There’s a full story arc right there in my box of Conversation Hearts. It’s up to me (or you) to fill in the details. Is this a teen romance? An office romance? What are their genders? Why does one seem so reluctant? What does “too hot” mean? Is Person One too physically appealing so therefore intimidating to Person Two? Do they live in a sweltering rainforest where love comes somewhere farther down on a list that includes purified water, quinine pills, and mosquito netting? How long did it take for Person One to win Person Two’s heart? Was it really “in his kiss,” as the song says, or is the kiss an acknowledgment of all the trials Person One went through to prove true love?
Those are the details a storyteller provides in each new story. Jordan Taylor’s “Sight” presents two men who meet as adolescents. As one overcomes the other’s hesitation to be friends, and later boyfriends, we readers think we have a good idea where the story’s going. But as often happens, life steps in to deal challenges the characters–and their readers–didn’t expect. As love goes off course, so do our assumptions. Here’s a little bit of Noah and Archer’s story when they first meet.
I met Archer in our freshman year of high school, after his family moved to Olympia in February. When not in class, he spent much of his time until summer break standing in any uninhabited nook of the grounds. No reading, talking, texting. He stood, waiting for the bell to ring, nearly invisible.
To my later regret, I couldn’t remember details of the first moment I saw him. I did remember the first time I looked at him.
Archer stood in the rain, one sneaker in beauty bark around a raised flowerbed, the other foot propped on the brick edge of the bed. His black hoodie drooped across his shoulders with the weight of rain, blue jeans turned navy by water, sticking to his legs like plastic wrap. He gazed at the ground, chin tipped down. Brown hair fell across his forehead, flattened, darkened and spiky from rain running through it, across his head, over his face, dripping off his pointed nose and chin in ribbons of icy water.
I had never been in love, though I had a crush on a teacher in junior high and would have given my left arm to be Peter Parker’s sidekick—comic, movie, anywhere. So I wasn’t sure how I knew I’d fallen in love in five seconds. But I did.
That night, I started a new comic while my parents went through their customary after-dinner shouting match downstairs and Shiloh danced in her room, listening to Kelly Clarkson. Though Shiloh was five years younger than me, I let her work on my comics. She had a genius for plot twists that went far beyond her years. I drew while she announced ideas.
This time I closed my door, starting a new notebook of sketches that no one in my family would be allowed to see.
I can still envision that first sketch: the gray, dull light; water sliding through his hair, down his temples; perfect shape of his nose and chin; curve and angle of his body against muted school grounds; low brick wall of the dead, dirt flowerbed; fixed stare into nothing.
I approached Archer the next day. Confidence, like art, was a family trait. I’d hawked my mom’s handmade jewelry and paintings at art fairs for as long as I could remember, argued with my sister about the colors she chose to match—pink and orange were favorites—since she was old enough to dress herself, and learned to sneer at “imitators” by the age of ten.
“Hey,” I said to Archer through the crowd as he closed his locker. “Want to hang out sometime? Do you play MMOGs?”
He stared at me, hostile blue eyes sunken against dark circles. For the first time it occurred to me that he looked like someone who hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep—or meal—in weeks. He seemed about to curl his lip. Instead, he walked away. Not a word.
Mouth open, I stood in the hallway like a moron while students flowed past. Perhaps he hadn’t heard properly in the commotion of the hall.
Next time I tried, later that day after lunch, I abandoned the smile. “What’s your problem? Got some invisible friends here already?”
He turned from dropping a sandwich bag in the trash and directed a cold stare at me. “Leave me alone.”
The rest of their story can be read in Best Gay Romance 2014, on sale now in ebook format and trade paperback.
Excerpt reprinted with permission from Cleis Press. All rights reserved.
Interesting. The questions you ask of your candy hearts are the same kinds of questions I was taught to ask of the texts about which I write and speak every week. My mentor always taught “let the texts tell what they have to say” before you run to your secondary source research material. It’s still how I approach my task each week. Read the story and ask it the questions it raises in my thinking. It’s one reason, I think, I’m a bit adept at deducing the endings of books and short stories. I enjoyed the post! Happy day-after Valentine’s.
It reminds me of what I used to tell my students when I taught poetry. “Everything you need for understanding is right there in the words. It’s as simple and complicated as that.”
We call them Love Hearts. I haven’t had a packet for ages!
I swear they’ll almost break your teeth. But I still ate them.