Talker

men from reaching into his jeans and getting more
    personal than just necking at a party.
    The first time someone had tried it, he’d experienced a jolt of
    actual shame. It had felt disloyal to Tate. The last time he’d gone to
    a party with Virginia, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to even
    kiss another man—and he’d been right. He and his chosen target
    had ended up drinking tequila al night long, and Brian’s only
    memory of the night was of spil ing out his painful, bleeding love for
    his roommate on the table in front of a total stranger.
    Which was the reason it was his last party, really. And the next
    morning had been a revelation to itself.

    “WHY don’t you tel him?” Virginia had asked the next morning as
    she nursed him through a hangover.
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    “I did. I told him that I loved him.” He’d had to. It had been
    necessary. Tate had been getting ready for work, absolutely
    gushing about the cute customer that Tate was absolutely sure was
    coming in for Tate and Tate alone, and Brian had said, “Why do
    you need him? I love you!”
    “What did he say?” Virginia asked.
    “That it was too bad I wasn’t gay, because then it could go
    somewhere.” Brian had groaned in mortification. He’d never told a
    girl he loved her—except Virginia, after that day with the porn on
    the computer. It had been the one time the words hadn’t felt like a
    lie.
    “Uhm, did you mention the gay thing?” she’d asked, giving him
    a big glass of water and a couple of Tylenol.
    “I thought that was implicit in the ‘I love you’.” Brian scowled at
    her. Wasn’t it?
    Virginia had raised her eyebrows and chewed thoughtfully on
    her lower lip. “G uess not,” she said at last. “Maybe you can’t really
    sel the ‘I love you’ to the guy unless you sel the ‘I’m gay’ to
    everyfuckingbody else.”
    Well, it made sense. Tate was so flamboyant—makeup, glitzy,
    glittering shirts, rainbow earrings in his pierced lobe—all of it was
    designed to make people look at his gayness, and not at the
    vulnerable human underneath al the trappings of it.
    “Besides,” Virginia said softly, “I’m not sure if it’s even real to
    you yet.”
    Brian thought about Tate, standing at the counter, doing
    dishes and singing a song from Repo: The G enetic O pera in his
    frenetic, tone-deaf way.
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    “It’s real,” he said, remembering the way Tate would close his
    eyes and bob his head as his hands were on autopilot over the
    cheap plastic plates.
    “Yeah?” Virginia’s voice was edgy again, and he snapped his
    attention to her instead of his wayward, wistful memories. “Besides
    random party-guys, who in your life knows you’re gay?”
    “There’s not that many people in my life, Virginia,” he told her
    honestly. “Just you, Tate, and my Aunt Lyndsey. The people I work
    with, I guess, but, you know, I’m not tight with them. Why do they
    need to know?”
    Virginia sighed and ruffled his hair. “O migod, Brian—no
    wonder you didn’t recognize your own closet. You’ve lived in one all
    your life.”
    Brian glared at her. “What does that mean?” G od! Virginia,
    Tate—why did he seem to like people who made him feel stupid?
    Another sigh. “O kay. O kay okay okay okay okay. Here’s how
    I’m reading it. I think that you didn’t want to admit you’re gay
    because it would have meant needing more than absolutely
    necessary. I mean… seriously. Brian—you’re used to living on no
    money, with hardly any family, and just enough college preparation
    to make you feel total y stupid when you’re actual y in your
    classes….”
    “I was homeschooled!” he protested, and she rolled her eyes.
    “By an artist—and I know your aunt is bril iant, but you weren’t
    ready when you got here. Anyone could see it.”
    “It’s not her fault I’m stupid,” he protested, because anything
    that sounded like a slam on his Aunt Lyndie just had to have
    another explanation.
    Virginia shook her head then and made a horrible, strangled
    sound. “It’s a good thing we’re not together anymore,” she
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    muttered, “because you are breaking my goddamned heart. Look,
    babe. Here’s the deal.” They were sitting on the ugly plaid couch,
    and she squared herself to face him, those dark brown eyes
    serious and unrelenting. “It’s like I said: he’s not going to buy it
    unless you can sell it. So, like, how ’bout you selling