Matt motioned for Paul to continue.
“The queen is the most powerful piece on the board,” Paul explained. “Capturing your opponent’s queen practically guarantees victory. So, when an over-confident player sees a vulnerable queen, he can’t resist taking her. That’s what happened in 1956, in the game of the century between Bobby Fischer and Donald Byrne…Byrne was in his twenties. He was the reigning U.S. chess master, paired against a snot-nosed 13-year-old Fischer. On move 17, Fischer seemingly made a mistake and left his queen unprotected. Byrne pounced. It was a trap. Fischer had deliberately sacrificed his queen to gain tactical advantage on the board. It was all over but the crying for Byrne…”
“If you want Colton to get in that car with you,” Paul said, “leave your queen unprotected. Colton would jump in any car if it gave him a chance to capture our queen.”
“Oh goodie!” said William sarcastically. “I believe this is about me after all.”
Chapter 36: Soiling Grannie’s Afghan
Saturday, January 27, 1996
As soon as the meeting ended, Matt raced to his dorm room. Locked the door. Dialed Adam’s house. All would be right with the world as soon as he heard Adam’s voice. Nor had he forgotten the mystery package. “You were in my dreams last night,” the note read.
Adam answered on the third ring. “Hello?” That single word from his lips was packed with enough pheromones to alert any buck within 100 miles.
Matt smiled, leaned back against the lower bunk he used as a daybed. “It’s me,” he said breathlessly. He needed this: to forget that the GM meeting had devolved into recriminations and accusations, to forget the part where he’d angrily scribbled a resignation letter and thrust it into William’s hand—post-dated to March 23rd, of course. He’d hang around long enough to take down Colton Langley.
“Sorry ‘me,’” Adam said playfully. “I can’t talk right now. I’m waiting for a call from my boyfriend.”
Boyfriend! Matt’s heart swelled with pride every time he heard that word. He was Adam Maxwell’s boyfriend!
Matt pictured Adam curled on the couch in his PJ’s, his feet tucked under him, his freckles shimmering, his hazel eyes twinkling. And his hair: that kaleidoscope of earth tones in that thick, rock star mane.
“I’m guessing your parents aren’t home?” Matt said hopefully. There was only one phone in the Maxwell home, a landline in the living room, subject to eavesdropping by Call-me-Janet or the homophobic dad. When they were around, Adam was more guarded.
“They’re at the counselor’s office,” Adam said. “Dad wants me to tryconversion therapy. He says that if I give it a serious effort and it doesn’t work, then he’ll be more comfortable with the ‘gay thing.’”
Matt clutched the phone, felt his jaw clench. He’d never met Adam’s dad but disliked him intensely. The man was playing everyone, feigning progress but always—at the last minute—throwing up roadblocks, stalling, running out the clock. Matt suspected that the man secretly would have preferred a dead son to a gay one. He was the reason there had been no second date, that Matt hadn’t seen Adam in almost a month.
Dads. Was there a single gay man in the world who had a healthy relationship with his father? Who felt unconditionally loved and accepted? Matt didn’t think so. Certainly not among thefCOC.
And where would Adam’s dad send him for conversion therapy? Mended Hearts Ministries? Matt’s mind flashed to Gay Chapel, where that queen from Mended Hearts—what was his name? Michael something—had sashayed and pranced around the stage, bragging about how he’d been cured of his “same sex attraction,” as if he didn’t still fantasize about men while his wife pegged him with a strap-on.
“I already told the counselor I won’t do it—conversion therapy,” Adam said. “Anyway, mom and dad could be home any minute. Let’s talk about something else.”
Matt obliged. “I received your package in the mail today,” he said. “Can I open it now? Tell me about your dream.”
Adam groaned, and Matt knew he was blushing, knew he was embarrassed.
“Please let me open it,” Matt begged.
Adam hesitated. “I wish…” his voice trailed off.
Matt waited.
“I wish we’d just done it on New Year’s Eve.”
“Done ‘it?’” Matt asked.
“You know what I mean. We had a magical evening—until...”
“The way I remember it,” Matt said, “the whole night was magical. I wouldn’t change a thing.”
“You mean that?”
“Yes. Now, can I open the package?”
Another pause from Adam’s end of the line.
