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He was just energy and atoms, and if he just let go of the wheel, it could all be over. No more pain. No more hurt. No more frustration. No more disappointment. No more Wyatt.
Wyatt’s stomach sank. He couldn’t even do this right. He gripped the guy's hand. “Tell my dad… Tell my dad I tried to end it. I tried to do the right thing. Tell him.”
Her expression grew stormy. “That boy’s been raised by one nanny after another since the day they brought him home from the hospital. He has no life skills. But more than that, his parents have treated him like an afterthought. An inconvenience since day one. Nobody more so than his father.”
Linc’s breath punched out of him at the desperation in Wyatt’s eyes. He wanted Linc’s approval, his validation, even for something as simple as this.
He wasn’t sure why he didn’t want Linc to know about the makeup. But he only shared this part of himself with the people he trusted, which at twenty-two years old was comprised of two people, Charlie and Graciela.
Wyatt’s heart sank, but he did as he was told, fleeing to his room, slamming the door closed behind him and sliding down it, clutching his head in his hands. He ruined everything he touched. Now, he’d ruined Linc too.
But wasn’t that worse? A person shouldn’t get to ignore another person after giving them the best orgasm of their life and still get to worry if they’re adequately hydrated. Like, what the fuck? Who did that?
Fuck. The boy was perfect, so perfect. His perfect boy.
He wished he could take pictures, could show off his skills on Instagram like other artists, could create tutorials on YouTube and help people understand that anybody could wear makeup, anybody could be beautiful, more confident, feel better about themselves. That’s what he wanted… That’s all he’d ever wanted from the time he’d sat at his mother’s vanity and tried on her red lip gloss. But no matter what Linc said, it didn’t matter what Wyatt wanted.
Wyatt’s eyes were glassy, his pupils so blown his pale green eyes looked black in the dim light. He held the remnants of a joint in one hand, but it was what the girl held in her hand that had Linc’s guts twisting. The razor blade pinched between her long black nails still dripped with blood—Wyatt’s blood, judging from the brownish smears on his neck and shoulder. Jesus Christ.
“Just so you know, he asked me to cut him. I know what I’m doing. Would you rather he did it himself? That’s how accidents happen.”
Hot tears tracked down his cheeks, but his caged arms made it impossible to wipe them away. He sniffled. “He said, ‘I can’t believe you’re the one who lived.’”
“If there’s any karma in this world, your dad will get face raped by a chainsaw,” she swore. “God willing,” Linc muttered.
Linc glanced over at him, reaching for the rice. “Uh, sword fights, pirates, sarcasm, torture, giants, Mandy Patinkin?” Wyatt held the noodles in the air then tipped them into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully before he smirked at Linc. “The dude from Criminal Minds? Oh, yeah. He’s cool, I guess.”
“Oh, God,” Wyatt moaned. “Daddy will do,” Linc said around a smirk.
“Suck Daddy’s cock like a good boy.”
“Oh, do shut up, Martha. Wearing sensible shoes doesn’t make a woman a feminist or a lesbian any more than wearing that hideous yellow dress makes you a goddamn banana,” Violet snarked, shaking her head. “I swear, with women like you, I don’t know why my mother fought so hard to win the right to vote.”
Maybe nobody had noticed. Nobody but Wyatt who’d spent weeks looking at that spot on the top of that man’s head as he’d knelt between Wyatt’s legs…
“Reparative therapy program,” Wyatt muttered. “That’s what they call themselves. ‘Letting God fix what’s broken inside us.’ That’s what Victor used to say. He said God had fixed him and had tasked him with ‘fixing’ us.” His pulse thudded heavy but slow, Wyatt reciting these things like it was something that happened to somebody else. “Is that what he called it?”
Whatever he did to you, that’s on him. That’s his burden, his fucking sin that he’ll have to pay for eventually.” At least, if Linc had anything to say about it. “You did nothing wrong. Even if your body responded, you did nothing wrong. None of this was your fault. That’s not what this is about.”
Wyatt snorted. “I’ll do my best not to get in a horrific car crash and almost die.” “I’m serious, Wyatt. If you pull another stupid stunt like last year, you’d best finish the job or I’ll do it for you.”
“That’s right. Always. I’ll always take care of you. If you’re fucked up, I’m fucked up, too. But I’m here. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. I won’t let anybody hurt you.” “I love you,” Wyatt blurted before slapping his hand over his mouth. Linc pulled Wyatt’s hand away, kissing him until he was breathless.
He was fading. “Wyatt, stay with me. What have you done? Oh, God. Oh, fuck. Baby. Stay with me. What did you do? I love you. Stay with me.” Was Linc crying? It must be terrible if Linc was crying. “Wyatt!” Why was Charlie screaming? Everything went black.
“But Jesus, kid. You scared the fuck out of me.” Linc choked on his next words. “I thought I’d lost you. I thought I’d lost you, and I just kept thinking I never told you I loved you. And I do. I love you so much. I thought I was going to sit there on the ground and watch you bleed out in my arms and you’d never know.”
Two months ago, they offered me my first chance to speak out against conversion therapy and help draw attention to the horrors that happen inside. It sounds crazy, but the more I talk about the abuse I suffered by Victor Osborne, the less power it has over me. He may not be in prison, but he’s also no longer running camps that hurt kids, and there’s some comfort in that.
