Someday. Of course it doesn’t help that I’m too much of a chickenshit to ask either one of them if they’re still together and doing the whole long distance thing. I don’t know why I should even care.
And of course there’s Oliver Thompson, Otter to everyone because of me. It always s
eems to come back to him, seems to end with him. Otter, who still confounds me like no one else, who can—at the drop of a hat—shoot me a smoldering look that makes me forget my name, much less the involuntary act of breathing. It’s a talent he’s mastered and always reminds me he has. Sometimes I can resist. Most of the time I choose not to. Otter said he loved me and I believed him. I told him I loved him, and I think he believed me (even though his first time was done in bed and mine was done with a misanthropic seagull).
Otter disappeared for three years. (Mostly my fault, that; but do we really need to rehash old details now? I have a feeling that’ll be done enough later on in this second part of my story. Aren’t you just so excited? Drama!
Angst! Vegetarians! The Kid told me that if our story was a Lifetime Movie Event, I’d be played by Delta Burke and he’d be played by Taylor Lautner. I don’t even know who any of those people are.) But Otter decided to come back, saying he was haunted by me down in San Diego. He left behind my favorite person in the entire world, his ex-boyfriend Jonah Echols.
When he heard me say this once, the Kid told me I was being facetious.
I asked him what that meant. He told me to look it up. I tried to but then I had to go back and ask him how to spell it. He rolled his eyes and wrote it down for me. I found the following:
fa-ce-tious [fuh- see-shuhs] adjective 1. Not meant to be taken seriously or literally. 2. Lacking serious intent; concerned with something nonessential, amusing, or frivolous.
I went back to the Kid and told him he was grounded. He asked me if I was being facetious. I told him no sir I was not.
So Otter came back and reminded me that for all intents and purposes, we belonged to each other, regardless of anything else. Of course, nothing is ever that easy, and I kicked and screamed the whole way, creating way more drama than was completely necessary. Of course, in my own defense, there was the fact that my entire sexuality was in question, the fact that my mother came back and threatened me because of that (for reasons I still don’t understand), and the fact that Mr. Wonderful (Jonah—that was sarcasm) tried to steal Otter back that compounded the situation. It’s hard to not create drama when it seems to explode around you anytime you open your mouth.
But we survived it, somehow, him and me, survived it to the point where Otter felt the need to buy a house for us even before he was sure there would ever be an us again. Standing in front of the Green Monstrosity (seriously, whoever thought that color was a good idea should have their eyes removed) for the first time a couple of weeks ago had been life altering, not only because of what it stood for, but because of that man who stood before me, promising me a future I had never considered. I remember being shell-shocked and heartsore, but in a good way. We walked into that house for the first time, the doorbell like my own, and I knew I’d made the right choices, even though it’d been in a crazy roundabout way. Even though so much was still uncertain and still is, I knew then I no longer had to do it alone.
Do I still have doubts? I think I told you that I do. Of course I do. I’m human, after all. I’m the brother/parent of the smartest nine-year-old vegetarian ecoterrorist-in-training (who just recently told me he would like to start tantric yoga—what the fuck?). I’m the son of a woman who left Ty and me more than three years ago to fend for ourselves just because her new man didn’t like having kids around. I fell into a routine then that bordered on paranoid obsession, making sure the Kid would never want for anything.
My mother came back and tried to take all of that away from us, all that work we’d done to rebuild ourselves during her absence, making things infinitely worse for everyone before disappearing to wherever. Our attorney thinks I have an awesome chance of getting custody of Tyson. I try to believe her. I am the boyfriend (“Partner,” the Kid tells me. “Boyfriend makes it sound like you’re in middle school, and he asked you to circle ‘yes’
or ‘no’.”) of a man who thinks the Kid and me walk on water. We have a roof over our heads, a place to sleep at night, people that love us completely and fully. Everything is just going hunky-dory. How could I not have doubts?
You know what, though? Before this goes any further, before we can see what kind of an ass I can make of myself this time around (because we both know that’s exactly what’s going to happen), there’s something you should know so there will never be any doubt about it: I love Otter. I love the crap out of him. Like, in a cheesy epic romantic comedy kind of way. If he was getting on a plane to take a job in China, I’d run to the airport after him and tell him I loved him right before he got on the plane. I’d stand outside his bedroom window with a boom box over my head and blast Celine Dion. If he was getting married to someone else and the priest said,
“Speak now or forever hold your peace,” I’d be standing in the front row with a bullhorn screaming as loudly as I possibly could. Do you get it? The point I’m trying to make? I love him, yeah? Let’s never doubt that.
“You can’t even tell you’re losing your hair,” Otter says to me as he wanders into the kitchen this bright, early morning, kissing my forehead before taking a seat beside me. “Except on the front part, where it’s way noticeable.” The Kid snorts in his cereal and laughs so hard the soy milk comes out his nose. This grosses me out and I start to gag. Otter just stares at us as the Kid drips his snotty soy milk into the bowl and as I make weird retching noises that I can’t stop because my little brother is so fucking disgusting. Otter shakes his head, pausing to sip his coffee before opening the newspaper, all the while grumbling that he never gets to have a civilized breakfast.
Love is so completely overrated.
And finally, the last little piece of the puzzle, the last part that makes me whole: Tyson, the Kid, he of extraordinary intelligence and charm, he with milk dripping out his nose. He that can spout off some random eloquent quote one minute and then laugh hysterically in that high-pitched way he does so well the next. I told him once that he’d kept me alive after the events of three years ago, and that was not hyperbole, even though I sometimes bask in it. One could argue, I suppose, that if the Kid had never been born, life would have been significantly different. One could even go as far as to say that what happened with our mom might not have happened, at least in the way that it did. But, regardless of that fact, regardless of however hard it’d been, the Kid was and is the reason I am alive. While all the others had clustered around us to make sure we stayed afloat, it was him I turned to at my darkest, when I didn’t think anything else could matter ever again.
Oh man, I’m getting maudlin again.
Shit, sorry about that. I can’t promise that won’t happen again. But, hell, would you expect any less of me?
The Kid finally starts to breathe again, his face an alarming shade of purple. I scowl at both him and Otter, showing exactly how not funny I think they both are. They ignore me, of course, quite used to the little fits I get into every now and then. Otter’s hands are shaking the paper, and I know he’s trying to regain his composure as well, and I roll my eyes.
You see what I have to live with? Idiots, the lot of them.
“You’re not going bald,” the Kid assures me, a little too late, a huge grin on his face.
“I know,” I mutter, demolishing my toast.
Otter snickers.
“So,” I say, changing the subject. “You sure about this, Tyson?”
He scrunches up his face like he’s getting ready to ask one of his All Important Questions, and I give him a moment, just in case he does. You should know that no miracle has happened in the last two weeks, no divine hand of God has come down and cured him of his idiosyncratic ways. He knows that Otter is here and here to stay. He knows that I’m not going anywhere. He knows we’re doing our damndest with the whole custody thing. But you can’t change years of quirks in this short amount of time, no matter how settled we seem to be. He still asks when I am going to be home, no matter where I’m going, if it’s not with him. I’m expected to check in if I’m going to be late. H
e still won’t be the first to go into a public restroom, and the bathtub still gets some use if there are earthquakes.
My biggest concern when our mother had come back was just how far this was going to push us back, just how much ground we’d lose after all we’d done this summer. I still remember coming home that night after she’d shown up, after I’d broken things off with Otter. How limp he’d been in my arms, his eyes wide and glassy. I remember how angry he’d been, both at her and with me. I wish I could say that his anger toward me hadn’t been justified, but we all know that it was. I’d acted the only way I could think of, having been pushed into a corner. I wouldn’t have allowed anyone to take him away from me, and I curse her again in my head, wondering what cracks lay beneath his surface, if any. He’s shown an uncanny resilience this last time, and I hope it’s strong enough to do what we’re about to do. I hadn’t wanted this to happen, not really, but Otter convinced me, saying it wouldn’t be fair to the Kid if we didn’t. I had sighed, but in the end, agreed.