June 9, 1995

Dear Friend,

It's been almost a week since I spent the night at Patrick's. I thought maybe my parents would have possibly freaked out a little over me being gone overnight without them knowing, but when I showed up the next morning, Patrick in hand, there was another matter to go over.

I knew I needed to talk with them about how I felt.

On the car ride home, I asked Patrick about the basics of how to talk with them, and he explained the process thoroughly of how to talk to them.

"First Charlie, explaining to them how you feel might be a little difficult, I need you to understand that, okay?" he speaks, the loud rumbling of the truck bouncing his voice as he speaks. I nod, my eyes focusing on the road. Though I'm listening, my mind is a million miles away, trying to find words that will work, but I'm not sure if there are any. "Second," he continues, his eyes carefully bouncing between me and the road. "if your parents love you more than they dislike me, then they'll accept how you feel. If their fear is more overwhelming than their love, you can always come stay with me." His eyes delve into mine as he speaks, and I know that he means every word he says. However, the look of worry must still be pretty prominent on my face, because he reaches over and grasps my hand tightly. It's not a word of reassurance, but for now, it's enough.

"Third, and lastly," he begins again, as the truck is pulled to a stop in front of my house and the engine silently clicked off. "Remember I love you, and that even if this is a hard road that has to be taken, know that I'm willing and ready to take it with you." he smiles, leaning over and gently placing a kiss on my cheek. I swallow hard, and nod, ready to face whatever comes next.

We climb out of the car, and slowly walk to the front door. My hand stops at the door handle, my eyes sliding back to Patrick, standing a few steps behind me. He nods at me lightly, flashing one more smile before we slide into my house.

The first thing I take notice of is how different my house smells in comparison to Patrick's. My memories flash to the previous night, lying on his couch, Patrick just holding me as we both slowly drift off to sleep. A interesting mixture of vanilla and clean cotton swirled around his whole house, and it was equally appetizing as it was comforting. My house emanates a sort of lemon grass and carpet cleaner smell throughout all of the rooms, which is homely to me, but suffers a probability of being weird-smelling to the neighbors. However, Patrick doesn't seem to notice as we glide into the living room, where my parents are cooped. Mom is wrapping and un-wrapping and re-wrapping the telephone cord around her fingers as she quietly chats with one of her friends that I've never met. Dad is watching baseball on the TV and it's obvious that he isn't too interested, but he's watching it regardless. Patrick and I carefully settle onto the couch, the cushions making a wheezing noise, as if years of being squashed were starting to take their toll.

I notice that my Mom isn't really saying much on the phone, just merely humming "mh-hm"s and "uh-huh"s as her friend blathers on and on. My Mom is a relatively good listener, so maybe this won't be too difficult. Dad's eyes dart from the TV to me as he stands up to shut the TV off. His glasses slouch down to the end of his nose as he picks up the paper and talks. "You need something, Charlie?" he mumbles, not really interested, but speaking, nevertheless. I swallow the block of ice that evidently formed as I silently waited, and carefully choose my words.

"I-I. I was hoping I could talk to you and Mom for a second." I say, the words tumbling out.

Dad looks at me again, this time his eyes narrowing down at me. He waves his hand at Mom and mutters something I don't hear. Mom quickly manages a good-bye to her friend, and takes another Moment to unwind the cord that has her fingers suffocating.

"What do you need, Charlie?" Dad speaks again, his eyes dully scanning the paper. Mom watches me carefully, her eyes forcing an unrealistic appearance of concern.

"Mom," I start again. "Dad." I look between them one more time before the words pour again.

"I'm gay."

At first, they didn't move. In my imagination, they spring up, somewhat furious, somewhat confused, all hurt, screaming that I'm a terrible son. But no, to my surprise, they remain perfectly still. My father's jaw cracks a bit, but as far as voicing an opinion, my mother is the first to speak.

"Charlie," she says, almost in a whisper. "would you and Patrick please step into the other room, and allow me a Moment with your father?" Technically it's a question, but it's voiced more as a command. Warily, Patrick and I stand and carefully saunter into the kitchen.

I listen for yelling, for screaming, for "It's your fault"s and possible slaps, but they don't come. I repetitively pace back and forth in front of the sink, waiting and waiting and waiting, Patrick's soothing voice attempting and reattempting to calm me down.

"Charlie, it'll be okay, I promise. Charlie, please, just sit down. I promise, it'll be alright."

I don't know why I'm so worried. I keep telling myself everything Patrick says, but the fear of what they'll say continues to eat me alive as we patiently wait, me still by the sink, Patrick lousily in the chair.

It's another ten minutes before my parents step into the kitchen, my father's hands buried deep in his pockets, my mother's hands wringing gently.

"Your mother and I," Dad starts, his voice low, and careful. "discussed what we think about what you said, and we are both willing to give our peaceful opinions on the matter." He stops, and Mom slightly nudges him with her elbow. "Oh, uh, if you're willing to hear them."

I glance between them, then to Patrick, who gives me a silent nod. I look back them, their weary eyes practically prying my open. "Of course."

They exchange glances again, and this time, Mom speaks. "First," she begins, "I'd like to say that you.." she pauses, searching for words. "realizing this about yourself.." I wait for the scold, the 'Will ruin the rest of your life!' speech that's supposed to follow, but it doesn't come.

"Does not change the fact that I still love you."

A sense of relief floods over me, and my rigid stance loosens as she continues to speak.

"We all make our own choices. I believe you and Patrick share something special, and I'll always support you in whatever you do." she smiles, this time, a real smile. A smile that isn't forceful or fake, but genuine. I smile faintly back, looking from her to Dad.

They left the room at that point. Dad moved to say something, but the words wouldn't come to his lips.

My mom saw that this was affecting him, so she told me they'd talk to me later, and pulled him out of the room.

Patrick smiled at me, grabbing my hand carefully as he did so. "This is good," he whispered, trying carefully to relax me. "we just need to give them some time."

I nodded and faintly smiled, taking in what just happened. At the very least, my mother is accepting of my choice. That'll make it easier to accept whatever my dad has to say about it. Patrick and I walk hand-in-hand back to the front door, our palms clenched swinging back and forth. We reach the front door, the sunlight streaming through the open walkway. My eyes trace up Patrick's body, to his beautiful brown eyes. The sunlight glistens carefully on them, making them more brighter than ever. I watch him, his stature, the way his eyes seem to grow even brighter when they're focused on me. I can't help myself. I push Patrick back into the wall, my mouth on his. Every time I see him, I want to hold him, keep him safe, tell him how much I love him. His fingers slide to my neck and up to my hair, his palm at the base of my skull. I kiss him, kiss him, kiss him, stop. I pull back, half heartily laughing. "I'm sorry." I whisper, because I know we're at my parents, and that maybe this isn't the time for this. He smiles back, his hand sliding down to my waist.

"Why?" he asks, but he doesn't give me a moment to respond before he's pulled me back to his chest, his lips back on mine.

(June 12)

Three days later, my parents still haven't brought it up to me about our talk.

But Patrick has informed me of something that has had me slightly distracted from that, despite it's importance.

"I'm moving out of this house." he announced to me the following Monday, when I was at his house for lunch.

I dropped my fork, the metallic sound clanging against the china plate, echoing through the silent kitchen.

"Where?" I ask, the words carefully leaving my lips.

"I've already got it all planned out." he returns, his dashing smile giving a sense of control, and calm. The fork makes its way back into my hand, picking at the lasagna that decorates it nicely. Patrick's hand slides under the table, gently touching my knee. "But first. There's something I want to tell you, Charlie." He smiles, a piece of hair dangling in front of his left eye. He flicks his head back in attempt to move it, but it slides back in place, content with its position.

"I want you to move in with me."

My eyes dart from Patrick, to my plate, back to Patrick.

"M-me? Move in? Really?"

"You don't want to?" The light glints, darkens. He's sad. What I am saying? Why aren't the words coming out? Of course I want to, of course I-

"I'm sorry, Charlie, I just thought, I thought-" He's standing, why did he stand? Patrick sit back down. "I'm rushing this aren't I?" No, you're not, I- "Charlie, I'm rushing this, I'm rushing this, I'm sorry, you know me, scatterbrain, crazy Patrick. We just started this relationship, why would I have you move in now? That's crazy, I'm crazy, crazy Patrick, loco, I'm-"

Oh, Patrick, your lips taste even better when you're crazy.

He's calmed down. I pull away.

I swallow the chunk of ice that had seemed to form in my throat.

"Of course I want to move in with you. I just didn't realize you really wanted me around so much. I've never really felt so wanted."

Patrick melts back into a smile, his face returning to normal. "Of course I want you around, why wouldn't I? You're my Pooky-Charlie."

I laugh, all too aware of the heat rising to my cheeks. I fall into a smirk, and lean my elbow against the table. "You know," I whisper, my eyes glued to his. "You're even cuter when you're panicking over me."

Patrick returned the compliment with his mouth against mine. Patrick, my Patrick.

I still can't believe I'm allowed to call him mine.