chapter thirty-two

sebastian

Saanvi lets me cry for as long as I need to. Which, for me, was only a minute. I'm not a very long crier, which is probably a good thing, although I'm a very ugly crier, so it kind of balances out. On the plus side, I also got to cuddle with her cat, Honeydew, so at least there was that.

My parents have yet another book club, so we decide to head over to my place, before Saanvi's parents get home. We like her parents, but I don't need them to see me like this. Saanvi offers to drive, but I tell her it's fine, that I'm fine, even though I feel like there's broken glass laced around my stomach lining. She's being oddly silent, which is unlike her. Usually, if something goes wrong—anything, anywhere, ever—Saanvi is ready to go out like fucking Rambo, guns a-blaze. But ... she's quiet.

It's so weird.

"Hey, Saanvi, is everything okay?" I ask, turning onto my street. Fresh lawn clippings cover our sidewalk; I know I'll be forced to rake that up later. But, as expected, Mom's Honda Pilot is gone, likely parked in front of one of two coffee shops on main street. I don't think today is wine slushie day, but I don't even know. I'm on Summer Brain right now. Summer Brain Seb doesn't have to know anything.

Saanvi is typing away on her phone, her thumbs angled slightly different than usual now that she's finally been able to grow out her nails. In high school, we both always had to keep them short for orchestra. Her hair dangles in front of her face, shielding her expression from me. For the first time in years, it's like I don't know what she's thinking.

"Saanvi?" I try again.

She sighs, smoothing the half-curtain of dark waves back behind her ear. "Sorry," she says, offering a small smile. She's wearing her little thin librarian glasses today, the ones she usually only wears when we're taking an exam, or she has a headache. And, really, I feel bad. I've probably made her already-sucky day even shittier. Dragged her down into the bottomless pit of shitty despair alongside me.

"You're good. Well. Uh, are you good? You're just being really quiet."

"No, it's"—she sighs again, which, okay, so not great for my anxiety—"sorry, I'm just out of it today. But I wanna be there for you. So let's go eat ice cream and be anxious, sad bitches, okay?"

I manage a slight smile. My lips, so tender and swollen just this morning, are now dry and chapped. "Okay. Yeah. Yeah, cool. Ice cream it is."

She walks up ahead of me, stalking across the lawn-clipping-laden cement, and I'm a little surprised that she doesn't want to walk side by side. Oh well. It's fine. No big deal. At all. At least watching Saanvi walk so pissed-offishly towards the front door like that, all while dressed in bunny pajamas, is a little bemusing.

Saanvi leaves the door open for me, kicking her shoes off and immediately walking over to the couch. She flops down on it, grabbing a throw blanket and tossing it over her shoulders. Her hair is in front of her face gain, but she doesn't seem to give a single fuck whatsoever.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Oh my god, I will actually slap you around so vigorously that you shit your pants. Now get me some motherfuckin' ice cream, Krause."

"Headache, food cravings, melodrama? Spooning with Mr. Heating Pad?" I set my shoes on the mat, where shoes go. "Is this day two of your period?"

The glare she shoots me confirms that, yes, this is indeed the start of the much-dreaded Saanvi period. Saanvi has really rough periods—"leave school doubled over in pain" kind of periods—so I pull the shades shut and say, "I'll bring out the ice cream."

"And two spoons."

"And two spoons."

"Thanks," she mutters, reaching for the remote. "Love you."

When I'm back with the ice cream carton and two spoons, Saanvi and I nibble away in complete silence, the blanket wrapped around her slumped shoulders. When we've both clearly had our fill, I put the carton back, and we resume our movie with Saanvi's head on my lap. We're a good half an hour into Hunt for the Wilderpeople when Saanvi says, "Hey, Seb, do you think—"

The front door opens, and in walk my parents.

Mom notices us in the middle of slipping off her short green jacket. Her eyes go wide with surprise as the door swings shut behind her. "Oh, hi, honey. Hi, Saanvi."

Saanvi sits up, a little too fast to look normal. Her cheeks are flushed slightly. She grabs her glasses from the coffee table and slides them back on her nose, then clears her throat. "Hi, Mrs. Krause, how was book club?"

I want to shake her for that sus reaction. I don't get the chance.

Dad opens the front door and steps in behind Mom. He's wearing that stupid cap again, the one that makes his hair stick out like a clown's wig around his ears, and its ultra-conservative, uber-dickish red making his skin look simultaneously flushed, as well as jaundiced. His skin is even more tan today, a concerning spot darkening on his forehead seemingly every time I see him. Mom keeps urging him to get it checked out, but he's too stubborn to listen. It's like he refuses to see what's in front of him. Like now, when he sees me and Saanvi sitting close on the couch, both of us quite obviously embarrassed. Saanvi's usually well-kempt hair is a little frizzy from where her head was laying on my lap.

I have a feeling that this is about to be another one of those times where my dad doesn't see what is really in front of him.

I watch him take us in, then Mom's unwarranted surprised face. "Sorry, Seb. Are we interrupting something?"

My fingers itch to pause the movie. I can't handle having two things go on at once, and I know my dad is about to try to turn this into a Conversation, the kind where he talks to me about me and Saanvi, except this time, it's going to be him attempting to set up "boundaries" for the both of us because we're obviously in a heterosexual relationship. Obviously.

And just, with the day I'm having, I really can't afford that kind of stress. But I at least have the dignity to wait, my shoulders tensed back, jaw set, teeth clenched, waiting for him to say it, because he can't not. He's my dad.

"Don't worry," I say, trying to seem nonchalant. I am nonchalant, at least in regard to simply watching a movie with my platonic girl best friend. But the knowledge that this is likely about to take a deep downhill spike is stressful in and of itself. No matter what, I can't act like I have a reason to be upset. "You're not interrupting anything."

"I'm so sure," Dad says, bending down to untie his stupid hipster boots. Seriously, how old does he even think he is? "Listen, do we need to have a talk with you and Sahnvi"—right, said as if she's not even there in the room with us at this exact moment—"about respecting this house?"

Mom at least has the self-awareness to look absolutely mortified. She turns to him, mouth open, clearly about to say something, but Dad cuts her off, because he has to. He's Dad. "We've allowed you to sneak around behind our backs. God knows why, I just figured it was something with Sahnvi's parents being stricter than we are."

Next to me, Saanvi bristles, but stays silent. I'm not liking where this is going.

And of course, Dad has to continue. Because he's Dad. "But if you two are going to be getting handsy on the living room couch, then I—"

"We weren't getting handsy," I tell him. My voice is stuffy, from all the ice cream, yet itchy, thanks to all the crying. After everything yesterday, last night, and today, I am beyond exhausted. "We were just watching a fucking movie, Dad. Ask Mom."

"Really, honey, they—" Mom starts.

"You'll watch your language in my house," Dad warns, pointing one stubby finger at me. "You might think that you're a man now, that you're all grown up and mature because you have a girlfriend and you're moving out soon, but—"

Oh my god, I can't anymore. I just can't. "How many times do I have to tell you? Saanvi is not my girlfriend, Dad." My voice is raised. I stand up, accidentally knocking the remote off the couch in the process. I don't care to stoop down and pick it up just now though. My blood is fire-hot. My fingers are rigid, half-furled; it's like my brain can't decide if they want them in fists or relaxed.

"We don't believe you, Seb," Dad says. "It's obvious. And we're fine with you dating! We—"

"No, Dad, there's nothing that's 'obvious,' or nothing to be 'fine with.' I'm gonna say it one more time: Saanvi and I?" I frantically gesture between the two of us. "Not together. And we're never going to be together, okay? Never in a million freaking years. So, just, give me a break for once, okay? I don't get why you're so insistent about this."

Dad's face has gone from olive-toned-but-jaundiced to straight-up red, matching his cap. "Because!" I see a vein in his neck. He's about to get mad as shit. And you know what? Good. Fucking do it. I wanna see it. "I don't understand what's wrong with you! You're a teenage boy! You guys spend too much time together to be 'just friends.'"

"What, so because I'm a guy, I have the uncontrollable urge to get with my girl best friend? Grow up, Dad." Even if I were straight, that would just be plain stupid.

"Well it just doesn't make sense! What's wrong with you? What, are you gay or something?"

The fire in my veins turns icy hot. It's like the world slows down for a moment. There it is. There it fucking is. That's what my dad thinks is "wrong" with me. If I'm this close with a girl I'm not dating, I must be broken. And that kind of broken is being gay.

"Honey?" Mom's voice is shaky. "Honey, please, just stop. Sebastian, please something."

My eyes itch. I'm going to fucking cry again. Jesus Christ. Great. I find myself shaking my head. I close my eyes. The soundtrack of Hunt for the Wilderpeople is a warbled mush in my ears, Nina Simone's Sinnerman sounding faint and too slow.

"Sebastian," Dad says. His voice isn't shaky. It's gruff. Angry. And maybe, just maybe, a little scared. "What is wrong with you?"

And that's what does it. Not "are you gay," but "what is wrong with you."

"You know what, Dad? You really want to know what's wrong with me?" I cross my arms and stand a little straighter, just to make it all the more obvious that I'm looking down my nose at him. And I hope he feels small when I say it, I really do. I hope he feels as tiny as I do right now in this moment, as miniscule and insignificant and wrong. But I hope he knows that he deserves it, because I know that I sure as hell don't.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

"I'm gay."

It feels as if the words tumble from my chest, sprawling across the floor in front of me. As soon as they're out, I want to take them back. But I can't. I wouldn't, even if it were possible.

No one says anything. In my peripheral vision, I can see Saanvi isn't even looking at me, she's just staring at the coffee table. Mom's eyes have gone wide, her lips parted in—what, surprise? Disappointment? Dad's expression doesn't change.

He's still angry. I should have figured.

"Get out," he says. He mimics my crossed arms. "Just, get out. Go for a walk or something. I don't want to see you right now."

"Joseph—" Mom starts, but Dad raises a hand and shakes his head.

"What, you don't want to see me?" My voice is so loud, it tears through my throat. It hurts. It hurts to shout like this. How does Dad do it so often? Practice? "What makes you think I want to see you?"

"I'll have your mother text you when you can come back," he says, suddenly at a normal volume, as if this gives him an advantage, "but for right now, I need you to get the fuck out of my house, because I can't bear to look at you. You're right, Seb. You're an adult now. Being here is a privilege, not a right."

My stomach feels like it's been spiked apart from the inside. "What?"

"You heard me," Dad says. "You can come back later, when we've decided what to do with you."

Panic rises in my chest. "'What to do with me?'" I echo. "What the fuck, Dad? You can't send me to conversion therapy or something. I'm eighteen. I'm on my own. Even Dartmouth is covered."

"Then all we have to offer you is a roof over your head, is that it? Is that all we are to you? People who are just here to clothe you and feed you and nothing else? Don't you care about how this will affect us? How we'd feel about this? You're just choosing to make our lives harder, when all we've done is been there for you."

"Dad, of course I care, but you—"

"Joseph—" Mom tries again.

"We'll let you know when you're invited back inside," Dad says. And it feels final. Because he's Dad.

But I'm mad. My insides are fizzing. I feel supercharged, vibrating so fast that I'm on the verge of shattering completely. "If you're going to kick me out," I tell him slowly, "then say it. Say the actual words. You don't want your gay son around? You can't bear to look at him? Then fucking do it, Dad."

He shakes his head. "I don't want you gone, Sebastian, but we need to work out where to go from here."

"No, Dad, but it feels like you do want me fucking gone." My throat is tight. Painful.

"Language." He points at me again. "I mean it."

"You know what, Dad?" I'm never going to have the courage to say this again. "You're a fucking coward. A fucking sheep of a coward."

"All right." His voice is booming again, that vein in his neck popping once more. Red. He's all red. "You think you're such hot shit? Then get out. Get your shit, and get the fuck out."

"Joseph!" Mom cries, but Dad turns and shouts something at her that I can't even make out. Kicked out. He's kicking me out. Somehow, I didn't see him actually doing it.

Holy shit. I can't believe this. My insides are squeezing tightly shut. So I do the only thing I can think of—I run upstairs to my bedroom, tuning out my dad's shouting downstairs, and grab my pre-packed suitcase. I didn't think I'd be leaving the house this soon, but you know what? Fucking fine. So be it.

Mom's mouth is still agape when I come downstairs. "Sebastian, honey," she tries. I stop and give her a pointed look, waiting for her to continue. Or even for Dad to cut her off. But he doesn't, and she doesn't dare go on. She's completely cowed, and I can't even feel bad for her anymore.

I grab my truck keys from the coffee table and walk towards the doors, shoving my feet into my sneakers, tugging the backs out. "Come on, Saanvi, let's go."

"Where do you think you're going with my truck?" Dad says.

I look back at him. "Your truck?" We both know I paid for that truck with years of filing papers for Dad's dental office, starting when I was fourteen. Sure, he helps out with the insurance payouts sometimes, but it's my truck.

"Whose name is on the title?" He crosses his arms. "Take it, and I call the police."

My heart sinks. Motherfucker. Fucking motherfucker. "Alright then, we'll just walk."

"Oh no," Dad says. "If Sahnvi wants a ride home, I'd be more than happy to give her one. In my truck."

Saanvi stands up from the couch, the blanket falling away and revealing her bunny pajama pants. It would be almost comical, if she didn't look so pissed off. "Okay, you know what, Mr. Krause?" she says. "You are a terrible father. And a disappointment to humanity."

She joins me by the front door, passing between my parents. Mom is crying, albeit quietly and minimally. "And you?" Saanvi says, and shakes her head. "I'm disappointed in you too, Mrs. Krause."

Mom doesn't wipe any of her tears away. Her expression is still unreadable. Conflicted, perhaps, if anything. "Sahnvi, I—"

"Don't apologize to me. Say it to Seb." Saanvi doesn't put her shoes on, just stoops down and grabs them.

She exits before me, and I give my parents one last hard look. "You don't have to bring a suitcase," Mom says weakly. A few thick tears roll down her cheeks. Is that remorse? Or just panic? "We just need some space to talk, just your dad and me. A couple of hours at most."

"Do you honestly think I want to be here right now?" I lift the suitcase over the threshold. "See you guys around." Just certainly not tonight.

Saanvi has her shoes on before I even shut the door behind me. When we start down the sidewalk towards her house, with me rolling my suitcase behind me, Saanvi in her bunny pajamas, I don't cry.

I don't look back, either.