Chapter 61: Ronan

It's nearly midnight when I arrive at the Docks, but the summer sun hasn't set yet, and the golden rays set the dark surface of the lake ablaze. It looks like oil on fire, and I swear I've never seen a more spectacular sight. This is one of those times I have to grudgingly admit that not even the Manhattan skyline compares with the raw beauty of Alaska.


I lean against one of the damp, algae-covered posts, hugging my arms across my chest to fend off the icy breeze. Droplets of water collect on my army jacket, carried in with the mist, and when the sunbeams hit the lake at the perfect angle, the fog-banks transform into a shimmering golden haze. For a few moments, I can't remember why I hate this camp so much, or why I was so determined to run away. It's hard to tear my eyes away from the bruise-purple skies and tumbling, wind-whipped mountainside. Even the thought of Clancey being found half-dead less than a week ago isn't enough to distract from the grandeur.


My reverie is broken by the sound of sneakers crunching across the pebble beach. Then, before I can spin around, the footsteps are followed by a carefree, "Hey, Chinos."


I try to fight the smile spreading across my face, but it's as futile as my battle against the chilling mist. "Hey, Pretty Boy."


Now I turn to face him. James is standing a few feet away, his hands shoved into his pockets and his broad face perfectly blank. As I stare at him, a small, hesitant smile creeps across his bronzed cheeks, like he's unsure how to deal with all the attention. It reminds me a little of Jesse, and how he would always return my gaze with questioning eyes, as if he could read all my intentions on my face.


Jesse. The very thought of his name makes my chest ache with three years of hurt. I wonder what he's doing right now. The idea of him making out with Margot, or doing something more than that, makes me want to throw up. I can't bear to consider what next year will be like when we're in high school again. If I have to witness their PDA in the hallway every day, I might have to drop out. And move to a different state. Or rinse my eyeballs out with acid.


"It's cold by the water," James remarks. "I thought it would be more pleasant at dusk."


"Yeah," I say. I'm only half-listening to him. A few of my nerves have escaped from their box and crawled out of the chasm, so I'm doing my best to bat them back into the hole. "Do you want my jacket?"


"How chivalrous."


"Well, do you?"


He smiles thinly. "I saw Becca Fisher wearing your sweatshirt the other day."


"Yeah, I let her borrow it at Jasper's birthday party."


"Do you give away articles of clothing often?"


I feel like I'm being trapped into a confession, but I'm not exactly sure how to escape. "Only when I'm trying to violate the camp dress code."


His grin widens with approval. "I don't think I'll ever forget the expression on Karen's face when she saw your 'kill em' all' shirt. She looked like she wanted to slap you back to New York."


"At least I wouldn't have to pay for airfare."


"And you wouldn't have to worry about all those dangerous hot-pink suitcases."


"You're never gonna let me forget that, are you?"


"Never."


"If only I'd let you believe I really was Ralph Macchio."


"Yeah, you could definitely pass as an Italian karate champion."


The smile fades slowly from my face. This is the only time James has brought up race around me, and it reminds me of how badly the odds are stacked against us. I learned the hard way from Jesse that "land of the free" only applies to a select few, and I'm sure the sight of a black boy and a half Asian-American boy would send half the conservatives in this country into catatonic shock. We're an impossibility. A mistake, like Jesse put it. And, as much as I enjoy breaking society's dumb rules, I'm not sure how I feel about breaking this one. When James kissed that boy at his private school, he got expelled. When I kissed Jesse, it destroyed our friendship. I can't imagine what will happen if I kiss James again. All I know is this: the way I feel about him scares me shitless.


"What are you thinking about?" James asks. It's such a perfectly timed question that I almost laugh. "You've got that expression on your face. The one that means trouble."


"This is the way my face usually looks."


"No, I think you're just always searching for trouble."


"Maybe trouble is always searching for me."


"Maybe."


I can tell the cold is bothering James more than it's bothering me, so I shuck off my army jacket and hand it to him. He looks slightly embarrassed by the gesture, like it's unseemly for an Alaskan to accept a jacket from a New Yorker; but he shrugs it on anyway. It's quite fitting on his broad shoulders.


"You look good in that jacket. Better than I do."


"That's not true."


"Yes, it is. You look like somebody I'd—"


I cut myself short at the sight of James' crooked smile. "You'd what?" he asks. "Go on, I'm eager to hear what you have to say."


"Do I really need to spell it out for you?"


He shakes his head at me. (The green fabric of the army jacket definitely brings out the copper in his eyes.) "If there was a competition for expressing emotions, you'd come in dead last."


"Sure, but if there was a contest to see who's best at living in denial, I'd win first place."


"Is that what you want, though? To live in denial?"


"I think I want to skip all this psychology shit and move on to the fun parts. Less making this all about me, and more making out with you."


"That was equally smooth and unhealthy."


"My two best characteristics."


James tugs at the zipper of my jacket, his gaze drifting away to the foggy mountains on the other side of the lake. "I'm worried about you, Ronan."


"You don't need to be worried."


"I can't help it. I see parts of you in me."


My eyebrows shoot up, and his face turns a Guinness World Records shade of red. "Jesus, Ronan, get your mind out of the gutter. You know that's not what I meant."


"Then what did you mean?" I ask wryly.


"I meant that—" He grimaces in anticipation of his next words. "I can relate to what you're going through, but at least my family knows I like boys."


"Whoa." I raise my hands in the air as if I can physically shove away the implications of his statement. "Uh... can we talk about something else?"


"No. I want to talk about this."


"Well, I don't. Let's change the subject."


"Not everything is about you, Ronan," he says, his voice laced with frustration. "Do you know how hard it is to go out with someone in the closest? This sucks for me just as much as it sucks for you."


"Uh, this doesn't suck for me. I enjoy being friends with you—"


"You see, that's exactly what I'm talking about. We're not friends. We stopped being friends the day you kissed me by the creek. Friends don't kiss each other, Ronan. There is absolutely nothing platonic about this."


"Then maybe I just want to be friends!"


"If you wanted to be friends, then why did you kiss me first?"


His question leaves me speechless, so I do something that doesn't require words: I pull him in by the sleeves of the army jacket, and press my lips against his.


For a moment, I'm positive he's going to step away and chide me for being so evasive, but instead, he responds to this kiss with the intensity of someone who hasn't been kissed in ages. It's nothing like kissing Jesse. This kiss is impatient and wanting: all I want is for James to shut up, and all he wants is for me to keep talking.


Fortunately, kissing him proves to be a good distraction.


I move my hand from his shoulders to his chest. He's surprisingly toned. I didn't take James for a person who enjoys working out, but I also don't know a lot of things about him. Maybe that's why I'm so alarmed by my feelings towards him. He's figured out so much about me, and I still can't get a read on him.


I just wanted to say I'm sorry.


I'm sorry that I didn't figure out what your kryptonite was until now.


I'm kissing James with a franticness that I've never kissed anyone with before. Not that there's much competition in that area— I only kissed a few people before Jesse. (There was nobody after him. No one else was enough.) The only thing I can compare it to is the first (and only) time I kissed a girl. She was pretty into me, and I was kissing her... like I wanted to be rid of her. I guess she mistook my agitation for passion, because she asked me out on a date the next day— and because I didn't have the heart to say the kiss meant nothing to me, I lied and told her I had mono.


(Not the proudest moment of my life, but luckily, we moved away a few weeks later.)


I'm not sure what I wanted from Jesse. I think I just wanted him. I'm definitely not sure what he wanted from me— a good time? an experiment? and I don't think I'll ever know for sure. Now, all he wants to do is forget.


Maybe it's for the best that he does. Because kisses like that... they're different. They're not just blips on the radar— they're big. They mean something. And I don't think either of us wanted to consider what possible somethings that kiss offered us.


My hands trail further down James' chest. I can feel the waistband of his jeans.


"Can I...?"


"Yes."


I don't know what I'm doing. I've never gone this far with someone before.


But James is far more confident than me, and he whispers against my lips, "It's okay, Ronan."


I wish I could believe. I really do.


It's much harder to unbutton a pair of pants that aren't your own. Much harder than I ever imagined it being. I'm so mortified by the idea of James having to help me that my fingers start shaking, but somehow I manage to get the button off anyway.


If you could hear my internal monologue right now, it would probably sound a lot like this: holy shit holy shit holy shit holy shit holy shit. Fortunately, the only thing James can hear is my breath quickening.


"Are you okay with this?"


"Absolutely."


I wish, I wish, I wish.


Carefully, I tug his zipper down, and he bites my lower lip.


I'm so aware of the position of my hands, hovering directly between his hipbones, and how they suddenly feel like useless blocks of lead. I'm so aware of my lack of experience and surplus of insecurity, and how my past and present are colliding together in a nuclear reactor of guilt and fear. I'm aware that the person I want isn't the person I'm kissing. And I'm aware that the person I'm kissing is totally oblivious to this fact.


I wish


I wish


I wish


I wish I was kissing Jesse instead.


James' mouth, which had been slowly working its way down my neck, abruptly pulls away. "What was that?"


"Hmm?"


"Who's Jesse?"


"Who?"


"You said a name. Jesse."


"No, I didn't."


James draws away. His face is firetruck red— not from the kiss, but from sheer embarrassment. "Would you rather be kissing Jesse?"


Yes. "I seriously don't know what you're talking about."


"So I'm going crazy, then? I'm hearing voices?" He runs a hand across his head, where his hair would be if he hadn't buzzed it off. "Wow. You really are untouchable."


"Look, James, I don't know what you're—"


"You're a good liar, Ronan, but I'm not stupid. I know what I heard. Who the hell is Jesse?"


I jerk my hands away from his waist like I've touched something hot. There's something stiff and tense about this moment that makes my stomach roll. "Please, James. I don't want to talk about it. Can't we just go back— go back to what we were doing before?"


"No. We can't go back. I want an explanation, and I want an apology."


Now I'm frustrated, too. I'm frustrated at myself, for slipping up like that, but also at James, for making such a big deal out of nothing. "This was just supposed to be fun. Don't make it something it's not."


"And what would be so wrong with that? It won't hurt you to get to know someone. It won't kill you to think about kissing someone as more than just fun."


"There's no way that this can ever be more than fun. I don't think you understand—"


"No, I think I get it. You haven't told your friends yet. Or your parents. It's scary, right? Well, don't get too worried— you're really not all that discreet. And it's not too hard to figure out you're gay."


I stare at him. He stares back.


"I'm not," I say, somewhat pathetically.


He snorts derisively. "Then that was the best straight kiss I've ever had."


I try not to cringe at the harsh tone of his words. This isn't playing with fire anymore. This is jumping, with reckless abandon, into a roaring wildfire. "I'm not," I insist.


"Then what are you, Ronan?"


I draw my chin back. "I don't need to explain myself to you."


He shakes his head at me. Somehow, that single motion is more brutal than a thousand insults combined. It's so knowing, so disappointed, that it cuts me straight to the bone. "I'm tired of playing your games," he says, more to himself than me. He tears off the army jacket and thrusts it against my chest. "I think we're done here, Ronan. At least, I know I'm done here."


But he holds my gaze for a moment longer. There's something scathing about it. Something understanding. I get the feeling that he's giving me a second chance to make things right— to prove that I'm not just another guy, living in denial.


Fuck second chances.


I turn my back on James and walk away.


There's something indescribably awkward about parting ways with the person you were, only moments ago, exchanging saliva with. James does me a favor and lingers behind so we don't have to walk back to camp together. Thank God. I can't imagine anything worse.


My cheeks burn like they're been set on fire as I head back to Beckarof Cabin, alone. There are too many feelings in my body right now. Frustration. Shame. Guilt. I hate feeling so many things at once. It drives me bat-shit insane.


I've had a lot of bad ideas in my life, but kissing James might take the cake. Ten minutes ago, I was putting my hand down his pants. Now I've ruined a friendship and I'm having a fucking existential crisis.


And to think Sabrina sent me to this camp to straighten me out!


When I get to Beckarof cabin, I throw the door open— taking vicious pleasure in the thud that the door makes when it hits the wall— and stomp inside, my feet slamming into each individual creaking floorboard. Two months ago, this sort of dramatic entrance would've made Finn flip out, but now he doesn't even flinch. He just glances up at me from his cot, sort of calm and sleepy, and then continues to flip through one of the camp library books.


"Nice hickey you got there," he remarks.


"Oh, fuck off."


I'd ask if this day could get any worse, but that would be a rhetorical question. "Where'd Becca go? I thought you guys were gonna get it on."


"We did not 'get it on', actually. She was tired, so I walked her back to her cabin, and that was it. Nothing else. We just hung out and talked and played another game of cards."


"Yawn."


"Did you just say yawn out loud?"


"Yeah. Sue me."


I slouch over to my cot and sit down. I consider attempting sleep, just to get this horrible night over with, but I get the feeling that exhaustion won't find me for a while. My veins are still humming with adrenaline and there are so many thoughts and memories buzzing around in my brain that I know even if I did manage to fall asleep (which I rarely ever can) I would only find a swarm of nightmares awaiting me. What would Sabrina say? a voice whispers. Fuck Sabrina, I reply back. The voice insists, But what would she say? What would she say if she could see you now? I snap, I don't care what she would say. She's not here, and she'll never know. About James or Jesse.


Idiot, the voice remarks. If a disembodied voice could roll its eyes, this one just did. Sabrina knows everything.


I ball my hand into a fist and imagine punching the wall, over and over and over again.


Finn asks, "Is this why you were so quiet at dinner? 'Cause you had a sexy date planned afterward?"


"Yes, Fish, with your mom. Now fuck the hell off."


But Finn seems extremely interested in my life right now, so I doubt that he's going to fuck the hell off like I politely asked him to. "Seriously, I'm curious. Who's the lucky girl?"


I make a loud, ugly, and highly unattractive snorting noise that I'm sure would give Sabrina a heart attack if she heard. "Girl!" I repeat, my voice an octave higher than usual.


"I take it that means it didn't go well."


So today is one of his observant days. "It was, in fact, a train-wreck."


"And who caused this derailment— you, or mystery girl?"


"Me. Per usual."


"What, did you use too much tongue or something?"


I give him a scandalized look. "It was not a mechanical issue. We just had... conflicting opinions on how the relationship should proceed. I wanted it to be casual. They wanted something more. We argued, and went our separate ways."


"Ooh, Ronan, do you have a girlfriend? Do you?"


This accusation is followed by an annoying little song involving my apparent having of a girlfriend, and I decide to humor Finn by letting him finish it out. Halfway through Finn's song, it strikes me that James is a name very similar to Jesse.


It also strikes me that instead of feeling more whole inside, I just feel emptier.


Finn concludes his song with a note so high that it's a miracle Hecate herself doesn't come charging into our cabin, and says, "Don't feel so down, man, I'm sure she'll come dashing back into your arms in no time. I mean, who could resist your richer-and-holier-than-thou charm?"


"I can think of a few people."


"Care to share names?"


"Hell no. I don't kiss and tell."


"The suspense is killing me...."


"I'll say something nice at your funeral. Now, forget about it. I'm not telling you who I met up with tonight, and I never will."


"I'm just curious. You don't have to go and bite my head off for being curious."


"There's a fine line between curiosity and nosiness, Fish. A line that you crossed miles and miles ago."


Finn looks at me from the corner of his eye. "You're upset," he says, as if this has just occurred to him. "What did this girl do to you?"


A few moments of silence pass. The room suddenly feels colder. And the air heavier. Like the realness of what I just did is finally starting to set in.


"I'm not upset. I'm just angry that I didn't see was going to happen before it did. It was so goddamn obvious, too. This camp— it warps your judgment, you know? I hate this place. I really do. I wish I was anywhere but here."


"Yeah," Finn says, a little more quiet and a little more serious than before. No matter how many times I call him oblivious, I can't deny that he's decent at reading people's moods, and I'm sure he can tell that I'm tired of joking around. If I wasn't so torn up right now, I'd appreciate his empathy. "But the thing is, the more you wish you were somewhere else, the more you feel stuck in the place that you already are."


"Does everything have to be entirely awful, all the time?"


"Only if you want it to be."


Maybe I do. Maybe awful is what I deserve.


Finn reaches under his pillow and pulls something out. Then he climbs out of bed and walks over to where I'm slouching and says, "Dude, you looked fucked up. Listen to some music with me. I promise there are no problems that rock music can't fix."


It's his contraband Walkman, the one I pretended to hate but secretly admired. I'm too messed up on the outside to pretend that I'm okay. And I'm too mixed up on the inside to disagree. "Sure," I say. My voice sounds like a sigh. "Do you have any Metallica?"


"No. But I do have the Kinks."


"That'll work."


Finn slumps down to the floor and rests his spine against the frame of the cot, then beckons me over. I go to sit by his side. He hands me an earplug. I take it. I slump down beside him and rest my chin in my hands, a childish gesture, but also strangely comforting. The cabin still feels cold, so I curl my knees up against my stomach too.


You're about as invincible as Gwen Stacy in the Spiderman comics. That's what Jesse once told me. Maybe he was onto something.


"You should really put a Band-aid on that," Finn says, pointing to my neck. "It's outlandish."


"How outlandish?"


"The kind of outlandish that will get you a private talk with the Director tomorrow."


I groan. Loudly. I don't need anything else to worry about right now. Especially not extremely outlandish hickeys. "Just play the fucking music, Fish."


He plays the fucking music.


I close my eyes and let myself slip away into the rhythm of an electric guitar. The Kinks sing, you're so insecure, you self destroyer, and it feels a bit like a personal attack.


I'm never kissing anyone ever again.


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