time to stop. To look over those walls. Or maybe realize they’re easy to move aside. Like now. I don’t know that much about your parents, but I don’t think they’re going to change the locks as soon as we get out of here. I don’t think they’re going to come in here and burn your clothes. Tidy them up, sure. But I don’t think you need to decide everything today. Take what you want, and leave the rest for another day. It’s not going anywhere. And you’re only going to the other side of town.”
Ryan puts his palms together and moves his hands so his thumbs cross his lips. Then he puts his hands down. He takes a breath, releases it. His eyes never leave Avery.
“Thank you,” he says. “You’re right.”
“Let’s leave all the green bags here. You can go through them another time.”
“Okay.”
“And let’s focus on what’s important to you. What do you need?”
Ryan picks up the duffel and heads to his bookshelf, taking down a set of notebooks and putting them safely inside. He doesn’t explain what they are, and Avery doesn’t need him to. Then he gets his laptop and all the wires for his laptop. His phone charger. A few books that were sitting by his bed, and a few more schoolbooks from his desk. A couple of photos of him and Alicia and their friends. One of him and Caitlin. He leaves the one of him as a kid with his parents. Avery is pretty sure it would have ended up in a green bag, before. He thinks this is probably better.
Ryan picks up a teddy bear from the same bedside table from which he took the books. “Allow me to introduce you to Bartholomew Bear,” he says to Avery.
“Nice to meet you, Bartholomew Bear,” Avery replies.
Bartholomew Bear nods to Avery, then Ryan turns him for a talk.
“I’m leaving you in charge,” he tells the bear. “If Toucan Charlie starts to pull his old tricks, you know how to reach me. And don’t forget to feed the socks. You know what happens if they’re not fed.”
Bartholomew Bear nods.
Avery watches as Ryan smiles, puts Bartholomew Bear back in his place. He wants to stop time, seal off this room, let the day lift away so they could be here together without any pressure, without any concern. Avery wants the full tour, the relaxed tour. He wants to get to know Bartholomew Bear and all the rest of the animals. He knows this will only welcome him to love Ryan more, because he will know more of Ryan to love.
“It wasn’t all bad here,” Avery says to Ryan.
“No,” Ryan agrees. “It wasn’t. Not even close. But the best times were when I was alone. Or when friends were over.”
“Well, I’m a friend. And I’m over.”
“Yeah, well.” Ryan looks a little sheepish. “There was one thing I never did with any of my friends.”
Avery moves a little closer. “What was that?”
Ryan erases the rest of the distance, leans in, and whispers, “This.”
They kiss and kiss and kiss. Then Ryan pulls back and, in a move profoundly endearing to Avery, takes off his sneakers before lowering onto the bed. Avery follows both actions.
They roll around and kiss for a while. Then Avery stops, pulls back, and says, “You know…you’re a liar.”
Ryan raises an eyebrow. “Am I?”
“You said there was only one thing you never did with your friends. But I think there are lots of things you’ve never done in this room.”
Ryan holds up his hands in defeat. “You’re right. I lied. But I swear, it was only to get you into my bed.”
