A White Coat Is My Closet (19 page)

“Wow.” Sergio succeeded in looking totally unimpressed. “If you’re perfection, American couples must set the bar really low.” Behind his dark glasses, I could see him raise an eyebrow to indicate he was joking. “Are you guys close? Do you see your brothers very often?” he asked.

“Since I’m the only one of the four who lives in Southern California, we don’t see that much of each other. But we’re close. Growing up, my parents were big on family activities, so we spent a lot of time together. Some days were spent playing around, other days were spent working. Because we were all good skiers, when the Sheldon clan hit the slopes together, it was an impressive spectacle. Though we were frequently able to spend winter days skiing with our friends, there were also days when Mom and Dad insisted we ski together as a family. Invariably, we grumbled and complained that we’d rather be with our friends, but I’ve got to say, we actually had a lot of fun together. There was a lot of teasing, a lot of laughing, and generally, warm camaraderie.”

I felt genuine warmth spread through me as I reminisced about my childhood. Despite feeling much of my inadequacy was grounded in my upbringing, I had to concede I also had a lot of really great memories. It made for a funny dichotomy. On one hand, I felt like I never measured up in my parents’ eyes. On the other, I was indisputably confident I was truly loved.

Because Sergio seemed to be honestly interested in getting to know me better, I kept talking.

“It wasn’t always all about having fun, though. Both my parents were determined to instill in us a strong work ethic. Sometimes, the family event consisted of forcing us to perform slave labor. Had my parents not worked right beside us, doing the same things, I’m sure we could have reported them to child protective services.” Sergio didn’t look like he was completely following, so I felt compelled to provide an example.

“You know, I grew up in a small town in the mountains. Winters would get really cold, and we heated our house exclusively with a fireplace and a woodstove. In order to ensure that we were warm through the entire winter, we had to spend a number of weekends during the spring and summer filling the garage with firewood. This consisted of driving our truck way up into the hills, felling a dead tree, cutting it up, splitting it into pieces small enough to be lifted into the truck, then hauling it back home and unloading it. Only trees that were already dead could be cut down. Sometimes, the dead trees were hundreds of feet away from where we parked the truck. Getting the wood from where the tree was cut down back to the truck took a herculean effort. If the logs were small enough, we could sometimes roll them to the truck and split them there. Frequently however, the circumference of the dead tree was so immense that even cut, the logs were too heavy to move. At those times, the logs had to be split wherever the tree had fallen and then carried back to the truck. Either way, it was a shitload of work. We couldn’t complain, though, because Mom and Dad worked shoulder to shoulder with us. Actually, they probably worked harder than we did.”

Fearing my long-winded story would drive Sergio to such an extreme degree of boredom he would opt to peddle his bike head-on into the crashing waves, I brought it to a quick conclusion. “I’ve got to hand it to my parents, though; they taught me the value of hard work. I’m sure it was their influence that enabled me to successfully get through medical school.”

I looked over at Sergio, expecting him to be only half listening, but instead, he seemed to be paying full attention.

“Sounds like, all and all, it was a good way to grow up. And,” he said as he gave me a cockeyed grin, “if their influence resulted in you becoming a doctor, it couldn’t have been all bad.” Then he asked, “How are things now? Are you still close to your parents? They must be really proud.” He smiled. “Or at least happy that their ass-kicking paid off.”

“Yeah, we’re close. I talk to them at least once a week. They not only like hearing about the kids I take care of, they like to feel as if they’re being kept in the loop. They want to make sure I’m happy. You know, typical parent stuff.”

“Sounds really good. So they’re cool with you being gay?”

S
ERGIO
probably sensed a subtle change in me the minute he asked the question, because I was sure my posture involuntarily stiffened a little. I looked out over the ocean as if I was distracted by something. I realized I was ill-prepared to answer his question and that, at face value, my answer would seem to be a contradiction in itself. In one respect, I was super close to my parents. I sought their counsel, I respected their advice, I depended on them for love and encouragement, and I enjoyed feeling that in many respects, in addition to being my parents, they were also my friends. I shared all aspects of my life with them. All aspects except one: the little detail of my being gay. It wasn’t like I lied to them—I just steered away from the topic and when asked, provided only vague, noncommittal information. They assumed the demands of my residency program precluded me from dating much, and I encouraged that impression. It prevented me from having to answer many questions. When asked, I just offhandedly remarked that I’d spent the weekend with friends or that I’d just hung out. I’d have died at the prospect of volunteering that I’d spent the past few weeks agonizing about going out on a date with Sergio and feeling consumed with worry that I’d fail to make a favorable impression on him.

In order to wipe the sweat from his forehead, Sergio had hung his sunglasses over the neckline of his tank top, and I caught him looking at me. His expression was intense. I wasn’t sure I really wanted to have this conversation with him, but I felt as if his gaze had locked onto my very soul. It somehow seemed he would be able to detect even the slightest degree of insincerity.

I shrugged as if my response was inconsequential, then answered in what was unfortunately a less than confident tone, “I haven’t really told them yet.”

I started to peddle, trying to give the impression that the conversation had come to a natural breaking point and no additional discussion was even remotely necessary, but Sergio quickly caught up with me.

“Zack!” I didn’t immediately turn. “Zack,” he called with significantly more determination. When I looked at him, his voice softened. “What do you mean you haven’t told them?”

“I just haven’t told them. Look, it’s really no big deal. It’s just never come up.” I averted my gaze. I knew I was failing at making the topic seem somehow irrelevant, but at the moment, hiding behind the illusion of being obtuse seemed infinitely easier than trying to explain myself. I offered him my patented smile of feigned confidence and then said, “Really, it’s no big deal.” I willed my body to give off a carefree “all’s right with the world” vibe and again began peddling. But I looked over my shoulder, I saw that Sergio had stopped moving and pulled his bike off the path onto a sidewalk that led up to one of the parking lots.

As the bike path was empty where we were, I easily turned around and rode back toward him. When I was close enough to be heard, I called into the wind, “You ready for another water break already?”

He smiled slightly, but his eyes held a cool seriousness. “No, not a water break. I’m taking a quick bullshit break.”

For an instant, I was genuinely confused. “A bullshit break?”

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s what you’re dishing out right now, isn’t it? Bullshit? Look, Zack, I don’t want to be a hardass, but I thought the whole point of this day was that we’d spend it getting to know one another. If there’s something you don’t want to tell me, just say so. But it bums me out to see you trying to lie to me. We hardly know each other. A bunch of topics are probably off-limits. But I want honesty. Just tell me you’re uncomfortable and that you don’t want to talk about something. Hell, you can even tell me to fuck off. That would at least be honest.” He gave me a cockeyed grin. “But if we’re going to start our first date off on the right foot, let’s make it real. Whatever we’re gonna build,” he said as he raised one eyebrow playfully, “if we’re gonna build, let’s start by at least being honest with one another.”

I studied him for a while and was drawn to his sincerity. His eyes were bold and unapologetic but also warm and caring. I felt alternately embarrassed and ecstatic. Sergio had expressed a sentiment I deeply respected. When challenged, I was the first to advocate for integrity, both professionally and personally. And yet, in a number of ways, when I was uncomfortable, mostly as it related to being gay, I was content to hide behind a lie. Without intending to do so, Sergio had touched something deep down. He was talking about honesty in our conversation, but I was thinking about honesty in my life.

I still felt a little hesitant, however. I appreciated both his sincerity and his aversion to dishonesty, but I was struggling with where that line should actually be drawn. I mean, shit, I didn’t want to put all my cards on the table all at once. Besides, in addition to finding him incredibly attractive, I was beginning to see he was a genuinely high-quality guy. If I allowed him to peek too far beneath the surface of who I was, he might get the impression I had serious psyche issues.

He looked at me expectantly, waiting for any kind of response. My brain felt like it was caught in a tug-of-war. I had never been confident. If he knew how vulnerable I sometimes felt, would he quickly try to disentangle himself from a loser? I tried to carefully weigh all my options, but in the end, it appeared that there was only one. Somehow, I suddenly felt determined that at this point in my life, any movement, no matter how small, had to be in a forward direction. If there was going to be a second date with Sergio, I didn’t want to worry about having to continue to hide.

Sergio allowed the silence between us to stretch out. He waited patiently for me to respond, but he kept his gaze trained on mine. When I still didn’t answer, I suspected he felt he could read the truth in my expression. “It’s your call, Zack,” he said. “If you don’t wanna talk about it, I’m cool. But rather than just trying to blow me off, I want you to make the call. I’m good either way.” Then, for a brief second, he let his gaze sweep over the endless ocean. “But if you are intent on just trying to blow me off, there’s not much point in our riding together any farther.” His gaze came back to mine with an even deeper intensity.

I was nervous. I hadn’t intended for the conversation to become so serious. Still feeling a little apprehensive, I was nonetheless inspired by his directness. I did want to feel more confident. I did want to feel more proud. I was tired of continuously trying to hide what I thought were my deficiencies. I returned his stare. “Sergio, I can’t predict what’s going to happen between us. Who knows if we’re going to end up being compatible with one another. Hell, by next week, we might decide we can’t stand each other. I can, however, say one thing with certainty. If you’re looking for honesty, I’ll never intentionally blow you off.” Then, in an attempt to lighten the moment, I said, “Intentionally blow you? Maybe. Blow you off? Never!”

He held my gaze a little longer, then his expression softened. He rolled his eyes slightly. “Let’s keep our clothes on at least long enough to finish our ride.” He pulled his bike back onto the path and balanced his foot on the pedal, readying himself to push off. He looked at me over his shoulder. “We real?”

“Guaranteed.” I knew, based on what he had said before, that he was really asking for an assurance that I intended to have whatever developed between us be based on truthfulness. I smiled and pushed off to ride next to him. “Does this mean we can get naked when we finish our ride?” I looked at him and raised a single eyebrow. I was thankful the joking provided a brief interlude, but I was also aware of his question, still hanging there. Ignoring my internal discomfort, I decided Sergio was worth putting my feelings of vulnerability on the line.

I took a deep breath and kept my eyes directly on the path ahead of me as I started my explanation. “I really do want to tell them. It’s ridiculous to exclude them from such a big part of my life. I guess the thing that prevents me from doing so is my fear that they’ll be disappointed in me—”

Sergio looked over at me and interrupted. His voice was both sincere and nonjudgmental. “Zack, I don’t want you to feel you have to talk about something you don’t want to. I was serious when I said a lot of things are probably still off the table. My intention wasn’t to push you into talking about something you’re uncomfortable with; my intention was to make you understand I want you to be honest with me. And….” He paused. “You can honestly say you’d just as soon not talk about it.”

I was surprised at how comfortable I felt talking to Sergio. For reasons I didn’t even begin to understand, I felt safe. For a minute, I worried it might be my dick doing the thinking. Maybe I subconsciously wanted to feel safe with him to justify my overwhelming attraction to him. I quickly dismissed that possibility, however. Though I definitely thought he was hot, the connection I was beginning to feel with him was way more than just physical.

“No, I’m good.” I smiled over at him. “In fact, it might be helpful to talk about it. But only on one condition.” I smiled bigger. “Well, two conditions actually. First, you tell me if I start boring you to death, and second, you promise not to let anything I tell you make you think I’m a complete loser.”