From the first time he sat on his mother's lap as she played the piano, Marvin knew he loved music. He would watch his mother's hands drift over the keys, pressing one here and there, before beginning to play. The sound always made him smile.
He would sit in the living room whenever someone would come over for a piano lesson, cringing every time they hit a wrong note. His mother always stepped in, played the melody again before encouraging the other person to try again.
Marvin would listen to other pianists play on the television or the radio, professionals and amateurs alike. No one could play like his mother. Even Marvin himself couldn't imitate the grace with which she played. It was as if the piano was an extension of her being, always in tune and in time, always perfect and sound.
At nine years old, Marvin finally approached his mother during one of her free afternoons and asked that she teach him how to play. His father turned his nose up, said he should focus on sports and studying. His mother laughed it off and slid over on the bench, making room for her son.
"Repeat after me," she would tell him. She hit a key, two, three, four, and then pulled her hands away and watched as Marvin copied her. She taught him the basics first, but he excelled far beyond her other students, far quicker than anyone else she had seen. "It's in your blood," she told him one night as she tucked him in. "Both my parents played. My father taught my mother, and she taught me, and now I'm teaching you."
Marvin had smiled. "Thank you for teaching me," he had replied.
She laughed. "You say that as if I'm finished. We may be a year and a half in, but we've barely started." She kissed him on the forehead. "I'll see you in the morning."
And she had been speaking the truth. Though Marvin was just as good as his mother, she always had something new and more challenging to teach him. She played alongside him day and night, filling their home with beautiful melodies. Some days they would even compose pieces of their own. To this day, Marvin held each and every note close to his heart.
Marvin was twenty-two when his mom stopped playing the piano. He had come home from college during spring break to find the lid on the instrument shut, covered in a thin layer of dust. He knew at that moment that something was wrong.
His mother finally told him over dinner that night. "It's a serious disease," she said. "The doctors have given me a year, perhaps two. I'm going to slowly lose function of my body as it progresses."
Marvin's heart felt like it was made of heavy, delicate glass suspended by a weak thread, ready to drop and shatter at any moment. His parents put their hands on his shoulders as he cried, told them it would be okay. He smiled, wiped his tears, and said he believed them. He lied.
Three months later, Marvin received a call from his mother. He greeted her warmly, sat on his bed and got comfortable as he waited for her response.
"There's something I need to tell you, Marvin," she had begun. "I am not trying to pressure you into anything, but this has been on my mind for a while."
"What is it? Anything for you."
"I want to see you marry before I die," she told him.
Marvin's heart had clenched painfully for so many reasons. But at the time, the only one he could decipher was pain and sadness at the mention of his mother's death.
Marvin thought about his girlfriend, Trina. She was sweet, and beautiful, certainly the best girl Marvin had ever dated. His parents loved her, and he loved her, and she was Jewish just like Marvin and his family. If was going to be in love with anyone, he thought, it should be her.
"You will," Marvin promised.
Almost a year later, Marvin and Trina were married. His mother died two months later. Trina stayed by Marvin's side through her final days, her funeral, and Marvin's grief. For the first year and a half, Marvin used grief as the reason he wasn't in the mood to have sex with Trina. They had done so the night of their wedding, something he had gotten himself a bit more than tipsy before doing. For two years, Marvin ignored his wife's advances.
"I'm upset."
"I'm busy."
"I'm tired."
He tells himself that these words are true. He tells himself that he loves his wife, he loves Trina, of course he wants to have sex with her. He doesn't understand why he's lying to himself, or what he's even lying about.
"It's okay," she'd always replied. "I don't need sex to love you, or to love being married to you."
Something about her words made him feel guilty. He didn't know why. Whatever it was, it killed his inspiration to compose.
He tried to tell himself it was his mother's death that kept him from touching a piano, but something about the way Trina's voice would ring in his ears when he sat down to play made him suspect that it wasn't just his mother's passing. Whatever the reason, his passion had died.
Marvin had gotten himself drunk again, along with Trina, at some fancy party. He ended up in the bed with his wife, not remembering a single thing the morning after. Trina seemed brighter that day. A week later, he tried making a move on her while sober, thinking the alcohol was just killing the nerves that got in the way. Severe anxiety made sense to him.
It stopped making sense when he found himself enjoying the sex that followed far less than Trina. He did what he could to please her— he loved her, after all. They both got off, but something still didn't feel right. He held Trina in the afterglow, unable to figure out what it was that felt so off.
A week later, Marvin was home alone. Trina was out shopping with her friends, having a pleasant afternoon, and Marvin's usually laid-back sex drive was bugging him. He grabbed his laptop and opened it, deciding that maybe he should try watching porn. He wondered if the problem was simply that he enjoyed his own touch more than another person's.
Ten minutes later he was halfway through a video when he realized he spared all of his attention for the male half of the couple. He watched the way the man flexed, the way the muscles in his back moved as he fucked the woman under him, the way the light glinted off the sweat on his forehead. He watched the man's every movement, every shift and twitch and buck, and before Marvin knew it he had orgasmed.
He pushed the laptop away, his face hot with shame. This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be right. He would've known by now, he's sure. He would know if he were—
Marvin shook his head, trying to get rid of the thought. He took a deep breath and grabbed the laptop. He typed, hit the space bar, typed again, erased again, and typed one more time. He bit his lip and hit the search button, then selected another video. This one had two men in it. Marvin took a deep breath and hit play.
By the end of the video, Marvin was a mess. He had orgasmed again, and he was blushing harder now, thoughts swirling in his brain. He cleaned himself up and cleared his search history.
As Marvin got dressed, the realization hit him like a ton of bricks. He was twenty-six, he was two and a half years into a marriage with a woman, and he was gay.
Fuck.
Everything changed nearly nine years later when Marvin met Whizzer Brown.
Marvin had learned just days after his own self-discovery that Trina was pregnant. He bit his tongue and told her he was happy, embraced her, and spent the rest of the afternoon discussing baby names with her. Nine months later, Jason was born.
Today they celebrated Jason's eighth birthday. They took him to a park, where he met with all his friends to play, while all the parents sat around at picnic tables chatting. That's when Marvin noticed him.
He was wearing jeans and a pink button-down shirt. His hair was cut short and groomed perfectly, his face was smooth, and, oh God, did his skin look soft— Marvin cut his own train of thought before he started thinking about the man too much. He could only hold back his gay thoughts until the man approached him and Trina.
He introduced himself as Whizzer Brown, said he was babysitting his cousin who had been invited. Marvin raised an eyebrow at that. As soon as Trina was whisked away by one of her friends, Marvin spoke.
"Who babysits at your age?" he asked.
Whizzer laughed at that. "I have the time and I need the money. Plus, I love my cousin. Her, her mother, and her grandmother are the only people in my family that really speak to me anymore. The whole family pretty much disowned me when I came out."
Marvin's eyes widened. "Came out?" he asked, faking a tone of curiosity. "What's that mean?"
Whizzer tilted his head and squinted at Marvin like he was studying him— like he knew. Finally, he replied with, "I'm gay. And transgender. I came out as the latter first, and my dad kind of...he wasn't abusive, he just didn't understand. And the rest of the family started treating me like shit, so I moved in with my aunt when I graduated high school. She's a lesbian and my cousin's grandmother. She doesn't understand as well as I'd like, but she accepts me, and that's really all I can ask for. And she's from the Jewish side of my family, so I really lucked out. I get to be myself and openly celebrate my culture." Whizzer looked across the field and spotted his cousin. She saw him staring and waved, and Whizzer smiled. "Anyways, I'm rambling. Didn't mean to start spilling my life story."
Marvin shook his head, smiling. "No, it's fine. I like listening."
"I see that. Tell me about you, though. I don't want to hog the conversation."
Marvin doubted that. Whizzer seemed like someone who loved to be the center of attention. And Marvin wanted to give him a lot of attention.
"I grew up with both my parents, went to high school, met my wife Trina in college, married her right after I graduated— nothing really noteworthy." Marvin didn't think to mention his dead mother. It was an old wound, healed and fading, but it was also one he'd rather not re-open.
"How did you meet Trina?" Whizzer asked.
"I was playing the piano in one of the music classrooms on campus and she was a lost freshman. I was a sophomore, I knew the college campus in and out by then. She said she heard me play and she just had to know who it was. Apparently, I was playing one of her favorite pieces."
Whizzer raised his eyebrows, leaning forward in interest. "You play the piano? That's really cool. What were you playing that day?"
"Claire de Lune. Claude Debussy," Marvin replied. "I composed, too. I wrote most of my original pieces with my mother, rarely with lyrics, but I haven't touched a piano key in..." Marvin trails off, thinking. He blinks when he does the math in his head, then does it again and again. "Almost twelve years. Not since I was twenty-two." Marvin looked down, his eyebrows furrowing. "I can't believe it's been that long."
"Why don't you play with your mother anymore?"
Marvin didn't reply. He only sighed and kept his gaze downward, until he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"I'm sorry for your loss," Whizzer says softly. "My mother died in a car accident when I was five. It's never easy." Whizzer withdrew his hand and smiled brightly. "But I'm sure she'd want you to be happy. And definitely play the piano again. If your playing was enough to get a nice woman like Trina to fall head over heels, I'm more than interested in hearing it."
Marvin felt his face heat up. He nodded wordlessly. He opened his mouth to respond when Trina called out for him.
"Hold up," Whizzer said. "Hand me your phone."
Marvin raised an eyebrow, but took out his phone anyway and handed it to Whizzer. Whizzer stared at the screen in confusion, then slid his thumb across the screen and unlocked the phone. "I can't believe you don't have a passcode," he mumbled as he typed. He handed the phone back to Marvin when he finished. "Here. Text me whenever you're ready to play the piano again. I can't wait." Whizzer winked at Marvin and then turned away to speak to someone else.
Marvin swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to get his heartbeat in control as he walked over to Trina. He glanced at the contact, then turned his phone off and pocketed it. He would think about all of this later.
Marvin stared at the number in his contacts list for a week before he deleted it. But in the end, it didn't change the fact that Marvin ended up at a bar two months after that, drunk and flirting with Whizzer.
Flirting was a rather generous term. It was far more accurate to say that Whizzer was flirting and Marvin was simply nodding in response, blushing, biting his lip, and generally looking affected. Like he wanted to say something back, but wasn't sure what. So he just sat there, sipped his drink, and took every little compliment and pick-up line Whizzer threw.
"I can't believe you deleted my number," Whizzer says, a teasing smile on his lips. "Now why would you go and do something like that? I only asked you to play the piano for me."
Marvin hiccups. "Could have something to do with how fucking attractive you are," he replies, leaning in a bit. "You're absolutely gorgeous."
Whizzer's expression sours a bit at the last word, and Marvin notices right away.
"Handsome," he corrects. "Incredibly so."
Whizzer lights back up, then leans in closer as well. "And why would my good looks be a problem for a straight man with a pretty wife?"
Fuck. Marvin walked right into it. Now he's got to get out of it before something happens. "I have to go," he says quickly, laying down enough money for his drinks and booting out of the building. He gets a cab home, and stumbles in the front door, only to come face to face with the last person he wanted to speak with.
"Where have you been?" Trina asks, looking worried. "I've been waiting all evening, you never called— I thought maybe you were just hanging out with a friend, but I got worried when you weren't home by eleven."
"I'm sorry," Marvin replies. "Lost track of time, didn't mean to stay out so late." He walks over to Trina and wraps his arms around her, practically leaning on her. "I'm sorry. Won't happen again, Trina."
Trina pushes him off. "Are you drunk?"
Marvin raises an eyebrow. "Probably? It's been a while, but I think this is what drunk feels like. Should probably drink some water."
"Marvin, where the hell have you been? Why are you coming home drunk at two in the morning?" Trina bites her lip. "Do you have an alcohol problem? Are you seeing someone else? I just need to know, Marvin, talk to me!"
Marvin's eyebrows furrow. "Trina I'm not...I'm not cheating. And I don't have an alcohol problem, this really is the first time I've gotten drunk in ten years. And I think it's the first time I've had a drink since..." He thinks back. "I had half a glass of wine at that dinner last April."
"Then what is it?" Trina asks, taking Marvin's hand. "Whatever it is, we can get through this together. I love you, Marvin. I'm here for you. Just tell me what's going on."
Marvin's bottom lip trembles and he shakes his head. He feels cold and hot at the same time, sick to his stomach at the idea of telling her. He doesn't know how to.
"Marvin, if it's not an affair and it's not alcohol then what is it? I know it isn't drugs. So what's there to be afraid of?"
Marvin shakes his head again, tears welling up. He can't stop the first few from spilling over. "Y-you don't get it. I...I can't, Trina." He hugs her again and buries his face in her neck. "I can't," he sobs. "I can't."
Trina rubs his back. "Of course you can," she whispers soothingly. "Whatever it is, holding it in is hurting you, Marvin. You need to be honest. You need to let it out."
Marvin's fingers clench the fabric of Trina's shirt. He tries to steady his breathing, tries to speak, but his voice won't work. He just stands there silently, letting his wife hold him.
"That's okay," she says. "Take your time."
And he does. He takes over half an hour. They move to the couch, laying there in silence, Marvin's head buried in Trina's neck still. And then, finally, he takes one more deep breath and speaks.
"I'm gay." Then, again, with more confidence, "I'm gay, Trina. I'm—" His voice cracks. "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize," she says. "Don't ever apologize for that. It's not something to be sorry for. You can't change the fact that you're gay any more than I could change the fact I'm straight."
"So you're not mad?" Marvin asks hopefully, looking up at Trina.
Trina bites her lip. "I don't know how I feel," she says, and her voice sounds so hollow and lost.
Marvin can't blame her. She's loved him for over ten years. Which isn't to say he hasn't loved her, dear God did he love her. He just didn't love her in the way she wanted him to. He didn't love her the way she deserved to be loved by her husband.
"I think I should take the couch tonight," he says.
Trina sucks in a breath and pulls away. She looks sad and reluctant to let him go. "I think that would be best," she agrees. "I'll see you in the morning. Good night, Marvin."
"Good night, Trina," he replies. "I love you," he adds just before she rounds the corner.
She hesitates, biting her lip, but doesn't turn around. "I love you, too." And then she's gone, disappearing through the door frame, her footsteps soft as she ascends the stairs.
Marvin grabs spare pillows and blankets from the hall closet and gets comfortable on the couch. He unlocks his phone and checks his contacts list, then adds a new contact. It has no number yet, only a name.
Whizzer Brown.