So, without any shame, I just put the truth out there.
“I am, too. Gay, that is.”
“Yeah, I figured,” Caio responds, almost immediately.
I’ve never talked to another gay boy my age (unless you count the internet), and suddenly I have a million questions to ask. They appear one after the other in my head, and I feel like I might explode.
“Does your mom know?” is the first one I ask.
“She does. I’ve never said it out loud, but I’ve also never hidden it. I think it’s kind of obvious. I don’t know. And she always says things like ‘Stop waving your hands so much when you talk, Caio’ or ‘Sit like a man, Caio.’ So, yeah, she knows but pretends she doesn’t. Like I said, she’s complicated. Yours?”
“She knows. I told her.”
“Really? And how did it go?” Caio is so interested he plops on his elbows to hear about it.
“It’s not a very exciting story. I said, ‘Mom, there’s something I need to tell you. I’m gay. Please love me.’ Then she said she had always known and it was all right, and she would love me forever, et cetera,” I say, but this is a very condensed version of the story.
Like everything else in my life, the real story was a little more dramatic.
It happened last year, when I bought the teen magazine with tips to get over your body-image insecurities. After realizing that an article in a stupid magazine wasn’t going to be of any help, I cried a little, but the crying got out of control, and suddenly I was crying hard. Sobbing, drooling, and making noise. My mom, who was painting in the kitchen, heard me cry and ran to the bedroom to see what was the matter. I’d felt so ashamed! Ashamed of my body, of my crying, and especially of my mom seeing all of that. I didn’t know how to explain it to her. I could have said, “So, Mom, as you might have noticed, I’m fat. At school, fat people aren’t the popular ones, and in general, everything sucks.” But I didn’t. I was afraid of saying it.
My attempt to hide one secret ended with me revealing another one. Still with my eyes full of tears, I said, “Mom, there’s something I need to tell you. I’m gay. Please love me,” and she cried, hugged me, and promised to love me forever. In the end, I went to bed happy that night. It was a weight off my shoulders, and ever since, being gay has never been a problem.
Of course, I’m not about to tell Caio the full story on the second night we share a bedroom. But he seems satisfied by the short version, and after some time in silence, I hear his voice really low:
“I hope one day my mom will love me like that, too.” It sounds a little sad, as if he’s about to burst into tears at any moment. I want to hug him, because that’s what you do for someone who’s about to cry, right?
But I don’t have the courage.
“Don’t be silly. She’s your mom. She’s loved you from the second you were born,” I say, and hope these words are enough to make him feel hugged.
After that, Caio doesn’t say anything else, and I stay quiet until sleep comes.
I WAKE UP TO CAIO’S voice whispering to someone on the phone. I don’t want to interrupt, so I pretend to still be asleep. I know it’s not right to eavesdrop on someone else’s conversation, but I don’t know what to do, and I’m too sleepy to think of a way out of it.
“Yes, Mom. I told you, everything is fine, the food is good, I’m showering every day, and my clean clothes will last until you’re back,” he whispers into his phone, and I notice a slight annoyance in his voice.
The call isn’t on speaker, but I can still hear his mom on the other side. I can’t understand every single word, but she seems annoyed as well. She’s always been that type of person. The type who yells.
“All right, all right. As soon as Rita is up, I’ll ask her to give you a call. But really, Mom, there’s no need for that, I’m not a child—” He gets interrupted, and his mom continues to talk without taking a breath.
Suddenly, she says something that makes Caio exhale impatiently. Apparently, his mom can hear that, too, because right afterward he starts to explain himself.
“No, Mom, I’m not huffing. Look, it’s too early. I’ll talk to you later. Everything is fine. Enjoy your trip, and if you want to talk to me, just text!” And without bothering to whisper now, he says, “No need to call!” then hangs up.
I must have given up on pretending to sleep, and when I realize it, Caio is looking at me as I stare at the ceiling.
“Sorry if I woke you up,” he says. “My mom wanted to call because, according to her, she needs to hear my voice to know that I’m fine. Because the two hundred texts she sends every day aren’t enough.” Caio laughs briefly, but I can still see that he’s nervous.
“No worries, I was already half-awake,” I say. “My mom is like that, too. She sends me a thousand messages when I’m not around. You should have seen it when she discovered emojis!”
Caio laughs, and I feel like a dirty liar, because of course that’s not true (except for the emoji part, since my mom loves to overuse them). She never texts me out of worry when I’m not around because A) she’s not like that, and B) I’m always around. But for some reason, I think that pointing out some of my mom’s flaws might make Caio like his better. And—I know, I know—that makes absolutely no sense.
“Moms,” he says with a sigh.
“Aye, aye,” I say, because I have no idea how else to continue this conversation.
And then we lie there in silence, doing stuff on our phones, and I wonder how people used to avoid awkward silence before smartphones where invented.
Next to Cake Saturdays, Tuesdays are my favorite day of the week, because that’s when I get to meet with Olivia. A few weeks after I came out to my mom, she suggested I start going to therapy. At the time, I was a little scared because I wasn’t sure if she was trying to “cure” me, or if she thought I was crazy. She patiently explained to me that going to therapy doesn’t mean I’m crazy.
“By the way, a lot of people develop issues precisely because they’re not in therapy,” she said, laughing.
Talking to Olivia always makes me feel so good that I wait anxiously for Tuesdays. Therapy isn’t like cold medicine, where you take one pill and then feel better the next day. I remember the first time I met Olivia, thinking she was going to give me all the secrets to a happy life and I’d walk out of our session magically thin and hot. That’s not how it works; it’s a long journey. But trust me, this story would be twice as dramatic and three times more self-deprecating if it weren’t for my therapist.
I leave right after lunch, and when I get to her office, Olivia is waiting for me with the same smile she always wears. She’s Black and the tallest woman I’ve ever seen in my life. Her thick curls are always wrapped in a different way with a scarf, and her clothes are always very elegant.
I’ve never asked about her age because I don’t think there’s ever a right time to ask, “So, how old are you?” But I suspect she’s about fortysomething. She doesn’t look like she’s in her forties, but more like someone who tells you she’s forty and then you’re surprised because you would’ve guessed thirty.