My reflection stares back at me, a look of pure disgust in the mirror.
I've tried on over five shirts, seven sweaters, two jackets, three pairs of pants, and the only thing I've decided on is my slimming black jeans. The rest I leave undecided because I'm terrible at making decisions, especially when half of the tops in my closet wear like a loose dress on me because of how thin I've become these past few years.
Worried about how much time I have left, I glance at my phone, which is playing Lady Gaga on shuffle, and the time blinks up at me – 2:55 PM – mocking me. "Yoü and I," is playing, and irony hits me like a train. If I didn't like him so much, then I wouldn't be stressing over what I'm going to wear. Yet I'm desperate to impress Gray's parents and show them that I can be a good boyfriend for him.
Perhaps there's another reason why I'm so nervous about the clothes I'm going to wear. It's a way to distract myself from the thought that I might be spending most of the night without them on.
When Gray asked me if I wanted to sleep over, a few thoughts ran through my head, and other parts of my body. It scared me, turning my stomach inside out. I've always viewed sex as a taboo subject, pushing it to the back of my mind. Not that I've been completely oblivious to sex my whole life. I knew I was gay before my mom died, and I know how sex works. I'm not sheltered or some shit like that. But I'm also not one of those kids that ever considered sex a topic of conversation. My mom, on the other hand, was unapologetically blasé about sex. We had the talk shortly before the accident. It was very comprehensive – covering every method of sex and position, as well as every STD and method of contraception. She insisted that our society intentionally perverted sex to dissuade people from having it. "Americans put violence and bloodshed on a pedestal but stick their noses up when a girl gets her period, shaming her into believing that her body is the true weapon of society." Even though she was an American herself, my mom retained much of the sophisticated superiority she inherited from living in France. My father promised her we would move to Paris again someday, once we had enough money to afford the risk of moving to a different country. If it hadn't been for my father, I doubt my mom would have ever returned to the United States. Yet she put love over her devotion to the City of Lights and I became her new place of solitude. "As long as I'm with you, I'm home," she would say. I was more than her latest inspiration. I was her home.
Despite my objection to her frank and frequent discussions of sex, it's probably one of the things I miss about her the most. She was the most honest person I knew. I could ask her anything and she would tell me the truth. My father sometimes feared that I was too knowledgeable in the ways of the world as a young child, but my mom refused to tell me lies for the sake of discretion. "He'll find out soon enough, anyway," she would say. If she was still here, I could count on her to give me an honest answer to the question I have right now.
"Am I ready?"
I promised her I would save myself for the right person. It wasn't a promise I made lightly. I truly want to wait for the right person. Maybe some of my mom's spiritual, down to Earth teachings of the energy and emotion that's transferred between sexual partners rubbed off on me. Gray and I've already formed such an unbreakable bond. I imagine sex would only make our connection stronger. Except, is now the right time for me?
Even though I wish she was here to tell me herself. I know what my mom would say:
"Only you can answer that question."
The song ends and I check the time. It reads 2:58 PM, and I panic, realizing I'm half-undressed and Gray's supposed to pick me up in two minutes. Hastily, I grab a pink long sleeve tee that hugs my thin figure and makes me look less frail than I actually am. It pairs well enough with my jeans, and will have to do. I reach down to tie my Converse and speak a silent prayer, begging that I make a positive impression at dinner tonight.
As I exit my bedroom, I grab my night bag, packed with everything I need (toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, pajamas, change of clothes, phone charger, and house key). In case my father actually gives a shit about my whereabouts, I left a note on the kitchen counter letting him know I'm staying over at a friend's house.
Just in time, Gray honks his truck's horn, saving me from thoughts of my father I don't want echoing in my head. I have no idea why he's honking his horn, considering we live right next to each other, but I choose not to question it. Instead, a giddy smirk overcomes me as I dart down the stairs, jumping off each one as I make my way out to the porch. I lock the front door before catching a glimpse of Gray's truck, which makes me screech hysterically. There, taped on the truck bed, is a cluster of rainbow balloons glistening in the afternoon sun. Gray's holding the passenger door open for me, wearing a white tee under a spiffy black leather jacket and tight blue jeans. His outfit sends me heart racing, and I can't help myself from running toward him, almost tackling him as he scoops me up into his arms. We embrace tightly, my thin legs wrapped around his waist. My head nuzzles into his collarbone and he stares into my eyes, his green eyes floating like two vibrant lily pads. Before I know it, his cotton candy lips are on mine, and I can feel the longing in his kiss, the hungry taste he takes that means he's missed me so much.
"You like the balloons?" He whispers softly in between kisses. I nod and fall back into his kiss, licking my tongue against his bottom lip. His whole body lights up with luminosity, the warmth seeping through to me. Gray gently sets me down on the ground and we funnel into the bench seat of his truck. Wispy white clouds hover over the beautiful ocean blue horizon as Gray pulls the truck into his driveway.
Without warning, his parents barrel out the front door, smiles on their faces while Tessa scurries up behind them, jumping up on my lap like the outrageous goof she is.
Gray's parents introduce themselves. Gray's dad welcomes me with a big hug, and I bite back a tear over his generosity. It's been so long since I've felt the delicate embrace of a parent, and holding onto Gray's dad is like stepping back in time. As we pull apart, I notice Gray's mom remains rigid and a bit apprehensive. She doesn't move to embrace me, but I shake it off as we move toward the kitchen. The smell of pork chops permeates through the entryway and into my nostrils the moment I step inside. The thought of eating a home-cooked meal fills me with joy, reminded of the times my parents would cook delicious and exciting dinners. We would sit together at the dining room table and indulge in a scrumptious meal of stir-fry or mouthwatering fried chicken.
My heart starts to race and I begin to sweat, but before I know it, Gray's holding my hand and directing me to the dining room, calming my nervousness of being somewhere so unfamiliar.
I sit down next to Gray, across from his parents, a plate of thick breaded pork chops in the center of the table with a variety of sides surrounding it.
"Help yourself, Paris! We have pork chops, mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, veggie casserole. Take whatever you'd like."
I smile and thank Gray's parents for making such hot, yummy dishes. Gray's lucky to have parents who are loving and accepting; open enough to invite their son's boyfriend to a restaurant-quality buffet. Without restraint, I grab a plateful of everything. By the first bite, I'm in heaven, all the tangy and salty tastes mingling together to form a mesmerizing array of splendid flavors.
Throughout dinner, a variety of topics come into conversation. Gray's parents tell me embarrassing stories about his toddler years, like how he used to sit on top of Tessa and travel around their New York apartment, calling her his little "steam engine," or how one-time Gray told his Aunt Harriet that she looked like an Oompa Loompa and smelled like his parent's liquor cabinet.
We laugh and smile and chat for hours, losing track of time as I recount stories about my mom and her affinity for tarot card readings and painting. I tell them about the one time I squirted a bottle of red paint all over her easel and she laughed so much she started to cry. That memory gets me a little teary-eyed, and I witness a slight change in Gray's mom's demeanor after it's over. Her shoulders relax and she sheds a few years of her own. Without any warning, I feel her hand reaching across the dinner table to take mine. I grab hold of it and we squeeze onto each other for a moment.
After dinner, I help clean up. Gray and I wash the dishes while his parents dry, and Gray purposely splashes me with soapy water, and I splash him back. Our little conflict turns into a soap fight frenzy, which leads to me almost slipping on the wet tile.
"Maybe your mom and I should take over dishes duty," Gray's dad jokes, shooing us out of the kitchen, laughing at our playful and carefree nature. It feels fantastic to be open like this, to be gay and not have to worry about what other people think about us. Gray's parents don't even bat their eyes when Gray gives me a quick little peck, although I think I can hear his mom clapping, even though her hands are underwater.
Gray shows me to his room, and I set my night bag down on the floor. I'm amazed by how nice his room looks. His big queen bed sits in the center and there's a cute windowsill with a pillow and blankets, presumably where I'll be sleeping tonight. A nice large flat screen TV sits across from his bed and a variety of DVDs rest in the cabinets the TV is propped onto.
Before I know it, Gray's playing music from surround sound Bluetooth speakers resting on his nightstands. I don't recognize the song, but Gray smiles at me, mouthing the words of the country melody right to me, and I'm surprised to hear his chilling baritone ring through my ears as he belts, "You're Music To My Eyes." I had no idea Gray could sing, but now it makes me want to hear him sing a million melodies for all eternity. After the song plays for a little, and he realizes I don't know the song, he pauses it.
"Have you not seen A Star is Born?"
I bite my lip in apprehension when he asks me this, recalling all the kids at school last year who praised Lady Gaga's acting abilities. I absolutely love Lady Gaga, but I was never in the mood to even watch the trailer. I never listened to the soundtrack either.
"I can't believe it!" He exclaims, and I realize my answer is pretty obvious, even if I didn't say anything.
"We have to watch it! If you love Lady Gaga, you'll love the movie."
Suddenly, the music is playing again and Gray grabs my hand. Next thing I know he's twirling me around in the shadow of the windowsill, Lady Gaga's groundbreaking vocals mingling magnificently with Bradley Cooper.
"I don't know. Doesn't one of them die at the end?" I ask apprehensively, not looking forward to watching a sad movie and sobbing through the end credits.
"Yeah, but she belts her heart out and you know she'll always love him, even if he's gone."
I roll my eyes at his soft, sentimental attitude while resting my head on his shoulders, swaying with him back and forth, even though the song ended minutes ago.
"Except she'll probably meet someone else and fall in love in a year or so, and they'll make a sequel about how she's moved on and everything's amazing again."
"That's the whole point of the end song. It's literally called, 'I'll Never Love Again.'"
"Never say never," I respond cynically.
"I don't think I could ever love someone as much as I love you, Paris."
"You're just saying that," I mumble, not really believing I could be so exclusive to a boy's heart. What's so special about me?
"I mean it! You're the best boyfriend a guy could ever ask for. Do you think you could ever love again if anything happened to one of us?"
We stop swaying, and I stand there for a moment, debating my answer, before realizing I've known it all along.
"You're the only guy I'll ever love."