As Far as You'll Take Me Read online

  “That’s still a thing?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. Point is, I didn’t tell them because I wanted to be able to go back without being the news. I hate knowing that, right now, people are talking about it. Me living in London was one thing people will never understand, but this is another thing. This is how they define people over there. I liked being the guy who stayed in the background, played the hell out of his oboe, then moved abroad to pursue a better life than they could comprehend. Now it’s all tainted.”

  He drops the rag on the floor and crawls into bed with me. Not in a predatory way, not in a sexual way. But in a way that shows me he’s there for me, curled up against my side and pressing his lips into my neck. His arm wraps around me, and I let it. I want to stay like this until I feel better. Until the pieces of me are whole again.

  I’m out. It’s obviously not been easy, but my sexuality is my thing. It’s my life, and I should get to choose what “out” means and who gets to know. I take a look at my phone, and see two or three iMessages have popped up. Already.

  None of them are bad. None of them are reminders that I’m going to hell or anything melodramatic. One is supportive, the others ask if it’s true. Most start with “I was just talking to Megan,” which means Skye was definitely telling the truth.

  “Hey,” Pierce says. I watch him slowly come into focus. “Who cares what they think? You’re thousands of miles away.”

  “One guy came out a couple years ago, when I was a freshman. Most people were great to him. Like, overly great.” I shake my head. “Telling him how brave he was for being gay—whatever that means—or showing their support by telling him how many queer people they knew. He became a novelty. A caricature of himself. He wasn’t the tennis star or the great actor. He was the gay kid.”

  Pierce laughs, then grabs my hand quickly. “Sorry, that reminds me. When I told people, my mates suddenly started asking me for fashion tips. People are awful. They don’t think.”

  I take a breath, and hold it. My lungs ache, but after a few seconds, the pressure eases.

  It’s only been a couple of months since I graduated, but I can barely remember what it felt like to walk those halls again. To see the same teachers, the same students. Ducking my head into my locker to breathe when the crowds rushing to class were too loud, too chaotic.

  “This was my thing to tell or not tell,” I say. “And I guess … well, I wanted to disappear. And she took that away from me.”

  My list of friends has always been small, manageable. Until this month, the newest addition to my friends list was Skye, but that was years ago. I imagine Megan, Shane, and Skye’s names on a list, followed by Pierce, Sophie, Sang, Dani, and Ajay. But that name at the top, shining bright, just got a big X drawn straight through it.

  “Now I’m the gay kid,” I whisper.

  He plants a soft kiss on my hand. “What kid do you want to be? The oboe guy? The London one? I’ll call you whatever you want.”

  A hint of a smile tugs at my lips. “Just call me Marty.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The next day is a blur. I’ve made it back to my apartment and given the edited—non-passing-out—version of what happened to Shane, but I haven’t gotten the courage to email Megan. I don’t even know if it’s my place to do this. It’s not exactly something you can google and find the proper way to respond when a friend goes off the deep end. But all of our good memories keep coming back to me. Late night Waffle House runs, gas station cappuccinos before school, and that one time we decided we were going to be really good at tennis, before we realized she couldn’t control her backhand and I couldn’t serve to save my life.

  But there are bad memories too. She teased me relentlessly in middle school. Called me a fag (but she called everyone that) and told everyone my head was firmly up the teacher’s ass. Word for word, she said that. At twelve. I wonder what made me friends with her in the first place. Was it out of necessity? Did we actually work?

  I’m still in bed—I’m always in bed—when I hear voices in the living room. It almost makes me want to go see who Shane invited over. Almost.

  I’ve never been through a breakup, but I’d imagine this is what it feels like. Megan and I kind of worked. She brought me out of my shell. Our demise weighs heavily on my chest, but I’m not friendless. I’m not alone. I can ignore the emails from my acquaintances in Kentucky, and wait for it all to blow over.

  I’m hurt, but I’m not broken.

  I tap out a quick text to Pierce.

  Thanks for everything last night. Glad I can call you my boyfriend officially.

  Sophie opens the door and walks into my room. She gives me a look that borders on pity, but there’s some fire there that I haven’t seen before. Shane seems defeated, and he takes a seat in the chair opposite my bed.

  A tapping rhythm sounds from the window by my bed. Rain. I’ve learned that midsummer in London can be one big puddle. Always raining, heavily enough to make you wet but light enough that it blows around everywhere, rendering umbrellas useless. Sophie’s holding a rain jacket in her hands.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  She shakes her head.

  A weird pain settles in my gut, and it’s not hunger this time. I want to make her feel better, and I want to find out what’s wrong. Because, what if I’m the reason? I can’t lose my two best friends in twelve hours.

  “I should be asking you that,” she finally says.

  “Talk to me.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “It means … god, Marty. You’ve fucked up right nice, you know that?”

  “Soph,” Shane warns.

  “I what? What are you talking about?”

  She paces the room, and I hang my legs off the side of the bed.

  “I don’t even know which one to start with, mate. Actually, both of them start the same way: I talked to Pierce today.”

  “Shit.” My chest seizes with fear. “Did he tell you I told him about what you said about Colin? It was important. I needed to know—”

  “Mart. It’s not that. Good on you for calling him out. But he told me what happened with your friend, and that you passed out in his apartment.”

  Shane clears his throat. “You passed out? You didn’t tell me that—I shouldn’t be hearing this about my cousin thirdhand.”

  “It was a bit melodramatic, I guess.”

  “You think? Marty … do you know why you passed out?” Sophie folds her arms and drapes her rain jacket over an arm. She stares straight ahead, out the window. “I need to know if you even get it.”

  “I mean, I was so stressed after hearing what Megan did, I guess I just lost it, I don’t know. That happens, I guess.”

  “Unless you have a medical condition, that doesn’t happen, outside of, like, films and shit. Tell me what you ate that day, because Pierce said you didn’t even touch your dinner.”

  “I had a few bites.”

  “And the last time you ate before that?”

  “What are you getting at? I’m on a fucking diet, Sophie, I’m overweight.”

  “You are fine how you are, but that’s not even the point. That’s not a diet. When’d you eat before that? Did you eat at all yesterday?”

  “I had a couple things,” I say. Though I know it was only one banana. And I skipped dinner the night before too. Did I eat on Wednesday? I had a snack, at least. “This isn’t why I passed out.”

  “It’s sure as hell a part of it.”

  “Fuck,” Shane says, “I watched this happen too, and I didn’t stop it. I was so worried about being too overprotective like everyone apparently thinks I am, so I just watched. This is my fault.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I say. “Nothing even happened. You two think I’m anorexic? Do I look anorexic?”

  “I’m not here to diagnose you, Marty,” Sophie says. “I’m here to point out that if you try to exist off of a tablespoon of food per day, you will pass out, you
will hurt yourself, and you will eventually cause damage you can’t reverse.”

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  “You really don’t.” She laughs. She freaking laughs in my face.

  “I’ll stop when I’m at my goal weight,” I say.

  “What’s your goal weight?” Shane asks in a serious tone. “When you magically feel good about your body?”

  Sophie chimes in. “When you start to see your rib cage? Please tell us, so we can point out how this is a slippery slope.”

  “It’s working,” I say. “I’ve lost ten pounds this week.”

  “You what?” Shane interjects.

  “I don’t even know what that means in kilograms,” Sophie says as she shakes her head, “but I bet it’s more than you should safely lose in a week.”

  I’m almost out of the overweight BMI. I lose weight every day. I see the numbers going down. This is literally all that matters, and passing out once means nothing. But I don’t say this out loud. I’m too angry, and she wouldn’t get it.

  “Is it because of Pierce?”

  “Well, hey, I lost weight and now he’s my boyfriend.”

  I cringe at my own words. That’s not how I meant to say it, even if those words are true.

  “He’s your what? He left that out of last night’s recap.”

  I stand up and pace around her. She’s infuriating me; she’s bullying me like Megan did. She’s so wrong.

  “Look,” I say. “Is there a point to this? I’ll make sure I don’t pass out next time another best friend turns on me. I seem to be holding it together just fine right now.”

  “I’m looking out for you, Marty. If you’re not going to take care of yourself, someone ought to.” She sighs. “And if Pierce is pressuring you to stop eating, or drop weight to be with him, then he can’t help you. Boyfriend or not.”

  I fall back onto the bed. I want to defend Pierce. I want to explain that sure, I might be dieting because of him, but it’s not like he’s making me do it. Actually, he hasn’t said anything to me about my weight, or my eating. Just about his own. Loudly and in front of me, but not at me.

  “This is my thing,” I finally say. “Pierce isn’t pressuring me to do anything.”

  “But you’ve started checking nutrition labels, just like he does.” Shane scratches his head. “You actually say some of the same things. Like at dinner a couple nights ago? ‘I can’t believe this meal has more than half the sodium I’m supposed to consume in a day.’ Like, that’s fine if you want to eat healthier, but what you’re doing isn’t healthy.”

  “There are people who will look the other way when their friends make bad choices.” Sophie glares at Shane. “But I sure as hell am not that person. I don’t know how to get through to you. But while I’m on the topic, guess what Pierce announced to the whole class? That you were performing a duet in two weeks.”

  “So?”

  “It would take me days to unpack why that’s a bad idea. One, Pierce is a flaky fuck with a track record that doesn’t speak well of him. But you know that.” She hisses a sigh through her teeth. “Two, he’s not a good musician. He’s a savant in Music History, but you should hear him play—he’s so unenthused it’s like he’s running through the motions. You can’t cover up being a boring musician here with a sunny personality and get away with it. Do you know why he wants to do the recital with you?”

  “Because he likes me.”

  “As an oboist!”

  Frustration builds within me. I stand up again. “As a boyfriend! As a human being!”

  Shane fidgets in his chair, but he doesn’t leave.

  “I don’t think that’s true,” she says. Her voice is soft, and she looks at her hands. “If you really thought he liked you for you, it wouldn’t be like this. You wouldn’t be crash dieting like this. You shouldn’t feel like you have to hurt yourself to make someone like you.”

  I say nothing. The rain picks up outside, and Sophie puts on her jacket.

  “I’ve got to go,” she says. “This—all of this—is a waste of time. Whether you get taken out in a stretcher, or run away after your inevitable fight with Pierce, or whatever. I can’t get close to another person just to have them disappear again. This school is hard enough with Rio going for my blood. I need to make a real friend, and I need to protect myself.” She walks away. I almost don’t hear her. But I do, and it’s a line I’ll never forget.

  “Good luck with the move back to Kentucky.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Pierce still hasn’t responded to my text.

  But I need him.

  I text him again.

  What are you doing?

  Then,

  Had a fight with Sophie.

  I take a walk with Shane, and we find a bench where we can just sit in the rain, even though we’re pretty much soaked through at this point.

  “Can we talk about anything?” I ask. “Anything that isn’t about you-know-who?”

  “Well, I’m not sure this is a great time to announce this, but I … I got it.”

  I gasp. “You what?”

  “You’re looking at Les Mis’s new fourth horn. I found out just after you left.”

  “Congrats, Shane,” I say. “That’s really great.”

  I should feel more jealous, but I know I haven’t put in the effort I should have. The reed I made when I got here is starting to split down the middle, and I haven’t even found time to make a new one. The last time I practiced, there was a light buzzing that wouldn’t go away.

  I’ve been expanding my portfolio, but I haven’t been following through on anything else. I haven’t looked for jobs—but it’s hard for me to do that when I’m playing in the park with Sang or exploring Europe with my new friends.

  But that is special and important.

  I’ve never had a large group of friends or a boyfriend, and I never get to play in these pickup ensembles where we just enjoy music together. But maybe I’ve focused too much on that lately.

  “I’d have to quit my bookshop job,” Shane continues, “but that’s fine with me. I can always try and get you an interview there if you want—it’s a great job, and it’s super flexible.”

  “It doesn’t seem like it. I mean, you never get to hang out with the group anymore; you missed the last group jam session because of it. Seems like it gets in the way a lot.”

  A pause. Then he takes a breath.

  “So, that’s the other thing. I’ve kind of been seeing someone. And we’ve been having so much fun we didn’t want to jinx it by telling people. But I think we’re going to start telling people soon. So I want you to be the first to know.”

  I cover my mouth with my hands. “Oh god, it’s Sang, isn’t it?”

  “Ding-ding-ding.” He runs his hand through his hair, causing a halo of mist to surround his head. “We seem to be an item.”

  Shane accentuates his point by eventually leaving to go meet up with him, and I ask him to pass along a hug to Sang.

  I get the feeling I should kick it into gear. That I need to make a change, soon, if I want things to work out my way. If I don’t want to get my ass kicked back to Kentucky, quickly. But my mind’s caught up with Megan, with Sophie, with Shane, and with Pierce—especially our forthcoming recital. I worry about his playing—I’ve never actually heard him play on his own. All I know is he admits he struggles. Sophie said he struggled. And he’s still playing third trumpet.

  But is bringing someone up so wrong? And maybe with my help, we can blow everyone away.

  Both of us.

  “Boyfriend.” I try out the word again on my tongue, but it doesn’t feel real. “Boyfriend.”

  My stomach growls. And I can’t deny Sophie has a point. I press into my gut to quiet the sound. It’s starting to be embarrassing—people give me that look when it happens in public. It used to be a funny smile, but they’ve since darkened into real concern. Does everyone know what I’m doing to myself? Do I even know?

  My phone vibrates as I he
ad back to the apartment. It’s Pierce. The tension releases, until I read it.

  On a train to Leeds to visit Mum for a family do. Sorry about Sophie.

  And,

  Let’s run through the recital piece when I get back.

  Before I can truly react, my finger holds down the power button until the screen goes black. Fire lives and breathes within me. My steps echo against the brick walls of the bridge. I’ve turned away from the park, away from the flat. I keep walking, and I wish I brought headphones or something to drown out the city. I need to facilitate an escape.

  An escape from my escape.

  Everything feels like it’s falling apart, and the universe is definitely giving me a sign. Shane told Sang the universe is wrong, but what does he know? Pierce is gone when I need him, and is already showing how greedy he is about the recital.

  Or maybe I’m reading too far into it, thanks to Sophie.

  I keep walking, for ten minutes. Twenty. Longer. I follow the same road north, until I see tourists starting to gather up ahead.

  Suddenly I’m on the Beatles cover. Abbey Road. The Abbey Road with the iconic crosswalks and the tourists lined up to take their walking picture. I lean against the brick wall surrounding a nearby residence from the chaos, and I’m in perfect view of the crosswalk.

  And I study them.

  Here’s the thing about Abbey Road. It’s a real road. With cars that get really pissed by the pedestrians blocking the way. I snap a picture—not that I want to remember this moment, but I want to remember this place. The anger of the drivers and the obliviousness of the tourists.

  I sit on a bench across from Abbey Road Studios and watch the never-ending flow of people and cars, joy and frustration. A woman starts playing “Hey Jude” on the guitar nearby, though no one is paying much attention to her.

  But I am. Her vocals lull me into a sort of trance, until my lips perk up into an attempt at a smile. Anytime I’m too low, music can pull me back, and it reminds me why I’m here in the first place.

  Moping isn’t helping. Worrying isn’t helping.

  I have to pull myself out of the darkness.