Page 45 of The Story of You

“You chicken?”

“No. I just don’t know how.”

“We could practice on each other first.”

“No.”

“How about we start with kissing? Kissing’s not so bad, right?”

I’d never kissed anyone before. I knew I liked boys. Even my parents knew. I followed a little boy called Carson around my kindergarten class and tried to pet his hair. I spent too much time with another little boy in third grade—Mom said I got a huge smile on my face whenever his name was mentioned—and I only had an interest in filling out Valentine’s cards for the boy. Back in the eighties, no one made you give one to every kid. Only the ones you liked, which made it a very sad day for the kids who were less liked.

Darius was always beautiful. Not only did he check most people’s physical boxes for attractiveness, but he was captivating in countless other ways. His smile held adventure. His poise held confidence. In his eyes was a soul that had lived a hundred lifetimes, returned to the Earth to show others the way. You either adored the fuck out of Darry or you hated him with an intensity I was sure wars began over.

I was the former. I loved him. Though with us we began and remained as a mutated in between—not quite friends, not quite lovers.

Maybe kissing him would be all right?

“Okay. I’ll try the kiss. No tongue though.”

“We’ll work our way to that.”

“Ew! No. I don’t want your germs.”

“If we kiss, you’ll get them anyway, and what do you think happens when we share food? You’re contaminated with my germs, Simon. I intend to keep you that way.”

Such a cocky bastard from the start.

“Fine. Just do it.”

We were in our bedroom, standing before our joined beds. We’d pushed our beds together long ago—no one seemed to mind—and he explained he often slept in the same bed as his brothers. At the time I didn’t know how you did that with a baby—wouldn’t you crush it?—but we both had nightmares and we’d been alternating climbing into each other’s beds in the middle of the night. We slept better together.

Guess we were swathed in each other’s germs by that point.

Darius leaned forward and pecked my lips. Warm tingles barreled through me like rushing water. “There. You gonna die?” he said.

“I might. Was I supposed to feel something?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. Wanna do it again?”

I nodded.

We “practiced” a lot after that. Darius did stick his tongue in my mouth. The arousal down south made it a lot easier. And Oliver—since I know you’ll be reading this, and you’d better leave this in Darius—I’m not gonna go into the gory details. But this was part of our awakening, and also why pre-teenage boys should never be left unsupervised.

Anyway, we did that. Things led to more and eventually, we ended up practicing other things I’m not sure we were old enough for. Darius thinks we did what we were ready for, and he doesn’t regret a thing. Sometimes I regret losing another piece of my innocence so early, but at the same time, we had to grow up fast. We were thrust from the nest and in order to survive, we needed to fly. It was probably better if we knew than if we didn’t or someone could have taken advantage of us. I don’t know the “right” answer. I know we were in a shit situation with little to no guidance.

Either way, it played a role in making us.

ChapterFourteen

Oliver – May 21st 2009 (Night)

My eyes blur, but despite the chest-aching pain, I can’t put the book down so I’ve been reading far longer than I should. Julius will kill me if he finds me sneaking off into the night to read. Everyone will.

In three days, I’ll be twenty-five. It’s hard to believe they went through all this before they ever reached their twenties. Wiping my eyes, I close the book and check the time. Three am. Fuck. I’m pushing my luck. It was hard enough to get the book back the last time. The chances someone in this house isn’t going to wake up through the night is minimal. What was I thinking?

Slipping off the couch, I tip-toe into the kitchen with plans of heading to the hallway and then up the stairs but jump when the tall figure appears, followed by the clickity-clack of puppy paws. Jarvis. Dammit. “Uh, hey, Baba,” I say. I’m caught now.

Since reading this book, he’s more. I didn’t think he could be even more to me, but there’s another layer. I know how much I mean to him, but it’s far and above that. His love for me is rooted in his childhood. Raising me broke him and shaped him.