Talker

down her back from a band at her crown. Her face
    showed her fifty years, but her smile was just as young as that hair.
    “The haircut’s new—you going to keep it?”
    Brian shook his head. “It’s sort of a statement,” he said,
    quirking his lips. He threw an arm over her shoulder and realized
    for the first time how fragile she felt. Tiny and small-boned she had
    always been, but maybe it was Brian’s new sensibility to Tate that
    left him reeling with his aunt’s mortality and vulnerability here in the hills alone.
    He would definitely visit more often, he told himself firmly. If
    nothing else, he knew she’d share vegetables from the garden with
    him, and Tate always liked fresh tomatoes.
    Aunt Lyndie took him into the kitchen and poured him some
    iced tea into one of the jelly jars that were so old, they were actually glass. She was good at tea—had always had at least two dozen
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    36
    types in her cupboards, and knew the uses for everything from
    chamomile to rose hips. Today’s blend was a mix of both of those,
    actual y, and Brian added a liberal dose of sugar and lemon and
    sipped appreciatively while Lyndie poured herself a glass and sat
    patiently at the small, hand-carved wooden table and waited for him
    to speak. (Much of what was in Lyndie’s home was either hand-
    carved or hand-me-down. The artist community in Placer C ounty
    was close-knit and believed very firmly in utilizing resources to their
    fullest.)
    “So, baby,” she prompted gently after a moment, “what’s the
    matter?”
    Brian sighed. Sell it to the world and maybe he’ll buy it. “I’m
    gay, Aunt Lyndie—but that’s not actual y the problem.”
    Aunt Lyndie blinked and frowned a little, as though trying to
    put together a puzzle. “So, al those girls you were with, growing
    up?”
    Brian shrugged. “Yeah—I don’t know how that happened.
    They just….” He flushed. “They wanted me, and, you know, they
    were nice, but they weren’t… weren’t….”
    “Weren’t what you wanted.” O h G od. Aunt Lyndie knew. He
    should have known she’d get it.
    Brian swallowed thickly. “Yeah.”
    Lyndie smiled and patted his hand. “Well, if it makes you
    happy, I’m okay with the gay thing—you should know that. I’m
    happy you found that out for yourself, and I’m real y glad it’s not a
    problem,” she said sincerely, and took another sip of her tea.
    “That’s all?”
    Lyndie shrugged. “Brian, baby, I’ve raised you since you were
    a rug rat. You think something like that is going to matter?” Her
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    lower lip thrust out and grew pouty. “I thought I taught you better
    than that.”
    Brian smiled shyly at her. “You taught me awesome, Aunt
    Lyndie.” He shrugged and told her the truth. “Honestly? I’m just
    glad you believe me—because that’s sort of my problem.”
    Ah G od, but it felt good to spil out the whole thing to her. It felt
    good to sit in the kitchen where she’d helped him with his first times
    tables and helped him write his first words, and set out this newer,
    trickier problem and ask for her help to unravel it. How could he
    have done this without her? He thought of Tate and his father’s ugly
    word ringing through the phone lines, and his heart bled a little.
    Tate needed this. Tate needed to come here more often and spend
    time with Lyndie and see more of her pretty, pretty art. He needed
    to know that Brian wasn’t the only person on the planet who could
    look out for him. Whether or not Tate loved Brian back, Brian
    needed to bring him here again, and let him know that
    unconditional acceptance was not a myth.
    He finished the story, and saw that Lyndie’s wide, smiling
    mouth was pursed and grim.
    “O h, Brian. Baby—poor Tate. This thing he’s doing. That’s a
    bad thing.”
    Brian nodded, relieved. It wasn’t just him and his innocence. “It
    is for him,” Brian said softly. Tate, who was so vulnerable. There
    were some guys out there who could probably do this for kicks—but
    not Tate. Tate was doing this because he needed… needed so
    badly and so completely that he was wil ing to give away pieces of
    himself to get what he needed.
    “This….” Lyndsey took a drink of her tea and looked at him
    again. “This is a self-hating sort of thing—at least if this kid is like you’ve told me. That doesn’t seem like your roommate, you know? I
    mean….” She sighed and searched for words. “He seemed