Covers

Chapter Eight: Therapy

I trust Evan. I don't know why, but I do. I want to hear more.

"I'm not an employee," I remind him. "They won't hear it from me."

Evan sighs. "My dad... he kicked me out, wrote me out of his will, all that... because he walked in on me... with a guy. I'm bisexual. He said he'd rather lose a son than have a faggot in the family."

Crushing heartbreak and flooding relief are a weirdly aggressive combination. I'm beyond relieved that there is no hidden violence in Evan's past, but I can't even begin to process the rage, exasperation and sorrow I feel that he was so persecuted for his identity.

"Audrey?" Evan asks quietly. I realize that I've been silent for too long and I must be giving him a panic attack.

"That's bullshit," I say darkly. I try not to make a habit of cursing, but I just can't find another set of words to describe my opinion of this whole thing. "Complete bullshit. I'm so sorry that that happened to you, Evan." I pause, realizing that the Mission's Christian oversight is the reason he's afraid of them finding out. "I... I'll take that to my grave."

He shrugs. "It's... the only reason that's still a secret is because I stay in shelters. When I have my own place you can scream it from the rooftops. That's why I came to Portland, after all. I thought... Glide doesn't want me, no matter how badly I want it. Portland will take me as I am."

This is true. Most of Oregon's population lives in the progressive heavens of the larger cities, but the rest of the state, dominated by traditional industries of farming and logging, is a few decades behind. I have personal experience with this as a Mexican, though I can't fathom what Evan went through.

We park in a spare space in front of my apartment building, but neither of us makes a move to get out.

"Evan... I don't know you as well as I want to. Not yet. But the pieces I've seen of you, of your story, show me that you deserve so much more than that," I murmur. I shake my head. "You deserve the world."

"Thank you, Audrey," he replies.

I reach over to squeeze his hand on the steering wheel. "You're welcome. I mean it."

He looks at me. There's a long-suffering sadness in his eyes that makes my heart break.

"Hey, there," I whisper. I reach to rest my spare hand against his cheek. "It's okay."

Evan's eyelids flutter closed and a tear slips past his long lashes. I wipe it away with my thumb. "Get it out, Evan. It's okay," I tell him. "It's okay."

He nods, then sniffles and leans away, wiping his eyes. "Sorry, I just-"

"It's okay, Evan," I reassure him.

He takes a deep breath. "It's been a long time since I really... talked to someone." He shakes his head. "I won't turn you into my therapist. That's fucked up."

There is something I can say here to put us on a level playing field. Something to make him feel better. Something to let him know that I understand what it feels like to need an ear every now and again. But these words will come at a cost. They will make the memories fresh. They might change how he sees me, as a perfect little college girl.

Here we go.

"My parents broke up when I was one. My mom had custody of me until I was four. I only have a few memories of staying with her. I remember being alone in my room a lot. Then, one day, a nice woman came into my room, talked to me, and took me out of the house. Someone had called in a child welfare report for my mom's drug use. I stayed with a few foster families until they managed to track down my dad. He was in almost as bad of a shape as her, but he was at least trying to get sober. He... he stepped up. Got full custody of me. Got TANF and food stamps and housing assistance. Got a hard job at the mill and worked his way up. My mom tried to fight him for custody a few times. She'd show up at our house screaming, demanding to see me. He always told her she couldn't see me if she wasn't sober. He got restraining orders, called the cops, whatever he could do. When I got a phone, she got my number somehow. Called and texted me all hours of the night, telling me she loved me, telling me she was sorry, begging to see me, telling me to run away. She told me to help her, get her help, or she would jump off the bridge into the Umpqua River. I was only twelve. Eventually, she stopped. I thought she died for a few years. Then it started up again. Then stopped. Then started. I don't know where she is now. She could be dead. And, Evan... I don't tell that story," I say, shaking my head. "I love talking. I love communicating. Especially with guests at the Mission or people I work with on field exercises for class. I tell people I was in the system as a kid, but that's it. So, I... I get it. How hard it is to talk about dumb shit your parents do, how much it hurts, but how necessary it is." I take a deep breath. "I just... I think we're both testaments to the fact that you can't judge books by their covers."

He's silent for a few long moments. "Thank you for telling me that, Audrey. That means a lot to me." He thinks for a second. "At least mine happened to me when I was an adult."

"No," I say, narrowing my eyes at him. "No comparing our situations. Neither is better. They're just different."

His eyes lock with mine. A cute half-grin grows on his face. "You're really fucking smart."

"Yeah. I am," I agree teasingly, returning his half-smile.

"Don't judge books by their covers," he muses softly, leaning back in his seat. "I'm not a piece of shit homeless kid. You're not an innocent college kid." He seems to pull himself out of his reverie and looks over at me. "Your dad's a badass."

"He really is. He's... you know, a bit overprotective and controlling sometimes, but I get it," I say. "I think I would be, too, in his shoes."

Evan sits forward again and turns off the van. "I don't know how to say what I want to say, so I'm just going to wing it and you're going to have to forgive me if it sounds weird. You're... amazing, Audrey. Going through all of that and then jumping back in to help people in situations like yours. Your passion, your honesty, your intelligence, it's all... too much. I don't know what you're doing wasting your time with me, but I'll never complain. It... it means the world to me that you would open up like that."

My eyebrows furrow. "If you met a gorgeous, thoughtful guy who does perfect Ed Sheeran covers and sticks up for you without expecting anything in return, you wouldn't want to spend time with him?"

To this, he smiles. I think I see a bit of blush on his pale cheeks. It's adorable.

I poke his chest. "I think I'm going to call an end to this therapy session. Do you want to just... chill for a bit?"

"No, I want to get rid of this disaster carpet you keep talking about," he says, stepping out of the van without another word.

I roll my eyes, laughing, and follow suit.

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