thinks my being gay is so romantic.
“Yeah,” I say.
Andrew
The first text hits my in-box during Christmas dinner. It’s just the three of us—Mom, Dad, and me—so we don’t stand much on ceremony. We’re eating in front of the television, our plates balanced on our laps, doing our traditional Christmas thing—watching It’s a Wonderful Life.
I fish my phone out of my pocket just as James Stewart crashes his car into a tree during a snowstorm. I don’t recognize the number. I view the text anyway.
Hey.
Hmph. I thumb in a reply. Who is this?
Robert.
I smile to myself. I’m surprised, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t just a little pleased.
Robert! Merry Christmas, my friend.
Merry Christmas to you too.
You caught me right in the middle of turkey and a movie.
Oh. Sorry. What movie?
“It’s a Wonderful Life.” Have you had Christmas dinner already?
Just about to. I’ve never seen the movie. Any good?
The first 20 times, yes. Now, it’s just kind of habit.
“Is that Maya?” Mom asks.
“No. It’s a student of mine.” When she doesn’t respond, I look up at her. “His dad is dying of cancer. I think he’s a little traumatized by the whole thing, poor kid.”
“A boy?” she asks. I detect a hint of something in her voice, a slight disapproval, perhaps, but I dismiss it as a figment of my imagination. “Yeah. A senior. He’s one of my AP Calculus kids.”
I slip my phone back in my pocket and take a bite of stuffing, ignoring the vibration.
Are you with your family today?
Yeah. In Oklahoma.
Oklahoma? Really? Drive or fly?
Drove.
Is it cold there?
So cold the snowman out front is begging me to take him inside.
So cold Santa had to jumpstart Rudolph?
When I put on my coat to take out the trash, it wouldn’t go.
So cold the local flasher had to describe himself to women?
I laugh out loud. I’m walking Shep for my dad. It’s actually not that cold outside—I’m pretty sure the flashers are still doing a brisk business. I love walking around my old neighborhood. The houses are smaller than I remember, the trees bigger. But it kind of makes me feel like a kid again.
I flex my thumbs. It’s been a while since I’ve carried on such an extensive conversation using the keyboard on my phone. And Robert is quick with the thumbs. My texts, on the other hand, always take a little longer to compose.
The aging springer spaniel sits patiently while I thumb out another response.
Ahahaha. So what did Santa bring you this Christmas?
The pause drags out, and I’m beginning to think he’s grown bored or I’ve said something wrong when the next text comes in.
So what do you like about AfterElton? The articles, right? Ha, ha.
At first I’m confused. And then I get it. My Twitter account. Shit. But I can’t help being a little flattered, too, that he’s checked me out.
The articles. Absolutely!
My response sounds coy, but it’s the truth. AfterElton isn’t some kind of online Playboy for gay men, after all. It’s more of a pop culture news site, but the articles, columns, and such have a gay focus. The site has nothing to do with Elton John, but the name does refer to the musician’s public coming out, a milestone for gay men.
It doesn’t surprise me that Robert knows about AfterElton. It does surprise me that he knows about me.
But I’m more concerned that he avoided my question.
Do you have brothers and sisters? he texts.
Nope. Just me. Are you hanging out with Nic over the holidays?
Ah. You know about Nic. IDK. Maybe. Two numbers that multiply together to equal 1,000,000 but contain no zeros?
Math games. I loop Shep’s leash on my wrist and make a few calculations with my calculator app. 64 x 15625
You’re brilliant.
I don’t know about that!
Shep gets a very long walk. I return him to the warmth of the house somewhat reluctantly.
“Your dad and I are going to drive around and look at some of the lights,” Mom says as I unhook the leash from Shep’s collar. “You want to come with us?”
“Would it be okay with you if I take a pass?”
“Only if you promise to take this cobbler out of the oven when it’s done.”
“Apple?”
“Of course.”
“Wow. You drive a hard bargain, Mom.”
She laughs and swats me on the butt.
Apple cobbler, huh? Sounds yummy.
Even better with vanilla ice cream. What’s your favorite dessert?
Apple cobbler with vanilla ice cream.
I find myself wondering—is he flirting with me? Liar. Are you home yet?
Just got here. Another Christmas bites the dust.
The cynicism that seeps into his tone every now and then worries me. I have to keep reminding myself that this is a really tough time for him.
Do you want to talk about it?
Yes. No. I think my thumbs hurt too much to speak right now.
I smile. My thumbs hurt too. I’m in my room now, the room I grew up in, surrounded by all my pre-adult relics. I pack the pillows against my headboard and lean up against them. It’s late, but I was hoping Robert might want to open up, and if he did, I wanted to be there for him. Before I can reply, though, he sends another text.
So sleepy. Too much tryptophan.
Go to bed, friend. Sweet dreams.
I set my phone on the bedside table and slip under the worn comforter. I think for a moment about
