Two Boys Kissing(24)



You must understand: We were like Cooper. Or at least we had moments when we were like Cooper. Just as we had moments when we were like Neil, Peter, Harry, Craig, Tariq, Avery, Ryan. We had moments when we were like each of you.

This is how we understand. We wore your flaws. We wore your fears. We made your mistakes.



Six hours and ten minutes into Harry and Craig’s kiss, a popular blogger with hair an even brighter pink than Avery’s posts about Harry and Craig and tells the world to get behind what they’re doing.

The number of people viewing the kiss goes from 3,928 to 40,102 within five minutes, and then to 103,039 five minutes after that.

At the same time this is happening, Craig’s mother stands up from her chair and walks over to him. She asks Smita if it’s possible for her to remain off camera, and for the sound to be turned off while she is speaking to her son. Smita passes the request to Tariq, who obliges.

“I need to get back home,” Craig’s mother tells him. “Your father and your brothers will be home soon, and I should be there.” She pauses. It is clear from his eyes that Craig is listening, even though he is kissing Harry at the same time. “I hope you realize that I am going to have to tell them what you are doing. If they find out from anyone else, it will be … worse. Do you understand?”

Craig wants to say yes, knows he could make his voice say “uh-huh” at the very least, but that doesn’t feel right. The sign they agreed upon for yes is a thumbs-up, which also feels wrong. But Craig can’t think of anything else. So he gives his mother a thumbs-up.

Craig’s mother takes a deep breath. She is not finished. After she exhales she says, in a voice as level as she can manage, “I love you, Craig. I am also very angry at you. Not because you are gay. We will deal with that. But to find out this way … it’s not what I would have wanted. I am sure you had your reasons, and I hope you will be willing to talk about them with us when this whole … thing is through.”

Again, Craig gives his mother a thumbs-up. He feels ridiculous.

His mother’s expression softens. “Do you need anything?” she asks.

For a moment, Craig’s heart feels entirely porous. Not because his mother has asked such a monumental question, but because it’s such an ordinary one. This is the mother he knows. Do you need anything? As if she were running to Walgreens or the grocery store. As if nothing has changed.

There is no way for Craig to say, I need you to convince Dad and Sam and Kevin that this is fine. I need you to support me as much as Harry’s parents support him. I need you to be proud of what I’m doing, because it will matter so much more if you are. I need you to come back. I need to know that neither of us is going to drown from this.

His fingers make an okay sign.

“All right, then,” she says. “I’ll go.”

He wants her to come over and hug him. Or at least put her hand on his shoulder.

But instead she turns and starts her walk home. Harry, sensing what’s happening, starts to switch their positions, so Craig doesn’t have to see her go. But Craig holds firm. He watches as she says goodbye to Smita—not to Harry’s parents, not to anyone else, just to Smita—and then steps into the crowd. They all face forward, but she faces home. He watches as she becomes a small shape on the sidewalk, then moves out of his sight line. It is about a ten-minute walk home from here, and he’s sure his heartbeat will count off the steps until she gets there. Then it will stop.

It is only after she is gone, only after he pictures her alone, walking, that his vision draws back closer. For the first time since she arrived, he realizes how thick the crowd has become. There are so many unfamiliar faces here, as well as familiar ones. Someone starts a chant—“Harry and Craig, All the Way! Harry and Craig, All the Way!” He knows he should be taking strength from this, that he should be encouraged. But the truth is, he has left his body for a little while. He is hovering over his house, too far up in the air to see his mother return, too human to see through the ceiling or hear through the wind how the conversation in his parents’ bedroom goes.





Peter and Neil are in Peter’s room, watching the live feed online.

“Was that his mother?” Peter asks.

“I think so,” Neil says. “They cut in so fast, it was hard to tell. But I think it was.”

“Do you think she knew about it ahead of time?”

“From the way she looked before, probably not.” Neil can imagine his own mother looking the same way, and is trying not to think about that.

“How long do you think we could last?” Peter asks.

“Having a son like Craig? Pretty long, I think.”

“Ha ha. I mean kissing.”

“Not thirty-two hours. But a few hours.”

“Here.” Peter pulls Neil off his desk chair, stands him in the middle of the room. “Let’s try.”

“Right this moment?”

“No time like the present.”

Before Neil can protest, Peter kisses him … and stays there. For the first minute or two, it feels totally normal—the tender pressure, tongues corresponding, hands tracing spines, gliding down hips. Then comes the moment in the rhythm when they would usually take a breath—smile or say something or pull back so fingers could trail down. They move through the pause, draw out their ardor. Peter lingers his hand down Neil’s back, slips his fingers beneath his waistband, rests on the skin there, the heat. Neil moves in the opposite direction, his hand rising under the back of Peter’s shirt, between his shoulder blades. Peter still tastes like coffee and milk; Neil tastes like winter mint. Peter’s breath staggers a little in his lungs. Neil touches the nape of his neck, then slowly retreats back down, fingernails raking skin. They are hyperconscious of their bodies, hyperconscious of their breathing. Peter brings his hand around, lifts his palm to Neil’s heartbeat. Minutes pass. Their bodies grow hotter. Their kiss is wetter. Peter’s stubble presses prickly against Neil’s chin. Peter feels the silence of the room, the lack of music. Their hips lock against each other. Neil’s breath quickens. Peter’s underwear grows tighter. Neither wants to be the one who pulls away. Eleven minutes. Twelve minutes. Peter loses track of his breathing, exhales when he should inhale. Instinctively, he pulls back for more breath, and just like that, the kiss is broken. The moment it breaks, Neil lets his arms fall. They step away from each other. They look at the clock.

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