Page 1 of Something Like Winter

__________ Part One: Kansas, 1996 __________ Chapter One

This is my coming-out story. No, that’s too simple. This is the story of the man I fell in love with, the hero who reached out to me all those years ago and turned my life around. I first met Scott, my husband, at the company Christmas party. Oddly enough, that party was my first day at work. The ad agency had lost their top man to a corporate head hunter and rushed me in mid-December to take his place. I was scheduled to start the following week, but my new boss insisted I attend the festivities. That’s where I met Scott.

Forget love at first sight. My first impression was that I hated the guy. Scott kept giving me the eye. I thought he was sizing me up, comparing me to the executive I had replaced. After a few drinks, I felt ornery and decided to stare back. And that’s when I knew. Maybe I didn’t call it gay, homosexual, or anything else, but I knew I wanted to be with him, and from the fire in his eyes, I could tell he wanted the same thing. I’m not proud to admit it, but the first time I ever had sex with another man was that night in the—

“Ready to go?”

Tim Wyman shoved the magazine back on the rack just as his mother came around the corner. He could already feel his face burning as she looked the one place he wouldn’t—back at the rack. Luckily he was in the men’s interest section, which aside from a few gay magazines was mostly about working out, health, and fashion. Almost all the magazine covers had shirtless men on them, so it’s not like the gay ones stood out.

Unless he had put the magazine back in the wrong place, or left fingerprints on the slick cover. Shit!

“Find anything good?” Tim asked her, successfully drawing her attention away.

Ella Wyman held up two paperbacks, one thin, the other thick. Both had Spanish titles on their covers. “Enough to make the trip down a little more bearable. You?”

“No. I’ll probably just listen to music.”

“Okay. Well, I’m going to the register. Are you coming?”

“Yeah.”

As soon as her back was turned, Tim glanced once more toward the magazines. The gay one was where it was supposed to be, thank god. He glared at the cover accusingly. The guy on the front was doing the classic “thinker” pose, his body just as ripped as the famous statue. The thing was, the model looked sonormal.That’s exactly what had piqued Tim’s curiosity. Despite being a gay magazine, the cover model wasn’t feminine, dressed in leather, decked out in drag, or anything else outrageous. He was just a guy with an enviable physique.

Tim followed his mom, browsing through a display of sketch books as they waited in line. He chose a small one with a plain black cover and slid it on the counter without having to ask. His mother knew he liked to paint and assumed this passion extended to drawing as well. In truth, Tim would probably use the book to write, which he did almost exclusively in Spanish. He could speak it too, but often felt self-conscious when doing so.

Once outside the store, Tim scanned the parking lot, a habit he would be glad to leave behind. He did this when entering and leaving every location, seeking out people his age who might attend the same high school—people who might have heard. With school out for the summer, his chances of running into someone were high. That’s why the past month had been spent mostly at home, but now hiding was pointless because today was the last day.

“Can I drive, Mom?”

“Of course.”

She fished a keychain out of her purse, Tim taking it and pushing the button to unlock the doors. A few minutes later they were cruising down the street toward I-35, the very interstate that would soon get him the hell out of Kansas.

“How long of a drive is it to Texas?” he asked.

“Oh, twelve, thirteen hours. Maybe longer depending on how often we stop to eat. It’s going to be grueling on your father.”

“I can drive part of it,” Tim offered, but he knew his father would never accept. Thomas Wyman wouldn’t let his own wife be anything but a passenger. Maybe his father found it too emasculating. Not Tim. He just enjoyed driving and hadn’t had much chance lately while playing hermit.

Soon his problems would be left far behind, a thought that had him in high spirits—until they pulled into the driveway. The garage door was slowly opening, revealing walls of packed boxes on one side, when Tim noticed her sitting on the steps.

“Oh, it’s your little girlfriend!” his mother said.

Tim hit the gas too hard, the car lurching. His mother made a quick plea to saints in her native Spanish while he got the car under control, parking in the garage without further incident. His hands were already clammy with sweat when he took them off the steering wheel.

“I can carry the bags in,” his mother said. “Go talk to Carly.”

“Carla,” he said distractedly. The difference was one letter, butCarlysounded much too cute for her now.

Carla was still waiting on the porch step when he came around the corner, which was so like her. He should have just gone inside, let her wait there for eternity instead of coming to her like an obedient puppy. Except then she might ring the doorbell and talk to his parents, and lord only knew what she might say to them.

Carla raised her eyebrows and smiled demurely, cute as a baby doll.

Tim glared back. “What do you want?”

“Nothing,” Carla said, ignoring his gruffness. “I just came to say goodbye.” She stood and offered a delicate hand.

Tim just stared at it. “Why?”