It makes me nervous, worried that I might say the wrong thing or not describe them accurately enough. And then I’m washed with a sudden defensiveness. Hannah probably thinks my parents are these bigoted Christians from how I’ve described them. All she knows about them is that they’re doctors and they’re religious enough that I feel like I need to hide myself.
“They are passionate,” I say. “My dad is a psychiatrist at Cleveland Clinic and my mom is a cardiac surgeon there. They love helping people, both of them in their respective ways. My mom reads when she has time. She loves fantasy and mysteries. And she likes gardening. In the spring she always grows an elaborate vegetable garden in our backyard.
“And my dad is really funny. He’s always smiling about something. He loves to cook, and he isvery, very invested in his faith.”
“And your mom isn’t?”
“She is, but she doesn’t wear it on her sleeve like he does. Like, within the first five minutes of being around him, he will somehow give it away—intentionally or unintentionally. He can’t help it.” I smile to myself, thinking about how his faith, and the strength and happiness he finds in his belief, bubble out, touching everyone around him all the time. “One time when he was at the hospital, he found out about a man who was dying. It was in a completely different area of the hospital; it wasn’t even one of his patients. The man had requested a rabbi to say a prayer with himbefore he died, but he was going to go so soon that they couldn’t find one in time. They found my dad, and he came down and told the man that he’s not Jewish, and he’s not even a minister in his own faith, but that he’s a man of God and would pray with him if he’d allow it. And he did… I always thought that was so cool.”
“That sounds really awesome, and he sounds like a really great guy,” she says, leaning to the side and resting against the couch.
“My mom is more serious,” I say, not that she asked. “But she has her moments where she cracks a smile or laughs, and she usually gets real excited about the strangest things. Like she was very intoTwilight. I don’t knowwhy, but she loved it. Read all the books in less than a week and was more than excited when the movies came out—”
“I was wondering why you wereconvincedKristen Stewart was the way to go for your talk with them,” Hannah admits, laughing a little.
“Yeah.Twilightbecameourthing. Every year, a new movie would come out and she’d take me to see it. She made a huge deal out of it. We’d get dinner at this little French restaurant downtown, and then we’d go to the fancy Silverspot theater, and she’d let me taste her wine. And after, we’d always go to Mitchell’s and she would buy me a milkshake… All because ofTwilight.”
“I’m sure it wasn’tjust Twilight,” Hannah reasons.
“We haven’t done anything like that since then, though,” I say, something catching in my chest, like I was holding a string that got pulled out of my hand and now all I feel is the loss, theabsence. My weakness at letting it go in the first place. “On one day every year for five years in a row, she carved out time for us to do something together. We still hang out, we still do things, but nothing has beenours, not the wayTwilightwas.” Even though I’m describing this to Hannah, it also feels like I’m explaining it to myself for the first time. The distance I feel from my parents, the way their passion for others sometimes doesn’t extend all the way to me, that even though they’re my parents and I’ve known them my whole life, I don’tknowthem well enough to gauge whether or not they’d accept me for being gay.
“I’m sure there’s more to it than you think, Clarity,” Hannah says, touching my shoulder.
“Maybe,” I say, taking a deep breath and washing out all the sadness on the exhale.
“Do you remember at camp when we would plot our secret relationship?” Hannah asks, surprising me at the change of topic.
“Is that really a question?” I ask, though it comes out half-hearted.
“We used to talk about hanging out here when your parents weren’t home,” she continues, scooting a little closer to me.
“Sometimes, I can’t believe we’re actually here.”
Her lips melt into a smile. “I’mhere, in your house, your parents aren’t home, and neither of us has burst into flames,” Hannah goes on, leaning closer.
I want her to touch me. The desire radiates through my body like an electric current, strong enough that I wouldn’t be surprised if she can sense it.
She used to whisper,Not here, not like this, on those breathless nights in the back of her Subaru. And we always stopped, despite the want pressing in.
Like she said, my parents aren’t home. We have all night to be alone.All night, and my bed is just down the hall.
“Not like this,” I whisper. “We can’t dothis,” I say, gesturing between us, “like this.”
“Like what?” she asks, not giving an inch.
“Like, if you were a boy, there’s no way you’d be allowed over right now. And I feel like I’d be taking advantage by doingthisbecause my parents wouldn’t think anything of me having you over when I’m home alone at night—”
“Doingwhatexactly?” Hannah asks, staring into my eyes. “We’re just sitting here, eating some Chinese food, procrastinating on making posters.”
“Right,” I gush, covering my face with my hands.
“I do want to kiss you, though,” she whispers, her lips grazing my cheek and making me shiver.
I pull my hands away, my face turned to her, her nose nearly touching mine.
“Do you want me to kiss you?” she asks, looking down at my lips—her eyes drawn together. But then they float back up to mine, sucking all the breath out of my lungs.
I open my mouth, but stop. I wonder if my lips are dry, or if they’re oily from the noodles. Does my breath smell like garlic? Do I have anything on my face? What if there’s something in my teeth? What if—