Date: Fri, 1 Jan 2021 16:19:16 -0800
From: Tucker Way <tuckerwaynow@gmail.com>
Subject: Billy Returns for Christmas, Chapter 6

Disclaimers:

This story is fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or living persons
is a coincidence. Do not read this story if it is illegal to do so in your
country or because of your age.

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Chapter 6

Wednesday passed, and then it was Thursday, the day of Christmas Eve. Will
felt no better than on the days before. He was sad. He was down. He went
through the motions, even with young Henry, unable to lift himself out of
the gloom. Time went by, but there was no real joy. Will was grateful that
there was little to do at work, grateful that he'd been allowed to do
paperwork from home, but he could not concentrate for much longer than a
few minutes. Then his mind would go blank, and the chill would assert
itself in his heart.

It was a chill that had spread through his whole body, had descended down
to his very genitals. They did not stir or bother him at all, and he barely
noticed. What energy he had was spent caring for Henry. Feeding him,
changing him, setting him on a blanket on the floor and attempting to amuse
him until he was tired out again. There was a small comfort in routine, but
when it was broken, Will's anxiety got the best of him.

He and Angela had always been light shoppers when it came to groceries. She
might do a light shop two or three times a week, and then she would call
and have him pick up whatever else was needed on his way home from
work. Will had not thought of these things when Angela left, and so it came
as a surprise to find his refrigerator and cupboards rather bare, to find
that he was low on formula for the baby.

The thought of bundling up Henry, carrying him down to the car and stepping
out to grocery shop on Christmas Eve day filled Will with doubt. He did not
feel up to it. He didn't know what to buy, exactly. He couldn't face the
crowds. Why, he asked himself, hadn't he thought of these things before?
Why was he so stupid? He started to cry, and he really let the tears flow.

Half an hour into Will's cry, his phone rang. He knew it was his mother
before even looking at the screen.

"Honey, how are you?" she said, when he answered.

"Not good," Will said.

His tear soaked voice did not escape Amy.

"What's wrong?"

"I have to buy food, and formula for Henry, but I don't want to go out. I
can't believe I didn't think of it before."

"Will, calm down. There is an easy fix for this."

"You'll come?"

"I can't, sweetheart. I have too much to do for dinner tonight, and
preparations for tomorrow, too. But I have plenty of formula here, and
there will be leftovers to take home. Do you have enough to tide you over
until tonight?"

"I think so," Will said, sniffling.

"Then there is no need to worry. Dinner is at six."

"Okay," Will said.

"Your father and I are looking forward to seeing you both."

"Me too," Will said.

"See you then!"

Amy promptly hung up. For a while, Will felt comforted, but when the time
came for him to get ready for Christmas Eve dinner he found that he
couldn't make himself do it. The thought of facing his father, of facing
Malcolm and Therese, paralyzed him. He knew he was a weak person, had acted
weakly through most of his life, but seeing it in his father's and
brother's eyes was just too much to bear after Angela had deserted him.

At a quarter past six, his phone rang. He turned it off. A while later, he
settled Henry and fed him the last of the formula. Then he went to bed,
somehow exhausted, though he hadn't done much of anything the whole day. He
planned to sleep as long as Henry would let him.


A banging at the door. Rough, persistent knocks. Henry had been
merciful. It was 9 o'clock in the morning and the child hadn't stirred. But
whoever was at the door was not so courteous. Will, in his groggy, still
half asleep state, tried to figure out who it could be.

His mother? No, she had a key and she would not have wasted time with
knocking. His father? He hoped not. Malcolm? Someone from work? Maybe there
was a fire?

Will hopped up, went to the door and looked through the peep hole. His body
stiffened and his anxiety flared when he saw that it was his father, the
last person, besides Malcolm, maybe, that he wanted to see. From outside,
his father's voice boomed: WILL! The whole building was probably on edge
after that, and there was no choice but to open the door.

Inside, his father gave Will a stern once over with his eyes.

"You look like hell," he said.

Shocked out of the depressed reverie he'd been mired in for the past few
days, Will drew himself up, stood straighter and managed to look
embarrassed.

"I'm sorry," Will said.

"Nothing to be sorry about, son. But your mother sent me to bring you and
Henry home for Christmas, and I intend do it. You have no idea what a pain
in the ass that woman was last night when she couldn't reach you. I had to
stop her ten times almost from coming over here. But I figured you just
wanted to be alone after... well, you know."

Will looked down at the ground. He wished he could melt into a
puddle. Anything to avoid his father's disapproving glance. He felt like a
huge failure.

"Son, we need to talk," Mark Goodsen said.

"About what?"

"About what happened. I should have spoken sooner, I just thought... shit,
I guess I just didn't know what to say."

"It's not your fault," Will said.

"And it's not your fault either, son. That's what I've been wanting to tell
you. I know you did your best for Angela. I know you will do your best for
Henry."

"You're not mad?"

"No! Never! I've suspected for a long time that Angela wasn't
happy. Especially lately. She's been icy."

"It wasn't her fault," Will said.

"Then whose is it? Yours? I don't believe that, son. Not for a minute. A
woman who would leave a young child like that has problems that go way
beyond an unhappy marriage."

"I cheated."

It felt so good to say it. It felt so good to have it out in the
open. Will's father stared at him in disbelief.

"That doesn't sound like you."

Will felt he had already said too much. He stayed silent.

"Son, I have to ask you something. It's not easy for me, but I have to ask
or it's going to drive me nuts."

Again, Will said nothing, but he was suddenly shivering with fear. His
father, a big man who had grown broader with the years, hesitated. He did
not want to hurt his son. On the other hand, he felt like he was finally
ready to hear the truth of what he had long suspected.

"Was the person you cheated with a man or a woman?" Mark said, in a firm
voice.

Will started to cry. Mark had his answer. He moved to face Will, gently
lifted up his chin and looked him in the eyes.

"It's going to be alright," Mark said.

"How can it be? I'm such a loser."

"No. You've always been a good person. I guess I haven't told you that
enough times. I'm not good with emotional stuff. But I've known for a long
time that you were different. Since you were a boy. I was very surprised
when you got involved with Angela."

"So you thought I was gay my whole life?"

"No, son, that's not what I'm saying," Mark said. "But I considered it. I
think we all did. I just didn't know what to do about it. I let it slide. I
was always taught that it was so wrong when I was growing up. Everyone was,
back then. It's only in the last few years that I've started to question
all of that. Things are so different in the world now! And I'm different. I
guess you could say I've broadened my perspective."

"I don't want to be gay," Will said, in a broken voice. "I want you to be
proud of me, not ashamed."

"Son, I am proud of you. I love you no matter what."

"Don't tell Mom!" Will said, with sudden panic in his moist eyes. "Or
Malcolm!"

"It's your life and you have to make your own choices, Will. I know
that. But I hope some day you will be comfortable enough to tell them. They
both love you dearly."

"I never thought I would tell anyone. Especially not you. I never even
admitted it to myself."

"I'm glad you did. It was time for this to come out."

"But what now?"

"Now, it's well past 9 o'clock and your mother is probably angry and
worried. I suggest you get your ass in gear."

"I have to wake Henry first."

"I'll do that. You just take care of yourself."

Will gave his father a doubtful look.

"He might need changing."

"I've done it before," Mark said. "Give me some credit, son."

Will moved toward his father and gave him a hug. It was years since they'd
been so intimate with each other. Mark was responsive, for a while, and
then he released his son.

"Better hurry up."

With that, Mark went into Henry's room. To his surprise, the child was
awake and his little kitten's eyes latched immediately onto Mark's dark
ones.

"Smells pretty ripe in here, kid," the big man said.

But he was up for the challenge. When Henry was changed, Mark went into the
kitchen, warmed the bottle and formula he had brought, even tested it for
the right temperature on his wrist. Then he went and fed the child, and
then fished through a few drawers and found a white onesie. When Henry was
dressed, he still stared raptly at his grandfather, and his gaze didn't
shift away. Mark set him back in his crib, then closed the door to his
room.

"Who's a big boy? Who's a big boy, in that little crib?" he said, in a
silly voice.

He gently poked Henry on his belly. A smile lit up Henry's little face.

"Who's a big boy?"

Another tender little poke, and Henry gave his first little laugh. Will
stormed into the room.

"What's going on in here?" he said.

"Nothing, son. Just getting the boy ready for his first Christmas."

Will lifted Henry up, but the boy's eyes fixed on Mark whenever he came
into viewing range. Henry smiled every time their eyes met.


The place was bustling when Mark, Billy and Henry arrived. Amy was in and
out, back and forth, like some buzzing insect, arranging decorations,
checking the turkey, peeling potatoes, whatever needed to be done. Will set
the presents Angela had bought under the huge, bright tree, and took it all
in. The table, pulled extra long for the holiday, with extension leaf in
place, was set with the exquisite care for which Amy was known. It was
covered with a thick, forest green cloth, and each dish, and there were
many of them, was in its exact place, topped with red cloth napkins in the
form of origami turkeys. She had broken out her good china, pure white with
silver rims, and her best silver, which was polished and sparkling.

Great crystal bowls with silver ewers waited for chilled beverages, and
smaller ones waited for side dishes. The centerpiece, to be removed when
the turkey was served, was a simple arrangement of fresh evergreens, lit
with the scarlet berries of holly. Amidst the winter branches were set pots
of paperwhite narcissus, cold and white, their cloying scent softened by
the delicious aromas wafting in from the kitchen. Huge, glittering gold
candles were everywhere. Their flames danced madly whenever Amy swept
past. But she had no time to be pleased with the perfection of it
all. Perfection was something she simply expected of herself. She fussed
over every detail, an unquenchable bundle of energy, and she soon assigned
Mark to turkey duty, and Will to potato peeling so that she could go
upstairs and dress.

Malcolm, Therese and their three children arrived in the meantime, and
they, too pitched in, the children with their loud, merry voices, Malcolm
taking over the peeling, and Will and Therese cutting up fresh vegetables
for hors d'oeuvres. Other people began to trickle in. Aunts, uncles,
cousins from both sides of the family, and a few unrelated family
friends. Finally, Amy made her entrance. She swept down the stairs like a
true grande dame, in a dress made of heavy velvet, deep green to match many
of the decorations she had put up. A little blonde poof, finely crafted
with a curling iron, crowned her forehead. She greeted each guest in
turn. She directed everyone to the tree, where they could deposit their
gifts, then got back to work.

The hors d'oeuvres were served first, vegetable platters with special
dipping sauces, a huge platter of tiger prawns with cocktail sauce, black
and green olives and fancy crackers with smoked salmon dip. Bottles of
sparkling cider, cherry juice, and punch were poured, finally, into the
waiting crystal bowls, and a few bottles of wine were discreetly
uncorked. Mark and Malcolm went to the garage and returned with bottles of
beer, a circumstance Amy noted with brief disapproval.

The guests nibbled and drank, while the family put the finishing touches on
the meal. In the midst of all this, Therese was the first to express
sympathy for Will. He accepted it, but didn't have much to say on the
matter. Christmas, he felt, was not the time to discuss sad things. Amy
came in and badgered them to hurry it along.

Salads were pulled from the refrigerator, set into bowls, with serving
spoons of just the proper size, and carried out. The potatoes were mashed
by Amy, in a final effort to locate and destroy lumps, and the turnips and
carrots with cream, too. Amy's green bean casserole was next, then great
pans of seasoned stuffing were pulled from the oven and set into bowls for
the table. Amy tested the turkey, deemed it perfect, and then set Mark to
carving it.

But one thing remained, small but important. The gravy. Amy separated the
brothy juices left by the roasted bird from most of the liquid fat, and
placed them into a very large sauce pan. She mixed up a good slurry of
flour and broth, then folded it gently into the main pan. Salt, pepper,
boiling and simmering, then into sauce dishes with ladles, to be
distributed strategically across the table. The gravy was served.

Finally, with Malcolm's help, the centerpiece was removed, and then Mark
carried in the turkey, an extremely large one, and Amy brought in a cold,
honey baked ham and then some rolls. Everything was on the table. Amy
judged nothing to be amiss. She seated herself, to join the others, and
then Mark started the prayer. It was short and to the point, as Mark's
prayers always were, and then the feasting began. Turkey and ham were
forked onto the plates, then the chosen sides were dished with spoons and
the gravy was ladled generously. Amy made sure every glass was full, and
then she made an impromptu toast.

"To friends and family," she cried, triumphantly. "May your hearts and
souls be filled with love and happiness this holiday season, and in the new
year to come. Bless you all!"

"Here, here!" came the responses.

Raised glasses clinked together, and then everyone got down to it. They ate
with gusto, down to the last person, and even Will had his share. He was
feeling better, but new pangs of apprehension were darting through him. His
father now knew his secret. His father, despite what he had said, would
expect him to take action, and that meant telling the rest of his
family. Will just wasn't ready for that. He wasn't sure he would ever be
ready. It would be so much easier to let sleeping dogs lie. It would be so
much easier to remain in a state of peace, of comfort, rather than
disrupting more lives. For he knew that Amy and Malcolm were unlikely to be
as accepting as his father.

When the meal was finished, Amy again recruited her family. Dishes were
brought back to the kitchen, scraped off, set into a sink full of suds
along with the silver. Much food was laid up in Tupperware containers, some
set aside for the family, and some meant to go home with the guests. When
all was settled to Amy's satisfaction, she turned her attention to the
presents. In the living room, before the enormous, sparkly tree, she
announced it was time to open them. The guests crowded in. Amy dug through
the pile of gifts, handing a present to each visitor, to start things
off. Then she ran back to the kitchen and grabbed a couple of Hefty bags.

An uproar from the living room, the buzz of many voices, the noise of paper
being torn, and then she returned to watch the rest of the presents being
unwrapped. The children went first and they were like maniacs. Amy set
about collecting up the mess and stuffing it into her Hefty bags. Then came
the adults, and they were a little tidier, especially the women. Will
approached her, handed her a gift, but she insisted upon opening it
later. Instead she wanted to watch him open his gift.

Though scarcely in the mood, Will obliged her. The gift she had chosen, and
he should have known it, was a new, leather bound bible. Amy could scarcely
have guessed how it would affect her son, could scarcely have anticipated
the new circumstances of his life when he opened it. Will faked a smile,
hugged his mother, and then she was off again, leaving Will to wallow in
thoughts of religious failure, thoughts his mother was sure to experience
herself when she learned of Will's secret.

Tired out by the crowd, Will went upstairs with Henry and sat down for a
while and rocked him. Henry was silent but fidgety, but Will still managed
to rest his eyes for a few moments. The doorbell rang, and then there was a
rush of voices, loud and merry. Will wondered who it could be, but just for
a brief moment, because he really didn't care. And then one voice, clear
and powerful, rose up above the others.

"Ho ho ho!" it cried, "Merry Christmas!"

Will stood, quite abruptly. He scampered down the stairs just as fast as
his feet would take him, unmindful of the baby in his arms, scampered into
the living room, and there he was, the tallest Santa Will had ever seen. He
moved closer, Henry clutched in his arms, then passed the child to his
father, who was in his path. He edged closer, ever closer, to where Santa
was passing out gifts to the children from his bright red sack. Will saw
Jimmy Engels. He saw Jimmy's parents, old friends of the family, and then
he knew. He knew. But it didn't prepare him for the moment when Santa
turned and looked down, with laser like precision, into his eyes.

Will heard angels singing, suddenly, and the room began to spin, to jump
all over the place. He sighed and wobbled, and then went down. Will had
fainted.


Tap tap tap, tap tap tap, like the pitter patter of tiny feet, and Billy's
eyelids fluttered open. He was on the floor, surrounded by people, and Amy
was gently smacking his cheek with just the ends of her fingers.

"Are you okay, sweetheart?" she said.

"I think so," Will said.

He tried to get up, made it to his feet, and then wobbled over
again. Before he could fall all the way, Amy tried to grab him, but her
tiny body was not enough. Santa swooped down, easily scooped Will into his
arms, and asked Amy where she wanted him. She led the way. Santa carried
Will up the stairs again. At Amy's direction, he gently laid the young man,
trembling with arousal, down on a bed, in the room that was once Will's but
now served as a guest bedroom.

"You scared the dickens out of me!" Amy said, looking at Will. "Do you feel
alright?"

"I feel better," Will said.

She turned to Santa, who she knew was really John Engels, though she hadn't
seen him in many years.

"Would you mind running down and fetching a glass of water?" she said.

John didn't mind. He lad long legs and a long stride, and he was back in no
time with the water. Will sipped at it, but his eyes never left John's. His
face was pale but there were flames at his cheeks, flames of deep rosy
red. Amy was frightened.

"Honey, you look flushed!" she said. "Maybe we should call a doctor?"

"No, Mom, I'm okay. Honest. I guess I just had one glass of wine too many."

It was a lie, but Amy had no way of knowing that.

"Will! How could you?" she said.

A sudden noise from downstairs, a crash, the sound of shattering glass. Amy
clutched at her heart. She was thinking of her crystal punch bowls, bowls
that were long out of fashion and no longer worth much money, but to Amy
they were treasures.

"Oh my!" she said, with a look of panic in her little blue eyes.

She looked at John for a moment with indecision, with suspicion, even, but
then her expression grew firm with resolve.

"I must go and see what has happened," she said. "Would you mind looking
after Will for a few minutes?"

John had no objections. When she had left, he stared hard into Will's eyes.

"You gave us a scare."

His voice was very deep but clear, not rumbling. Will just stared at
him. His cheeks grew brighter and hotter.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yeah," Will said, in a voice that was a little too breathy. "The other
day, at the gym... you picked me up when I fell, too."

"Happy to help."

"But in the locker room--"

Will hesitated. His face flushed a deeper color.

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that," John said. "You seemed uncomfortable."

"No, I'm sorry," Will said. "I shouldn't have been looking at your penis. I
know you saw me."

"I didn't mind," John said, in a lower voice.

He winked at Will, whose eyes sparkled in wonder.

"Are you gay?"

"Well, yes. I thought everyone knew that."

"I think I am, too," Will said.

"I got that feeling. You were staring pretty hard. And you were bright red,
just like you are now. But what about your wife?"

"She left me. And Henry, too. She's gone."

"She seemed pretty stressed when I met her," John said.

In his hazed arousal, Will lost his filter. He felt defenseless, powerless
to hide even what was only inside of his mind when he looked into John's
eyes.

"You have a really big penis," he sighed.

"I'm no slouch," John agreed. "Did you like what you saw?"

"Oh, yes," Will said. "Mine is so small. It's embarrassing."

John arched his brow and a wide smile formed on his face.

"We'll have to introduce them to each other some time," he said.

"You don't care that I have a small penis? I mean, it's really tiny."

"Trust me, I don't mind. I think it's hot."

"Oh, God," Will said.

His heart was fluttering. His small penis was throbbing. His whole body
felt enveloped in warmth, in sensuality. John's dark, lively eyes, peering
through the cottony fuzz of his fake Santa hair and beard, bored into
him. The big man bent down, moved in on Will's little face, his parted
lips. Never before, not even with the other Santa, had Will been kissed by
another man. When it came it was at first gentle, and then John's tongue
darted forward, speared into Will's receptive mouth, and started tangling
with Will's tongue. The big man pulled back, his hard stare pinning Will
down through his eyes, and then John came forward again, his tongue
exploding into Will's mouth and moving forcefully within it.

Will was lost in it. Unlike before, with the other Santa, he was completely
present for what was happening, both mentally and physically. His mind
didn't wander off to some other world. Yet he was lost in Santa, or rather,
lost in John, his mouth invaded, happily accepting the invasion, and there
was nothing else but he and John, their intense intimacy, the poised
moments that kept going, one second better than the last, a steady but
building force, and his chest burned, his little heart burned with desire,
and the warmth spread, and suddenly Will was gasping, moaning around John's
insistent tongue, and he was ejaculating into his underwear.

He tried pull away. Everything was too intense. It wasn't normal to cum
from a kiss, to spontaneously explode, but John did not let up, not for a
long while. When John finally pulled away, Will looked down ruefully at the
front of his pants, where a small wet stain was spreading.

"Oh my God," he said.

"My turn, next," John said. "But not here. I want you all to myself."

"I can't believe that happened," Will said, looking with horror at the wet
spot.

"I can," John said.

"It's embarrassing!"

"Why? You were heated up and you popped your cork. Big deal."

"But--"

"But nothing. Did it feel good?"

"So good."

"Did it feel natural?"

"Yes."

"Then what's the problem?"

"I just feel like a horny teenager."

"What's wrong with that? Look, Will, these things don't always go by the
book. Am I bothered? Not at all. I found it incredibly hot. Check it out!"

John stood up, pointed below. An obscenely large bulge tented out the front
of his bright red Santa pants. It looked like someone had stuffed Amy's
honey-baked ham down there.

"It doesn't get that way for just anyone," John said, with a raised
eyebrow.

"Can I touch it? Please?"

All caution long thrown to the wind, John stepped forward. Will's small,
trembling hands met the hard monstrosity within the big man's red trousers,
and touched it all over. Will couldn't grasp it. Not with his mind, not
with his hands. It was unfathomably large. Where it started, where it
ended, Will didn't know, couldn't comprehend, but everywhere he touched was
hot and firm. He wanted to see it, wanted to be face to face with it, to
meet its full force head on. Desperately, Will grabbed at it, grabbed at
the fuzzy red trousers, would have pulled them down, would have stuffed the
monster into his mouth, and then there was the voice, the roar of a manly
voice.

"WHAT THE FUCK?"

Santa, John, was being pulled away, and then there was a flash of motion,
the sound of a fist crashing against bone, blood spraying onto the white
beard, red running over white, trickling down from a busted lip. Malcolm
had struck. Malcolm was still angry. He stood glaring at John, shaking with
fury. His fist lashed out again, and John caught it mid punch.

"One is all you get," the bigger man said.

There was threat in his voice. There was threat in his dark eyes. He
towered above Malcolm and would give no ground.

"Get the fuck out of here!" Malcolm roared. "Fucking faggot! Get the fuck
out and don't ever come back!"

"Calm down," John said.

"Don't tell me what to do! This is my fucking house! That's my brother! Get
the fuck out before I kill you!"

A small crowd had gathered, a crowd of men, both inside and outside the
bedroom. Mark was there. Jimmy Engels was there. John saw hostile eyes,
unforgiving, unforgetting eyes. Suddenly the past, the full weight of it,
was upon him. He stared defiantly, dangerously right back at them. But he
knew he was in a bad position.

"I think it's best that you leave," said Mark.

He moved forward, not with aggression, but certainly without fear. Jimmy
came to John, and the big man allowed himself to be led from the room, and
then out of the house. On their way back to their parents' house, only a
few blocks away, Jimmy asked him what had happened.

"I fucked up," John said.

"With Will? His wife just left him! He's not even gay!"

"It just happened."

Jimmy shook his head. When they reached the house, John got in his car,
Santa suit and all, and took off. At his hotel, he was still shivering with
rage, a rage that nothing but the ugly remembrance of an ugly past could
have elicited.


In Will's former bedroom, Mark cleared everyone out. The men knew something
had happened, and they had their suspicions on what it was, due to John's
involvement, but there were only a few of them, and they kept their mouths
shut. It was enough that John was gone and Will was safe. But that wasn't
enough for Malcolm. He was still stormy, and he turned his anger on Will,
who was still on the bed, suddenly too weak to act. They were alone.

"Look at you!" Malcolm said. "How could you let this happen?"

He stared directly at the wet spot at the front of Will's pants.

"Clean yourself up, and pull out your shirt. At least Mom should be spared
from seeing that."

Will merely cowered on the bed, and started crying. But Malcolm wasn't
finished with him.

"Are you a faggot now? Is that why Angela left you? For God's sake, think
of Mom! This would kill her. Where's your respect?"

"I didn't mean for it to happen!" Will squeaked.

"Bull shit! I saw what you were doing. It was fucking disgusting. So, tell
me straight, are you a faggot now?"

"No!" Will screeched. "I made a mistake!"

"Then don't do stuff like that! I nearly had a heart attack! Mom sent me up
to look after you. I wasn't expecting to see that. And with John! You knew
he was a faggot and yet you let him in here!"

"I didn't know! Mom said it was alright!"

"Don't bullshit me. Everyone knows about him. Why he dropped out and left
so suddenly. Why he didn't come back all those years."

"I swear I didn't know."

"Well, you do now. Stay away from him! Get right with God. Make things work
with your wife instead of just giving up and falling into the hands of a
faggot predator!"

"I will," he said. "I don't know what happened to me."

Malcolm became misty eyed, quite suddenly.

"You're my little brother," he said. "I will always protect you. But don't
ever give me a scare like that again."

Later, Will's father drove Will and Henry back to their apartment. Amy
stayed back, still cleaning up and mourning the loss of one of her crystal
punch bowls, unaware that something even more momentous had occurred in her
home that day. It was a silent trip. Mark had his suspicions of what had
happened between Will and John. He knew too much about Will now, and too
much about John, to misinterpret the situation. But when he tried to bring
it up with Will, the young man simply turned away and didn't answer.

They made several trips from the car to the apartment, for there were many
gifts to bring up, and lots of leftovers. Amy had also sent a box with
formula and diapers in it, so Will was set. But he looked miserable and
felt miserable. When his father tried to bring up the incident with John
again, Will stopped him.

"I don't want to talk about it. I made a mistake."

"But Will, we all make mistakes. You moved too fast. Or maybe John did, I
don't know. And you were indiscreet. But every man I know has been guilty
of these things at one time or another. I just don't want you to give up."

Will burst into tears, and that stopped Mark. He pulled his shivering son
into a hug, and said nothing more.


At his hotel, hours later, John had cooled down a bit. He kept thinking of
Will, of how cute, how sweet he was, just starting his journey. The young
man was not John's type. Far from it, in fact. Yet there was something
about him that drew John like a moth to a flame. After much consideration,
he was able to pinpoint the cause. Will made him feel like few men ever
had. Will made him feel tender. And that was something worth pursuing, even
in the face of disaster.

So he called, and he didn't get an answer, and then he called again, and
did get one. Will, sounding teary and hurt, picked up the phone and said,
'hello.'

"Hey, buddy, you alright?" John said.

"I'm fine."

"You don't sound fine."

"Well I am. And I've decided I am not gay. I can't be."

"We both know that isn't true," John said.

"It is! I'm sorry I led you on. It was a mistake."

"Will--"

"NO! Did you hear me? I'm not gay! And please don't call me again!"

The line went dead. John tossed his phone away. He had been eyeing an empty
space in his hotel room for hours, a blank white wall. He balled his fist
and punched right through it, leaving a big, powdery hole. The pain in his
hand was satisfying, as was the blood that leaked from his knuckles. But it
really didn't help. It had all been a big mistake, trying to fit himself
back into the small town that was merely part of his past, trying to make
amends with his family and those he had left behind, so long ago. His life,
and it was a big one, was in the city. A mere two hours away, but a
different world. One where he fit in. One where the heavy, unjust weight of
the past did not crush him.