As Far as You'll Take Me Read online

  It’s Sophie’s smile. I don’t want to ruin it, but I know my presence will.

  “What’s going on with them?” Pierce whispers. “No, you don’t think they’re …”

  He drifts off, and I get his meaning. Rio’s smile beams back at Sophie, and to be honest, I’ve never seen a happy smile from her. A confident smile? A semi-spiteful one? Sure. But a purely happy one?

  “Looks like they found a way to resolve all that principal clarinet drama,” Pierce says as Rio closes the distance between her and Sophie with a light kiss.

  “Dani and Ajay are here.” Pierce starts off in the other direction, and I follow.

  But before I do, Sophie’s gaze locks with mine for a moment, and I see a wealth of emotions bubble into her expression before she looks away: there’s a gravity to her expression. I wonder whether it’s disappointment, or anger, or maybe something more?

  I don’t press it. I follow Pierce and pick up my music from Dani. He gives me a peck on the lips before leaving to join his trumpet companions, and I notice the perk in his step as he goes.

  “Sharing with me again?” Dani says. “I was able to pull a shitload of Queen this time, plus some Star Wars medley because Ajay has been asking for one all summer. Get ready for some trills.”

  I laugh. “Let’s crush it.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  It’s seven in the morning. And not only am I awake, but I’ve also endured a forty-minute tube ride with Pierce sleeping on my shoulder, all our bags surrounding me. Now we’re at this grab-and-go café at the airport, mere hours before I fulfill my lifelong dream of going to Italy.

  To pay me back for being his pillow and making sure we didn’t miss our stop, Pierce volunteered to grab breakfast for us and bring it back to the table.

  The smell of espresso and bacon comforts me, wraps me up and tells me I’m just fine. But I miss Megan. I miss my parents.

  Fuck, I even miss Kentucky.

  The coffee’s no good in this country. I didn’t even know how much I wanted a good cup of coffee until I realized I could never get one again. The food’s fine, but the produce sucks. I’d like to buy fruit without it having to be shrink-wrapped.

  The cheese is great, though. Bacon’s different here—thicker, and a bit chewy—but it’s good too. Maybe I should curate a pros and cons list.

  I feel trapped in this airport, in the very spot where I could go anywhere else in the world. Even though I’m leaving for Pisa in an hour.

  This is when I decide to look through my emails, and I find two from my parents, which I’ve never opened. I sigh. It takes a great deal of convincing not to open emails that have the potential to hurt me, but I force myself to read the one from my dad. (Since I still haven’t talked to Mom since the incident, I don’t even want to know what that one says.)

  Marty,

  Mom and I have been talking a lot—actually, a lot more than we used to about you and your relationship with religion. I’m disappointed that you haven’t been more honest with us, but I understand why you might feel unwelcome. Mom still doesn’t, but I think she’s trying to understand.

  We had our big Fourth of July party, like we always do. I attached a few pictures of the family. For once, all my brothers and sisters came! It was great to have them all in the room. But it was also a little weird when they kept asking questions about you and we just didn’t know the answer.

  I’m not sure what else to say. I am going to try and get Mom to start talking with you. But I think she’s just scared. I hope we can all catch up soon.

  Love,

  Dad

  The pit in my stomach grows, and I feel the tears welling in my eyes. I haven’t talked to them in weeks. We have a typical, huge family, and I can’t imagine how they feel not knowing the answers to everyone’s questions.

  I go to open Mom’s email, but I see the subject line and freeze: Bonfire.

  I have no idea what she’s going to say, but I know it won’t be good. One of her biggest fears was of other people “finding out” about me, so she must know that everyone knows. I hate that I spend so much of my time trying to make my sexuality as little of a deal as possible, while everyone else in my life seems to be making it into a huge thing.

  I respond to Dad, and I tell him I haven’t read Mom’s email because I’m scared to. And I don’t want her judgment. I don’t want our church’s judgment. I just want to be understood.

  I don’t know if this will help you understand anything about me, but I’m not sure anything else will. The lying and the pain didn’t start last year, but something definitely did. And I don’t think either of you understand exactly what happened.

  So? I’m attaching an assignment I had to do for English last year. Ten journal entries from my week in London last year. It’s not the one I ended up turning in—you’ll see why—and I’m sorry for cursing in it, but if you want to start to understand me, here’s a good place to do that.

  Marty

  That pain balls up inside me and puts pressure all throughout my body. It’s hard to breathe and not burst into tears. I hate feeling sorry for myself, and I hate the building anxiety that I just made a mistake.

  A palm rests on my back. I look up and see Pierce, and smile. The breath that leaves my lungs takes as much of the sorrow as it can hold, and when I stand and wrap my arms around him, I almost feel whole again. I pull away and look into his eyes, and wonder why mine tear up.

  “You all right, love?”

  I sit. He joins me.

  “I just really needed a bacon bap right now.” I shake my head. “I don’t know; that was a dumb joke. So much has happened in the last week. My parents are being confusing, Sophie won’t talk to me, I had a massive breakup with my friend back home. I looked it up—this apparently happens all the time to people once they move away to college, but I never thought it’d happen to me. I don’t know.”

  He takes my hand and offers me a smile.

  “Plus, I am a little jealous of Shane.”

  “You and me both.” He sighs, and I feel so much frustration in his labored breath. “I can’t believe I’m busting my ass at this school and I have nothing to show for it.”

  “That’s not true,” I say.

  “No, it’s really been a right disaster from the start. I thought I could coast through—typical trumpet mentality, I know. My first recital was the same week as Colin’s. Actually, I went on after him. I played ‘Flight of the Bumblebee.’ Technical masterpiece. Nailed it. Everyone thought I could be the new Sang.”

  I’m impassive. I’m worried. I have no idea which expression shows more on my face.

  “But then I did a different piece for my placement audition, ‘La Virgen de la Macarena.’ It’s a boxing match—fast punches and slow footwork all wrapped into this killer piece. I loved it. The quick parts flew through my fingers, and I could tell the panel was rapt, but the rest …”

  He rolls his eyes. “I don’t know. I thought it was good—vibrato was there, tone was on point—but Baverstock didn’t think so. Since then, I’ve just been another middle-of-the-pack player. I can’t get off third trumpet to save my life, so how am I going to land a real audition, let alone get a part?”

  We sit in silence for a bit, as I consider the new dynamic. Pierce is hurting, that’s for sure. But it doesn’t help his case in Sophie’s accusation—that he’s using me to look better at the academy. It’s a weird feeling. It gnaws at my insides like a dog trying to get at the squeaker in a chew toy. It’s desperate to make me upset or make me paranoid.

  I’ve still never heard him perform, really. I guess I will once we start practicing together. Except our recital’s in one week. I’ve got my part down, but even if he’s the best player in the world, it doesn’t mean we’ll be great together.

  We eat our breakfast and drink our shitty coffee, and I lead Pierce to the gate. We board quickly. Everything goes smoothly. As it does at Heathrow.

  “I can’t believe Dani and Ajay went out of Stansted Airpor
t,” I say. “I’ve heard it’s impossible to get to.”

  “Yeah, they got up at four to catch a bus out there. They’ll be half-asleep by the time we meet them in Florence.”

  We’re ushered into the plane, and stress creeps up on me again. Dread is always hanging around lately, in my mind. I should be happy, content. Not paranoid and messed up. But maybe that’s what having a boyfriend does to you.

  Some positives:

  I’m getting a stamp in my passport that says “Italy” on it.

  I’m going to my dream country with my boyfriend.

  I’m still able to call him my boyfriend.

  We take our seats. I release a deep breath, hoping some nervous energy goes out along with it. The plane takes off smoothly.

  I see his hands grip the armrests, hard. His knuckles are white. Like all the warmth has left his body. I try to ignore the uneasy feeling in my gut. I put in my earphones, lean back in the airplane seat, and we fly off into stormy skies.

  12 MONTHS AGO

  DIARY ENTRY 4

  I’ve never seen anything like this. Well, outside of Instagram. It’s all bright colors and music and cheering and dancing. I read once about how unique glitter is, because it can be both a celebration and an effective protest: it’s cheap and easy to use, it sticks to everything and is impossible to ignore, and it’s gorgeous—bright, gleaming, unrelenting.

  London Pride is all of those things. A celebration and a protest all in one, generously sprinkled with glitter. We’re waiting for Shane and Aunt Leah to join us for lunch before the big audition, so while Mom and Dad went in to grab a table, I came outside to write in my trusty journal that will never see the light of day, and to see if I could get a glimpse of the parade.

  I hear it more than I see it, but everyone rushing around me is part of it too—pride flags of all varieties line the street, whether they’re on clothing, painted on faces, or flying in the air. One girl even has the bi flag painted into her hair. Now that takes dedication.

  Mom just sent my dad out here to come get me. They want me to wait inside with them. I mean, I knew they were uncomfortable just walking around this area, but I hoped it was just because of how many people were in the crowds. But seeing their faces, and knowing them, I worry that it’s something more. That pride scares them. That it’s not the crowds in general; it’s worse. They’re scared of the people themselves.

  THIRTY

  I’m told we made good time. But that flight was anything but a good time. Incredibly turbulent. I don’t get motion sick, but I am almost proud of myself for not hurling up my bacon bap and coffee. Though that could still happen at any second.

  My stomach grumbles.

  We land at eleven thirty in the morning, local time, but the skies say late evening. The sun has no chance against these dark clouds, and god, the rain.

  London’s rain is ever present, a mist that pings off your face and finds its way into your lungs. But this is worse. Running from the airport to the bus depot involves being exposed for about thirty feet.

  So why am I drenched?

  “I hate this,” Pierce says.

  He slams his bag down, which garners concerned glares from strangers.

  I get it, these strangers on the bus get it, everyone gets that you’re mad. Now, let’s calm down.

  “It’s okay, we’ll dry off eventually.”

  He groans. “I’m in a puddle. I am a puddle. I am made of puddle. This is shite.”

  I gesture around. “You’re making a bit of a scene.”

  “Who cares? I doubt these wankers speak English.”

  “Well, actually, most—”

  “Yeah, yeah, you looked it up. Get off Google, Marty.”

  My head shakes on its own. I sigh, then wonder if this is what being in a relationship is all about. Put me down as not a fan. Not a fan at all.

  The bus takes us quickly into Pisa’s main square, and I get my first glimpse of Italy. Cobblestone sidewalks lead to old off-white buildings. Hundreds of little boxes in this area, little windows with green shutters on top, and a kitschy gift shop under a red, green, or striped awning. The clay roofing gives the buildings a bit of charm, but otherwise …

  It’s a little fake.

  The bus stops, and we file out into the rain and quickly run to the nearest awning with fifty thousand other tourists. We’re in Italy, but we’re in what’s probably the most touristy spot in the whole country. The Piazza del Duomo, with the Torre di Pisa.

  I let all of these thoughts run through my head because I’m one-hundred-percent not here for this. I’m not ready to talk to that bad mood bastard, and he doesn’t look to be ready to apologize anytime soon. Plus, I’d hate to bother him with more of my issues.

  We don’t even stop to take pictures of the leaning tower. It’s there; it’s definitely an architectural marvel. (By “marvel” I mean “mistake.”) The grays of the sky mute the loudness of the white tower. When you see it in photos, it looks oddly grandiose. Bright green grass under this white marble megalith.

  But a memory makes me pause. The guidebook from my childhood had this image on it. I would stare at the tower for so long, imagining I was one of the hundreds of tourists gazing at the tower. When you’re stuck in a place like Kentucky, these dreams always feel like dreams. Unrealistic. And I’m finally here, and I’m bickering with my fucking boyfriend instead of enjoying this.

  I look up and realize Pierce hasn’t stopped. He’s leaving me behind. I charge forward, through the crowds and the rain, and with massive effort, I catch up to him. He doesn’t say anything. He knows I stopped, I know it, and he didn’t wait for me.

  Eventually, we make it to a nondescript depot, and I breathe a sigh of relief as we board the docked train. Until I realize all the coupled seats are taken. Pierce throws his bag above a seat and takes it, so I quietly place mine above the seat across the aisle.

  Within minutes, we’re on the way. Conversations buzz all around us, but we don’t add to the noise. For better or for worse, we’ve stopped talking. And I hate this feeling.

  “So how’s Music History going?” I grasp for anything to talk about. “Sophie said you were doing really well in that class.”

  He just shrugs, then grunts. “Fine.”

  The pressure builds, and I take deep breaths to calm down. But it’s no use.

  The view from the train is not of the Tuscan hillside. It looks like anywhere else, with dead grasses and garbage all around. The towns we pass seem run down, and the length of the trip is full of graffiti.

  I wonder how this trip could get any worse.

  About two hours and one cramped nap later, we’re in Florence. The rain has ebbed, the sun peeks through the sky, and I find myself determined to make things better. Pierce and I walk side by side through the exit, and find ourselves in a very real city of love.

  Unlike Pisa, Florence lives up to the hype. Old brick buildings flank the alleys we walk through, each with quaint shutters and working clotheslines crisscrossed every which way. Signs of neon and wood and metal hang off the side of the brick, announcing trattorias, bars, gelato, and everything in between. The tension pours off me like water.

  I slip my hand into his. And every second we touch, I feel stronger, more connected. He has to feel this city like I do. He can’t stand there, numb to the smells of the pastry shops, flower stands, and restaurants.

  He lets go.

  My chest falls, but he pushes forward. We take street after street, and he checks his phone.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To find Dani and Ajay.”

  “Oh.”

  It’s as colorful as our conversations get.

  THIRTY-ONE

  “Marty! Pierce!” Dani wraps us into a strong hug, though it seems impossible, since she can’t be taller than five feet four. “Benvenuto!”

  “Buonasera,” I say. “Or is it not late enough in the day to say that?”

  She shrugs. I give Ajay a hug.

  And
then it starts to get awkward.

  Pierce’s issues are beyond me, and beyond our bickering. And I wish I knew what they were, or how I’m a part of them, or if I could fix them. I want him to let me in, but I don’t know how to show him.

  It’s especially worrisome because he’s closed off to his friends too.

  But we charge forward, and I walk in line with Pierce the whole time. Ajay leads the way through cobblestone alleys and plazas. Our shoes hitting the stones matches that of my thudding heart. Dread creeps through me, and I can’t make it stop.

  I take a cleansing breath, and clear my throat.

  “We don’t have time to see much,” I shout to Ajay. “Where are we going?”

  “Gallery of the Academy of Florence,” he says. The smile shows through his voice. “I looked it up. Zero percent chance we’ll get lost.”

  “David,” Pierce says. “That’s where that statue is.”

  Dani cackles. “Pierce, you are the only person I know who could make a masterpiece seem dull and depressing. Perk up, honeybuns.”

  That makes him smile, briefly.

  About thirty minutes and two wrong turns later—turns out Ajay researched the gallery but not how to get there—I walk into the gallery, and I’m surprised to see there’s more than just David in this museum. In one room, giant oil paintings of portraits and landscapes surround us. In the next, sculptures of a hundred nameless heads and faces watch us pass by.

  But when I turn back, I see him. David. And I see all of him. He’s a spectacle, and a representation of the human form that would make any guy feel fat. Sculpted—literally—abs, defined arms. I walk around to the back to find more defined regions.

  I see the awe in Pierce as he stares up at David. And that makes me relax, even for just a minute. There’s hope in this situation.

  We meander and work our way up the Arno River until the Ponte Vecchio appears in the distance, causing nostalgic chills to flood my body. The guidebook on Florence had a few pages on this bridge slash market, and just like the rest of the Florence section, I wore through the pages.