Page 15 of In Frame
Sam took a breath, let it go, and turned attention back to the love story on the screen. He wanted to talk about the history, the bravery, the courage in telling this version of history with men in love at the center of it; he wanted to talk about the detail, the embroidery in a costume jacket, the use of light and shadow and shots that tracked calligraphy and love-notes, emphasizing the role of writing, connection, communicating.
He did not have the sophisticated vocabulary that someone in the film industry would have. Someone who could talk to Leo about storytelling techniques without sounding ignorant and out of place.
He did love the film. That was real.
Along with everyone, he gasped and quivered with emotion and hovered at the edge of his seat; he hurt with Jason’s embodiment of Stephen’s fear when Colby-as-Will lay near death after that terrifying collapse. He felt tears scorch his eyes when Will heard his lover’s voice and woke.
He caught his breath with physical pain when Stephen’s ship went down: a spear right through the gut. Will was so broken and so strong at that moment, vowing to carry on—
Sam, like everyone in the theater, cried unashamedly when Stephen reappeared, minus an arm and thinner and sunburned but alive and real. Colby, on the screen, flung himself into his lover’s embrace; Sam’s heart overflowed. These men, this story, both the characters and the actors. So full of optimism. So nakedly courageously in love.
He’d figured out his own orientation over a few years and some experimentation—high school, those first couple years of college, exploring attraction to guys and girls and on two memorable occasions both at once. It’d been guys more often than girls, more and more so over time; he’d said gay sometimes when asked because that was occasionally easier, and bisexual sometimes because that was arguably more accurate: he could be, and had been, happy to dive into bed with Tanya, who’d been in his art history study group and who’d had sculptor’s hands, as well as Scott, who’d been his first real boyfriend, an out-and-proud track star who’d posed, laughing, for Sam’s camera lens.
He’d been lucky. At least, in that sense.
His mother and stepfather had supported his coming out. He’d had friends in school. The world these days was—if far from perfect—alittlemore accepting than the era playing out on screen. And he’d never wanted to hide. He’d wanted to share his story. He’d thought, once upon a time, that he could help people: with art, with pictures, with loving the world.
He’d been young and naïve. He’d thought he could do anything. Before a late-night car crash, and a world bleeding out.
He’d been happy before that. He’d been happy when it’d been himself and his mother, them against the world, and he’d been happy when his stepfather had joined them too. Their life wouldn’t’ve compared to, say, Leo’s; but they’d managed. Hisfather’d been nonexistent, out of the picture before he’d been born, but Carmen Hernandez had a nearly-finished teaching credential and a lot of determination, and they’d been a tiny family together, and her eventual elementary-school position might’ve not been prestigious but it’d been enough.
And then she’d met Jack Blake, who taught eighth-grade English literature and did not know how to cook and had asked for help making photocopies with ink on his hands and a crooked bow tie. Sam’s future stepfather had come over for dinner and smiled at Carmen’s shy art-loving son and brought along an old camera, one that he said had belonged to his father; he hadn’t ever done anything with it, but maybe Sam would like it?
Sam had. He’d seen the way his mother smiled; he’d watched Jack smile back while accidentally putting an elbow in sauce and then getting utterly dismayed, and his mother’d laughed, and Sam had quietly got up to put his own dishes away and leave them alone, laughing with each other.
Lucky, he thought now, not without that old faded edge of hopeless bitterness; and sighed. Ten years later, the loss hurt less like an open gash and more like a once-broken bone: never quite set right, healed around the snap in his heart, knitted inexpertly together.
He loved his siblings desperately, ferociously, helplessly. He’d tried so hard. He’d given up the life he’d thought he’d have. He thought he’d done okay: Carlos had ended up with an amazing scholarship, a real full ride to the university in Las Vegas—following in his father’s literature-loving footsteps—and was now in a graduate program, heading for a PhD, diving into the diversity of early modern narratives, which Sam would take photographs to pay for if necessary, bringing in those paychecks. The twins were happy and healthy and thinking about college admissions essays, being checked on by their retired next-doorneighbor Annika when Sam had to be gone, and they could call him any time, they knew that.
He did try to check in every day. At least once.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a real date. Not a quick hook-up while traveling for a job, not hurried hands or mouths in a cheap motel or neon-lit bar men’s room. Nothing that meant anything, other than casual mutual release and satisfaction.
Leo Whyte made him want more. Made him want to put arms around those well-muscled actor’s shoulders and take Leo home, not even necessarily for sex but to see if maybe that might make those layered hazel eyes feel secure, cared for, worth holding.
He’d gotten pretty good at comfort food. The simple kind. Macaroni and cheese. Spaghetti. Peanut butter or grilled cheese or straightforward ham sandwiches. Soup of various types. Inexpensive and easy and filling.
Leo Whyte probably lived on gourmet catering. Some sort of live-in chef. A personal nutrition consultant. Who no doubt wouldn’t approve of the picture Leo’d posted a while back with the massively oversized ice-cream sundae and the caption “Some days are just all about the sprinkles,” plus a heart.
For no real reason, recalling that post, Sam wanted to taste that ice cream, those expressive lips. Leo Whyte loved sprinkles and cherries. Felt right somehow. Fun and free.
The film finished on a happy ending: hope, and comfort, and a family that’d been found and brought together amid nodding color-drenched Mediterranean flowers and seas and skies. Colby and Jason, as Stephen and Will, waved from a terrace and ran down to a dock; Leo, as Lieutenant Harper, helped his on-screen wife out of the boat, here to join their friends. They were smiling, shading eyes against sun, waving back. In billowing shirts and with wide smiles. With joy.
The moment faded into credits, simple, profound.
Everyone sat stunned for a while: swept up, elevated, suffused by emotion. And then the applause began.
Thunderous. Cascading. Ringing off theater walls. Up on feet and hammering palms together.
Jillian Poe grabbed her actors and her loyal assistant director, and ran up on stage. They were all radiant with passion, with triumph. Jason Mirelli and Colby Kent were holding hands. Sir Laurence was gazing around with unconcealed pleasure. Leo gave the whole theater a grin and a half-bow: giddy, a performance, inviting the world to jump up and down and get buoyant with him.
Sam, at this distance, couldn’t see Leo’s expression well. But he wanted to. He wanted to know that Leo was honestly excited, elated, flushed with success.
Not lonely, under the flamboyance.
He amazed himself with how much he wanted that.
He took a breath, and took some notes: the cast’s answers about loving the novel, about adaptation, about characters. That’d be a story too: the news had been out for a few months at this point, but this was a reminder. Colby Kent had played Hollywood script doctor for years without anyone learning this fact, and had secretly worked on some absolutely massive projects, several award-winning: fromLocal NewstoDarklighttoPrincess, comedies and science fiction and even that Academy Award nominated animated feature.Steadfastfinally had his name on display as a writer. Taking credit. Being known.
