Unwrapping Hank (12 page)

“I’m not going to bore you with all of that now. Basically what Holden took away from that whole experience was that we were wrong. His mother and father, whom he’d trusted implicitly, were so horribly wrong in what they believed, that it almost killed me. I was everything to Holden then. He was so tenderhearted. To see me in pain.… There were nights I’d be screaming in agony and Kar would play the stereo loud to try to cover it up. God, Sloane, it just… I’d do anything to be able to take away that part of his childhood.”

She took a deep breath. “After I got better, he changed. He pulled away from us. Started going to a conservative Christian church with my mother. I think he was looking for some kind of certainty, something to help him deal with his fear. He grew disillusioned with that church too, after a few years, but he’s still… he’s still searching. And he has to find it on his own. He won’t listen to us.”

“Shit. He’s rebelling,” I said, seeing it clearly for the first time.

She gave a sad little laugh. “Oh, big time! Kar and I decided it was our cosmic due. We’d both rebelled against our parents so hard when we were his age. Do you know I was born Susan Smith and Karma’s name was Robert Franklin?”

“No way!”

“Oh, yes. We changed them legally when we got married. In our case, both our parents were conservative, so we turned out like this.”

“And Hank’s gone Mr. Conservative Commando.”

“He votes Republican,” she said, with such a soft, bewildered tone, I couldn’t help but laugh. And then I couldn't help but give her a hug too.

“Oh my God, the horror,” I whispered.

She laughed. “Yeah, yeah. Unfortunately, all of us have strong opinions in this household, if you haven’t figured that out yet.”

I let her go and held up my hands in mock surrender. “I’m not even going there, so don’t ask.”

“We won’t grill you about your politics. I promise.” She looked at me fondly and tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. It was the sort of thing my own mother would never do, and I would have thought I’d hate it, but I didn’t.

“You like Hank, don’t you?” Lilith asked me bluntly.

I coughed on my mint tea. “Um… as a friend. Ish. Not
that
way. He’s straight.”

“Hank is still… trying on clothes,” she said hesitantly. “He’s so bright, it’s easy for him to pick up a skin and wear it, but that doesn’t mean it fits. You already know there’s more to him than meets the eye. All I can say is, don’t give up.”

Don’t give up. Hank’s
mother
was telling me not to give up on him. How was a guy supposed to get over a guy who looked like Hank with encouragement like that? It wasn’t fair.

“Hell, I think we could both use a laugh after that,” she said, closing the album. “Come on, Gregore. Ralphie awaits.”

*             *             *

Hank

“Man, that party
sucked
ass
,” Stan complained as we left Quarryville.

“It was free booze. That’s about all that can be said for it,” I agreed.

And I hadn’t even had much of that. About ten minutes after we arrived, it was clear that the ratio of men to women was ten-to-one, and the few women that were there were part of a couple. Apparently, the girls we’d gone to high school with had better things to do three days before Christmas than hang out at Matt Gibbon’s house. Stan, seeing his prospects for getting laid going down the tubes, asked if I minded driving so he could get shit-faced. I didn’t. Six rum and Cokes later, Stan had more than accomplished his objective.

“You’re gonna have to sneak into your room, man,” I said. Stan’s mom hated it when he was drunk. His parents went to a pretty strict church.

“Just pull over for a bit, okay?”

“What?”

“Find a quiet place to pull over. Don’ wanna go home like this.”

I’d never seen Stan get sick, but the request had me freaked. We were out in the country heading toward Stan’s house. I saw a pull out off the side of the road and rolled into it.

“You okay?” I asked, shutting off the truck.

“Peachy.” Stan’s head was back on the headrest, though, his eyes mere slits. “I was hoping Brenda Stanfield would be there. ‘Member her?”

“Yeah. Wasn’t she dating that football player?”

“Heard they broke up.”

“Oh.” I couldn’t picture a high-class girl like Brenda Stanfield at one of Matt’s parties, newly single or not, but I didn’t say so. “So you and Simone… you’re not serious then?”

Stan snorted. “She thinks so. But she’s not here, is she?”

I didn’t say anything.

“You’re only young once, right?” Stan’s words slurred. “Soon ‘nough I’ll be married. Two kids ’n a mortgage. Wanna enjoy myself while I can.”

I huffed a laugh. “Stan Borowski talking about marriage? Now I’ve heard it all.”

“Inevitable.” Stan waved a drunken hand. “Like a car wreck.”

“Nothing’s inevitable, man. You got choices.”

Stan just grunted. He rolled his head to look at me. I stared out the windshield, but I could feel his gaze on my face. I wondered how long he’d want to sit here. It was just past midnight. It was warm enough in the truck, but boring. I wondered if Micah and Sloane were still up. Maybe they’d be up for cards or something if I didn’t get back too late.

“Hey, if you wanna sober up before you go home, we can hit the McDonald's off 30 and get some coffee,” I suggested, itching to keep moving.

Stan didn’t say anything. He just stared at me with a bit of a frown on his brow.

“Coffee,” I said decisively. I started the truck.

“Turn it off,” Stan said firmly.

I turned the ignition back off.
Tick tick
went the engine. The silence was… weird. “You don’t want coffee?” I asked him.

Stan’s hand strayed to his belt. “I’m fuckin’ horny. Been buggin’ me for days. What I want is to get off. So why don’t you suck my cock?” He pulled open his belt.

All the air went out of the cab of the truck in an instant. I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. It was like someone had thrown cold water in my face.

“What did you say to me?” I meant to say it loud and pushy, but my throat was frozen with shock and it came out as a whisper.

“Come on, man.” He fished out his dick. He had a semi at least, though he mostly kept it covered with his hand.

I looked out the front windshield, blinking hard. My hands hurt, and I realized I had them both locked on the steering wheel so tightly they were white.

“Why…? Why would you say that to me?” I managed, unable to believe this was happening.

“Come on, Hank. Know you’ve thought about it.”

Something inside of me withered up and died. I shook my head.

“Bullshit. I seen you lookin’. And that one time you stayed over and touched it when you thought I was asleep, like you just accidentally brushed against it.”

“I—what? It
was
an accident!”

Stan sneered. “If it was an accident, why do you even remember it?”

“Fuck you!” I shouted, my eyes hot.

“Come on! I’m drunk off my ass, horny as hell, and there’s no pussy to be found. This is your chance, H-man. I won’t tell a soul.” He uncovered his dick, stroked it.

There was something in his tone, something in his face, like he wanted me to do it, and at the same time, he would hate me if I did. Of course he would. I’d
hate myself.

“Go to hell,” I said, low and quiet. I opened up the driver side door.

“Where you goin’?”

“I’m walking home!”

“Come on, Hank! I can’t drive like this!”

“Then sleep it off!” I slammed the door and started down the road.

Stan didn’t come after me. I left the parked truck behind, storming back toward Matt’s. When I reached an intersection in the middle of frosty fields, I stopped, shivering.

Fuck, it had to be at least five miles back to Matt’s place. And it was so cold the snow crunched under my feet when I slipped onto the shoulder of the road. I’d been so pissed off when I left the truck, the anger had pulsed red hot, keeping me warm. But that anger was fermenting into something bleak and gray and sour, something that just made me colder.

I pulled out my phone.

“Hank?” came Micah’s sleepy voice. “What’s up?”

“Can you come get me?” I asked, feeling twelve years old again, needing my big brother to rescue me.

But all Micah said was, “Text me an address.”

Micah found me waiting at the intersection in the middle of nowhere. By the time he got there, I’d alternated between pissed and hurt and depressed and bewildered a dozen times. But most of the fight had been leached out of me by the cold.

I got into the car. The heat was cranked up, and it felt like heaven. “Thanks,” I said.

“What happened?” Micah asked, making no move to drive the car.

I didn’t want to tell him. It was humiliating. I wasn’t even sure why. It
should
just be stupid, but it wasn’t.

“Hank?” Micah pressed.

I took a deep breath. “Stan got drunk at a party. He asked me to suck his dick.”

It was terrible saying it out loud. The embarrassment and anger sparked again like twin mirrors of shame.

“And then what happened?”

“What do you mean ‘and then what happened’? I told him to go fuck himself and got out of the truck. What do you think?”

Micah studied me. “I think you’re really upset about it. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t get it! Stan thinks I’m gay! He said he always thought I wanted it.”

Micah looked a little bewildered and a little sad. He spoke quietly. “Hank…
don’t
you like Stan that way? Because… I’m not trying to piss you off, but I always thought you had a serious crush on the dude.”

I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes. I was so tightly coiled I thought I was about to snap, like in Plato’s chariot analogy, my ego and my id both thrashing around in confusion.

“Hank?”

Micah’s hand rubbed my shoulder. I didn’t know if I wanted to hug him or punch him, but I felt betrayed. Only the person betraying me wasn’t Micah.

“I tried so hard. I tried so fucking hard. And still, when people look at me they see ‘gay’.” My voice was rough, but there was no way I was going to cry. I swallowed the tightness in my throat.

“That’s
not
what people see.” Micah leaned over the console to give me a one-armed hug. “Come on, bro. Stan’s an asshole anyway. Sorry, I know he’s your friend, but he’s always been a Grade A douchebag, and he always will be. You’re so much better than that.”

Micah and I had argued the point before, pretty much all through high school. But for the first time, I didn’t feel the need to defend Stan. If I was honest, I hadn’t felt comfortable with him all day. Like his jokes weren’t funny anymore and his attitude was small-minded and grating. Something had shifted inside me, and I was seeing Stan through a new glass. It wasn’t a flattering view. How had I been so blind?

Maybe I
had
been infatuated with him. I always thought I wanted to
be
Stan—tough, strong, popular, masculine. But I couldn’t deny in my own head that I’d wanted to touch him sometimes too, even if I thought I’d done a good job of dismissing the urge. Talk about conflicting interests. God, I was so fucked up.

“As for me, I’m your brother, remember?” Micah smiled. “When you were twelve-years-old, you kept a folder of Lance Bass photos under your mattress and jerked off to them. Hello. I had the room next door. You can’t hide that shit from me.”

“I did not—!”

Micah rolled his eyes.

“Like you didn’t do weird sex shit when you were twelve!” I huffed.

“
Holden
.” Micah rubbed my shoulder and held my gaze. “You know I don’t care if you’re gay or bi or whatever. Mom and Dad don’t care.”

“I know they don’t care! But I’m not like them.
I
care.”

He sighed. “It’s just… you never date girls either. I want you to be happy, that’s all.”

“So I’m picky! I’m not all into ‘free love’ like you are.”

Micah shook his head and pulled onto the road.

I should have let it go, let silence be golden, and all that shit. Ignorance is the better part of sanity or something. But I was me, so I couldn’t let it sit. “Is that why you’ve been pushing Sloane on me? You honestly think I’m gay?”

Micah sighed. “I might have thought it would be…broadening for you to be around him, that’s all. But don’t worry. I get it. You’re not interested in Sloane. Good.”

“Good? Why good?”

“No reason,” said Micah.

         ~10~

Sloane

THE NEXT morning, Lilith made an announcement over breakfast.

“So, Sloane, it’s tradition that we go out on Christmas Eve. To a show, if we can find one, or a service or something.”

“What are our choices this year?” Hank asked, getting right to the point.

I hadn’t heard him come in the night before, but it had apparently been late. He looked sleep-ruffled sitting at the kitchen counter, which was weird considering that neither his buzz cut nor his beard were long enough to get messy. But there was a slight pillow crease on his cheek, the half-awake bleariness to his blue eyes, and that wrinkled and tissue-thin T-shirt he’d apparently slept in. It made me picture pulling him back upstairs by the hand and crawling into bed with him to snooze against that big chest. Well, we’d snooze for at least the first few minutes anyway. Before I ate him for breakfast.