Page 113 of If This Gets Out

I’m so sick of it.

I’ve been trying my best not to let the wall she’s put up bother me, because I thought that was the best move. I thought it was a good idea to give her some space, so she could come around to my sexuality.

Now, though, I’ve decided that that’s bullshit. My mom is starting to make me feel like I’ve come out as an axe-murderer, not bi, and I’m dreading seeing her. That means it needs fixing.

I unlock the door and go inside.

“Hey,” Mom says, turning the TV off. She’s in an oversized top and sweatpants, and her hair is messily tied back.

We hug. It’s cold, both of us keeping a safe distance.

“How was the flight?” she asks.

“Okay.”

“Really? You look tired.”

I wince. “Yeah, I am. I’m going to crash.”

“Sorry about the mess,” says Mom, picking up a cardigan from the couch and folding it. Mom, like me, can generate huge amounts of mess in record time. “Work was hectic today.”

“It’s not even that bad.”

“See, now I know you’re lying.”

I think she meant it as a joke, but it sounds harsh. I chew my lip.

She keeps cleaning, like I’m not even here.

I could just go to my room, but I can’t help but think about the time I came back from the first leg of our tour. Now she’s acting like I’m a bother. An annoyance. I know she has a life and it doesn’t revolve around me, but like, I can’t help but think this is because I came out to her. It’s the biggest difference I can think of between then and now.

This can’t go on.

I need to talk to her about it.

“Hey, want a coffee?” I ask.

“Oh, yes, please.”

I turn on Mom’s coffee machine. I bought this for her one Christmas, the first one after Saturday started making serious money, and Mom and I both spent an enormous amount of cash on each other. Back then, every big buy felt scandalous, and they still kind of do. That’s the thing about being poor, it never really leaves you. I still weigh the worth of every dollar, even though I don’t need to do that anymore. My first impulse is to get the cheapest thing availablebecause it’s just the same.I remember wanting new clothes or a video game or even something from a coffee shop but having them be off-limits because they cost too much. Even if I did get them, guilt always followed. And for her whole life Mom had always wanted, in her words, a “fancy-ass coffee machine,”but she held off, focusing what she had on other, more practical things, like rent and bills.

That Christmas was honestly one of the biggest highlights of the first year of Saturday, and maybe my life. This coffee machine was the crown jewel; she flipped out when she saw it in a way I don’t often see from her. She lost her shit, basically.

I put some coffee beans into the grinder and blitz them, which makes the whole place smell like a coffee shop.

I want to bring up the weirdness, to finally talk this out, but the words get stuck in my throat.

Talking with Mom about how I’m unhappy with the way she handled my coming out is invasive, almost. Maybe akin to showing her one of my late-night incognito searches. It feels like something I would never do.

I put two mugs under the nozzle. Then I get to work. The machine rattles, the entire thing shaking. I don’t remember it ever doing that. Maybe it needs to be repaired. I hate that, because I bought this in the golden days, back when things with Saturday were more fun than stressful, and now it’s breaking. Given everything going on, that feels fitting.

“How’s Angel doing?” she asks.

“He’s fine.”

She huffs. “Okay, Zach, what’s going on?”

“Huh?”

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