Talker

fragile,
    Talker | Amy Lane
    38
    when you came for Christmas. He did—I didn’t say anything
    because I thought you already saw it. But he didn’t seem like this.
    What am I missing here? What did you leave out?”
    Brian flushed and looked away. He’d known it might come to
    this when he first cal ed her up.
    “The thing is,” he said, swal owing, “that it’s not really my story
    to tell. But… but Tate won’t tel it.” At least not the way he should
    tell it. “Tate keeps saying that he wanted it to happen, that he was
    in control… but… you know, I’ve heard girls talk, and… what
    happened to him wasn’t right. And he won’t admit it. He….” Brian’s
    eyes went hot, and his throat swel ed tightly, and he could hardly
    look at Aunt Lyndie. “He keeps saying it was his fault, and it
    wasn’t.”
    Lyndie took a deep breath and let it out in careful shivers.
    “O kay, baby. You’ve got to tel me what happened. You’ve got to.
    E ven if he’s okay with it, you’re not. This is hurting you—that makes
    it your story to tel , okay? You go ahead and tel me, okay?”
    Brian nodded and wiped his eyes and his aunt gave him a
    paper napkin and that helped. He hoped he wouldn’t have to wear
    eye makeup like Tate, he thought dismally, because he had a
    feeling that before this day was over, he’d be crying some more.

    Talker | Amy Lane
    39

    P a rt V I
    I Should Have Been Brave

    TWO days after that last disastrous party (the one with the
    hangover that Virginia nursed him through), Brian resolved to tell
    Tate that he was gay, and it was love, and that Tate could stop
    playing the teenaged-girl-he-likes-me locker game with the
    customer who was his latest crush.
    O f course, he would come home from school that day and find
    Tate all excited about his latest date.
    Brian watched Tate spiking his hair, choosing the exact right
    sparkly shirt and ripped jeans, pulling his favorite leather cuffs and
    studded collar out of his drawer, and thought, I’m right here!
    Dammit, Tate, you don’t need al that shit, I’m right HE RE !
    “Are you sure this is a good idea?” he’d ended up asking
    weakly. “You don’t real y know anything about this guy.” Aw,
    geez… lame much, Brian? “I mean—” he closed his eyes and
    swallowed,“—maybe you should have him here for dinner, or, you
    know, go to the movies or something.”
    Tate looked at him incredulously. “I’m not a girl in the Victorian
    age, Brian. I want to get laid, remember? I mean, I’m giving it up!
    It’s here! It’s free! How bad can this go?”
    It’s free? “Well, maybe it shouldn’t be free!” Brian snapped.
    “Maybe it’s more valuable than that. Maybe you should put a price
    Talker | Amy Lane
    40
    on it, dammit, and wait for a relationship instead of some guy you
    think is going to pop your cherry just be-fucking-cause!”
    Tate’s body had given a convulsive jerk—yup, things just got
    too intense for him, no doubt about it. “I’m not into anything
    serious,” he lied. He pulled out face powder—he got his in the
    shade of ghostly white, and Brian reached out a shaking hand and
    took it from him.
    “Don’t,” he said gruffly, and Tate looked at him, surprised.
    “You put that shit on so no one has to see you. I like you. If this guy
    doesn’t like you for you, he doesn’t deserve to touch you.”
    Tate’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down several times in
    quick succession, and the skin around his high cheekbones grew
    tight. “Look, G ranola,” he tried to joke, “not everybody can carry off
    the homegrown look like you do, okay? Some of us need a little
    help.” He reached out to take his face powder back, and Brian
    found he’d clenched his fingers around it fiercely.
    “You spend your food money on this shit, Tate. I may be
    ‘granola,’ but I’ve got a feeling for what’s good for you. This date…
    this idea… these things are not good for you.”
    Tate sighed and looked down at his hand reaching for the
    powder. It was the hand with the scars, and although Tate had the
    entire sleeve tattoo done by this time (thank you, scholarship), the
    hand was too scarred to take the ink. It was, in fact, disfigured.
    There had been some muscle damage during the fire and two of his
    fingers and the side of his palm were only partial y functional, as
    well as withered and twisted. He had a variety of half-fingered
    gloves in leather, wool, and cotton, most of them black, to cover his
    right