I even started to tell him those stories. As if we were in some soppy movie and my words would inspire him and change everything. But in real life we were just in a messy office at the back of a damn auto shop, and the only perspective I could bring myself to give him was my own. And maybe it had helped, knowing someone else was going through something similar.
I have no clue if Rafe will think I said the right thing, though.
“I told him that his personal shit wasn’t anyone’s business, not even his parents’. That he’d be out of the house in one more year, and if telling them he was queer meant that he’d have to put up with a bunch of awful shit for a whole year, then it wasn’t worth it. He has a lot of time later on to figure everything out. He doesn’t have to decide anything right away.”
Rafe runs a hand through his hair like he’s at the end of his patience, but at least he isn’t looking at me like I’m a child molester anymore. He just sighs and doesn’t say anything.
“He’s pretty pissed, though, man. That he can’t come to YA anymore.” And hurt. That was clear beneath everything Anders said. He’d finally found someplace where he could feel comfortable, and now he’d been rejected from there, too.
“Yeah, all the kids are pissed. I’m pissed. Of course I wish Anders could still come. I wish we didn’t need permission from a guardian—it cuts so many youth off from service, or forces them to weigh their desire for an inclusive space against the potential cost of coming out to their family. I wish I could do more for all of them in a thousand ways.”
“Then couldn’t you just make an exception? He could just tell his dad he was somewhere else?”
“You don’t understand how serious this is. It’s all so fucking precarious. The slightest whiff of something suspicious, something not aboveboard, and YA could get shut down in an instant. One of the kids says something at school about how we’re letting someone hang around adults unsupervised and a teacher overhears? Disaster. I heard fucking Mikal telling Dorothy that Anders was hanging out at your house, Colin! Who knows who else he might’ve said it in front of? It doesn’t matter if it’s not true, it just matters what people will believe. You cannot be alone with a minor. End of story. It’s for the volunteers’ sake too. You just… you can’t leave yourself open to any accusations. Not any more than YA can. And it can’t be Anders’ responsibility, okay? He’s a kid, he’s hurt, he’s confused, and looking for comfort. I know it feels like the worst fucking thing in the world, but you have to be the one who draws the line.”
He’s ranting at this point, and I never know what to do when he gets this way—furious about a system that he thinks is unjust but unwilling to sacrifice what good is in place to break out of it. I’m not sure if he’s angrier at himself for following the rules or the rules themselves.
“YA is everything to me, Colin. Javi built it from nothing. And those kids… they’re—they’ve been what I wake up for in the mornings. For years. Helping with them—giving them something I didn’t ever have—it’s—Colin, it’s the only decent thing I’ve ever done. I can’t fucking lose that.”
Rafe looks wrecked and it’s my fault. It doesn’t matter what my intentions were. I fucked up. Most of all, I hate that Rafe is disappointed in me. So I just stand like an idiot in the middle of my living room.
Rafe walks over to me and puts his hands on my shoulders. With his expression tense, the fine lines around his eyes are more visible and the crease between his brows is deep. His lower lip is rough, like he’s been biting at it.
“You can’t do that again. Okay? You can’t be alone with any of the kids outside of the workshops. No matter how much you want to help. I… believe me, I get it. But it’s too easy for everything to go wrong. Please.” He looks so tired. “Please, babe.”
“Okay, I’m sorry,” I say. “I thought… I thought I was helping. I wanted—I just hated seeing him so upset.” And, yeah, there was the fact that he came to me. That, despite having made a mess of this stuff in my own life, he actually thought maybe I’d have some answers. It felt so good to have someone see me that way. And it’s quite a contrast to how Rafe’s looking at me now. With fondness, maybe, but mostly like I’m a liability. A fuckup. Like he gave me something precious and I smashed it.
Like I can’t be trusted with anything real.
After sitting in strained silence for an hour, watching a movie about some dude in a small town who turns out to be part of the mafia or something, I’m ready to scream. It would’ve been easier if Rafe had just left, but apparently he didn’t get the memo that it’s awkward to hang out after fighting with someone.