A Wealth of Unsaid Words (11 page)

hands needed for last minute gift wrapping, but he couldn"t

make himself mind.

“Will you be drinking tonight too? I didn"t know you

could.” Ty turned to him, a whole new curiosity in his eyes

that meant he"d either done some research last night or had

asked Molly for more dirt. Alex shot her a glare. She waved

her hands with false innocence.

The Faradays were family. His readers were, in a

strange way, also family, considering what he shared with

them, but Alex paused to stir his coffee and then chose not

to answer.

“If you don"t mind me asking,” Ty went on to cover the

pause, maybe to apologize. “I"m just a big fan.”

“Of my work or of the stories about me?” His coffee was

still too hot. He chose a cookie instead. No icing yet, just how

he liked it. Icing dozens of cookies had given him a distaste

for frosting that he laid at Everett"s door, though he already

knew that Everett had only to give him a look through his

eyelashes, and Alex would right in this spot turn bell- and

tree-shaped sugar cookies into bright, sugary blobs.

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He glanced over again and thought Everett might be

smiling to himself. Alex had to remind himself he was

speaking to someone else.

“They"re mostly true, or I assume they are. They"re a

blur to me.” He must have spoken too loudly because Ally

looked up, and Molly and Rachel went quiet. Robert was on

the other side of the kitchen; he must have arrived earlier.

He was listening too.

Ty seemed flushed. “I meant your work. I read your

stories for class. Then those poems that just came out.

Where did those come from? They seem like a complete

turnaround from what you"ve done before. The old-fashioned

language and everything… it made them seem almost

dreamy. Wistful, in addition to being sexy.”

Ally made a distressed face at her plate, but then offered

Alex an unhappy smile. Hot or not, he sipped his coffee and

smiled back at her. Those poems were the most explicit work

he"d ever done, about his sexuality, about his mind and what

it felt like to lose it, about death. They were about everything

he"d ever wanted, and unlike with his other works, he

couldn"t pretend that they were fiction.

He"d known Ally would read them, even if George would

claim he didn"t care for poems. It had probably been a shock

for her. It was one thing for her to love her son and know he

was gay, but it must have taken some adjustments for her

and George to accept Alex into their home as well. He would

have told her not to read them if he"d thought it would have

worked.

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“I think they"re just like what Alex has always done,”

she pushed out finally, clearing her throat, and Alex blinked.

“He has always told the truth. I thought they were lovely.”

Her voice was strained, but she gulped down some air and

then turned toward Alex as her usual serene expression

replaced her anxiety and embarrassment. Alex had a feeling

that lovely wasn"t how she would describe them to anyone

except someone outside the family. It was her way of closing

ranks and being supportive.

Because he was an idiot and something of a masochist,

he also wondered if she"d understood what those lines had

really been about. Judging from her nervous twitching, he

was assuming she had.

“I heard someone bought the rights to one for a song or

something,” Robert spoke up as a nice distraction.

“Ah, not quite.” Alex tore his gaze away from Everett"s

mother and those kind eyes she shared with her youngest

son. “Someone asked for the rights to my story to make a

movie.”

“A movie!” Molly was almost out of her chair. Everett

stopped what he was doing without looking up. A few of the

others made remarks Alex couldn"t distinguish from the

general chaos.

“It"s not a big deal. They buy up anything, sometimes

without ever producing a film. I haven"t said yes.” The

cookies were warm on his tongue, sweet with his coffee. He

chewed and kept his eyes down. “I"m not sure if I will. I don"t

know if they realize how much of my sex life they would have

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to put onscreen.” There"d been women here and there,

mostly when he"d been younger, but he had a feeling that

unless the movie went for the artistic, independent route,

there"d be more women onscreen than men, which would not

only be inaccurate but insulting. “You know how it goes.”

Molly was voicing indignant outrage on his behalf. “Like

it"s even a big deal that he"s gay. How are they planning on

avoiding it? There"s no way they could even tell your story

without talking about E—”

“Are you sure you want to do that?” Everett interrupted.

Alex turned to him, and Everett looked down at his hands

and whatever he was making. Ally made a noise, her anxiety

obviously still present.

“There are some things I don"t want the world to know.”

Alex took in the straight, tense line of Everett"s shoulders

and then swung his gaze back to Everett"s mother, then to

his father who was now in the doorway behind her and

scowling. “But it might help some people out there, to know

what it"s like. Some people still think I"m acting, you know.

Playing the role of the crazy artist. That I was, am, this way

on purpose.”

George"s scowl grew deeper.

“That"s a load of sh—crap!” Ty unexpectedly came to his

defense. Alex had forgotten he was there, and stared at him.

“You could tell from your books you were… not well.” His

aura of discomfort was almost amusing.

“The current popular, technical, term is bipolar, but I

prefer manic-depressive. It sounds more interesting and

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doesn"t get nearly as many frightened stares.” Alex drew out

the sarcasm, and then drank some more coffee. Ty

straightened up with a frown, only to lean in with even more

interest obvious in his expression now.

“When you tried your first medications, weren"t you

worried about the side effects? Uh… if that"s not too nosy.”

“He was more worried about ending up dead.” Everett

sounded good and pissed off now, and was scowling down at

his bread. That fierce expression was what the troubled boys

he worked with must see whenever they crossed a line. It

made him seem more like his father for a moment, when

George had been setting up rules and curfews and

punishments for a teenaged Alex to show him what a safe

environment looked like, though it hadn"t seemed that way

at the time.

Ally reached across the table to grab his hand, and Alex

nearly flinched. He"d recovered here in their home, in

Everett"s room at his own weak insistence, and every

morning on the days he"d come downstairs, Ally had taken

his hand, just like that. Then George would cough

uncomfortably and order him to his feet, only to take his arm

and help him with exhausting decisions like what to wear

and what to eat and then drag him from the house on trips

to the car parts store, the local library, to get groceries,

anything and everything to keep him up and distracted, to

keep him moving, to give him something to write to Everett

about.

He"d had to write to Everett. It had been his goal, every

day, even if only a few words, scattered memories about high

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school and that convenience store and kneeling on the floor

of Everett"s room by his open window.

Everett had his hands on the counter, the skin up to his

elbows white with flour and bits of sticky dough. Even across

the distance, Alex could see he was shaking.

“Anyway….” Alex deliberately lightened his tone and

moved on. “It keeps most of the bats out of my belfry, and

despite my fears, I"ve written since then.”

Everyone seemed grateful to make the leap to a slightly