Right Where I Left You

by Julian Winters

Spoiler alert: I’m in love with two boys. Head over heels, smiling-at-nothing-while-walking-into-walls kind of love. But they’re not real people. They’re comic book characters. Also, they might be in love with each other. Huge emphasis on the might.

My heart would run through a brick wall for these two ridiculously-in-love teen superheroes.

“That’s not how it works, Level_Zero,” he says as if one of the characters on-screen is a real person, not controlled by some rando gamer probably halfway across the world eating Doritos while slurping on a Baja Blast.

My grandpa sits at the breakfast table like he always does when he comes to visit—legs crossed, an open newspaper between his hands, a mug of coffee topped with cinnamon getting cold by his elbow. There’s something about reading how our world is in perpetual crisis that prevents him from ever finishing his coffee.

Besides Diego, I know I can tell Mom almost anything. When I was fifteen, I casually came out to her over burgers and milkshakes. Just an I’m gay between bites. Her response was Wonderful. Pass the ketchup. I’m not stressed about discussing Pride around Abuelito either. He took the whole coming out thing as an invitation to pivot from introducing me to the girls at his Catholic church he wanted me to date to introducing me to all the openly queer people instead. I know I’m lucky.

The thing about coming out is you’re so focused on making sure who you are doesn’t hurt or change your relationship with your loved ones that you never really think about yourself. About your moment. About how wonderful it is to just . . . be.

“Summer is when all the best love stories begin, Chiquito.” I roll my eyes, laughing.

Heroes for Hire is tailored for the Met Gala. Secret Planet is dressed for a sleepover at a friend’s house.

It’s the start of a fierce Southern summer, and she has on a baggy sweatshirt. Probably to keep herself warm since her soul’s obviously dead and decaying.

“You need to stop obsessing over a fictitious, nonexistent relationship as a thesis for your own romantic deficiencies,” she replies dryly.

Alix doesn’t respond to me. She’s already forgotten I exist. A simple tug of the cuffs on her sweatshirt until they cover her knuckles, a careless brush of stray hairs behind her ears, and she’s reading again. I wish I had that power—to pretend people or things didn’t exist.

Sunsets are this well-known secret: soon, everything resets.

“You’re extra distracted,” she says. “I thought you weren’t going to spend the summer just reading.” I exhale. “That’s kind of my brand.”

“If you don’t know how to cook as an adult, you’ll die. As your mother, I cannot carry that guilt on my shoulders.”

Not all families are created by blood. Some families are made through love and companionship.

I can comprehend some of what people say. From being around family and the Santoyos, I know basic phrases. I can reply here and there to simple questions. Of course, Diego taught me swear words too. But I still struggle with verb tenses, gendered words, accents. I’m not confident when I speak it. It’s not effortless for me like it is for my siblings.

“I’m a fat diva,” Zelda announces. “We don’t climb fences.” “Then how’d you get in?” I ask, confused. “I have my secrets,” Zelda replies. “My Lord and Savior, Whitney Houston, shined a light on me.”

Thing is, I’m not ashamed I haven’t had sex. Or been in a relationship. Seriously, I don’t know why people focus so much on those things in high school. I was just trying to survive physical education and all those science classes. It was enough of a struggle crawling out of bed extra early so I wouldn’t have to ride the bus in the morning.

But here I am now—Isaac Martin, the perfect virginal sacrifice for a cult looking to awaken their world-ending god.

When I offer back his phone, our fingertips brush. And, no, there’s no electricity when it happens. There’s an apocalyptic thunderstorm.

Amin mentioned something about a party. What’s a summer without a kickback and alcohol and the nauseating scent of regret the next morning?

“I guess it helps that Ez is pan.” He pauses at another crosswalk. “You know, pansexual?” “Yeah, thanks. I’m super versed in sexual identities.” He bumps my shoulder with his, smirking. “The only one I don’t understand is that heterosexual thing,” I say. “When are people going to realize it’s just a phase?” “Right?” Davi says. “I think they’re confused.” “Maybe they haven’t met the right person yet?” “Hopefully, they’ll grow out of it.”

OkayDariusOkay

I never met my grandma. She died two years before I was born. But I’ve seen dozens of discolored Polaroids. Her warm smile and animated eyes. All the pretty dresses she owned. The way she pinned her dark hair up. Abuelito’s told so many stories, I feel as if I knew her. But I don’t know Leticia Martin, not the way the rest of my family does. I only know that Abuelito’s still so ridiculously in love with her.

And that after someone dies, you only get to keep the memories and the photos and the songs you danced to. You never get to keep the person, only the loneliness their absence leaves behind.

“Pride is a big thing,” he says, like he’s read my mind. “Much to celebrate. It’s a place where you get to be yourself, fully, correct?” I grin so hard, my eyes squinch. “I’ve seen the news. The parades.” He winks, then says, “I’ve watched that Drag Race. The Queer Eye. I’m cool.” A choked laugh escapes my throat. “The Queer Eye? Abuelito, no bueno.” “No está bien,” he gently corrects. “Gay Pride is important, Chiquito. Just like pride in being Black and Mexican is. It’s who you are.” He lightly taps his index finger against my chest. “You should be there to celebrate.”

My entire wardrobe consists of comic book graphic tees, athletic joggers, jeans that may or may not be designer-ripped, and hoodies. Lots of hoodies. That’s a lot to confess with my eyes.

“I want to make a statement. Not everyone takes my sexuality seriously. It’s like, coming out is supposed to be this huge declaration. But then no one hears you when you say you’re bi. They think it’s a phase.”

“Some of my family back in São Paulo, a few guys from school—they don’t believe it because I haven’t dated or kissed a guy. But, like, getting a hard-on looking at another dude, just like when I look at a girl or anyone, is suddenly . . .” He trails off. “Invalid.”

“People will probably say something like, ‘He was gay all along.’ As if bisexuality is just this in-between to being gay or lesbian.”

Being anything other than straight means performing your queerness for everyone, all the time, for validation. But that’s stupid. Queer people don’t have to prove anything. We are who we are.

“Also, the fedora? A disgrace to the gay community.”

Bella told me anger is poisonous. Once it’s in your system, it’s hard to remove. Other than exerting so much energy, you’re too exhausted to contain the resentment. Or simply crying it out.

“You know I suck at video games.” “Yup.” His laugh tickles my ear. “Sometimes you just have to be bad at something. Sometimes, you have to accept it’s bad.” “What for?” “So you can enjoy it without stressing over winning.” His arms curl around me, his chin resting on my shoulder. “Sometimes, it’s okay to just enjoy something for what it is.”

But that’s not how things work in this reality. I’m no YouTube hero.

Their smiles shared from across the room remind me of one thing: nothing can come between people who love each other.

It’s exhausting, letting people have so much power over your life.

“No pressure to discuss your sexuality here. That’s for safe spaces. In fact—” “I’m undecided,” interrupts Blake with a shrug. “Which, by the way, is also sweet. Decide whenever you’re ready. We support you.” F.B. turns, holding a hand out in Alix’s direction. “And . . .” “I refuse to conform to society’s insistence on self-identifying in order to belong to a community based on their own black-and-white views of what is an acceptable sexuality,” Alix replies.

There’s something about a nighttime summer storm.

“I love the rain,” he says. I nod, though he’s not looking at me. “Good for naps.”