‘Trying to tell the straights topick me, pick me, because you’re not like the others,’ Xander explains. ‘You’re different, you’re masc, butching it up with your straight-acting bar so the straights will like you.’
I snort. Is that really what he thinks? It’s delusional.
‘You got me all wrong, dude,’ I say. ‘I work at the Shed cos it makes me happy. I don’t need to shit on anyone else, and I don’t give a shit about the approval of straight people. I don’twantthem to “pick me”.’ I look him dead in the eye. ‘I think you’re projecting. You’re the Pick Me Gay. There’s no way to get famous with only homos supporting you. You need the straights to like you, too. You’ll do anything to get their approval, huh? Even attack other gays who are different.’ I realise how pathetic he is. ‘And you know their approval isn’t real, right? It’s not love. The moment you said one thing they didn’t like, they turned on you like they turned on Curtis.’ My face is scorching hot. ‘If you have any solidarity, back off with this boycott.’
Xander blinks. I get a rush of adrenaline, sure I’m going to cop a spray. But I also see some hurt in his eyes. He knows fame isn’t love. He knows he has nothing.
Then he bursts into tears. ‘Why would you attack me when I came over to say I’m backing off?’ he mumbles through hishands. ‘I felt terrible when I saw Curtis had passed away and my post made me look cruel. Do you really think I’m some monster? It was amistake! I read his obituary inThe West. I had no idea about all those things he’d achieved as an activist. Truly, I’d like to offer my condolences. Please, can’t you be kind?’
I exchange an incredulous look with Tenille. Xander painted himself into a corner – being a victim is his only escape rope.
‘You’re backing down?’ Tenille repeats assertively. ‘You promise? You’ll call off this boycott? You’ll leave the bar alone for good now?’
Xander wipes his eyes. ‘In light of everything, of course,’ he says. ‘I wanted to encourage you to be more inclusive, but I never meant for things to get so bitter, and I definitely didn’t mean to empower the homophobes. I swear.’
I don’t like him, but I believe him on that point.
‘Given what’s happened to Curtis, I’ll pull down my open letter post,’ Xander says, wiping his face. ‘Truce, yeah?’
Xander puts his arms around me and hugs me. I stand there and let the hug happen, feeling his tears splash on the fabric of my jumper. I don’t know if these are real tears or crocodile tears. I don’t doubt he’s copped more shit than I have, as a public figure, and maybe it screwed him up – but I’ve also watched him weaponise it. If a pure-hearted, genuine victim version of Xander Sullivan ever existed, I think it was corrupted long ago.
But I know Curtis would take the olive branch, no matter how cynically it was offered.
‘Okay, Xander, you got it,’ I say. ‘Truce.’
When I get back to the table, Reyna puts her arm around me. ‘Holy shit, Chucky, that was fuckingpunk.’
The next morning, when we’re all hungover sloths on the living-room sofas, Ahmed walks out of his bedroom, puts one ofFatima’s crepes on a plate, and sits down at Curtis’ laptop at the dining-room table, where Curtis used to sit.
Ahmed’s face is dry and flaky, and he has tired, worn bags under his eyes, but there is a spark that’s returned. He types at the laptop, loud and frantic, then all our phones ping at once with what he’s tagged us in: a long, beautiful post memorialising Curtis Levesque, sharing the funeral details, and passionately defending the Tool Shed and its mission.
The outpouring of comments is like nothing I’ve ever seen. The community loved Curtis and what he stood for. So many people’s lives were changed for the better because of him.
I log on to my Insta after my cowardly social media break and share Ahmed’s post, adding my own caption:
Curtis Levesque was an absolute champion for the gay community and he was like a father to me. He was strong, caring and full of courage in a way that almost nobody is. He was one of a kind. I stand by him and Ahmed. They’re good men and I love them both. I’m proud to work at the Tool Shed.
I scroll onto Xander Sullivan’s Insta profile. His open letter post has been deleted, and his latest story is sharing the funeral details for Curtis with a simple caption of ‘Rest in Power’, a black love heart and the hashtag#forgiveness.
I unfollow him. I feel weak for not talking back to him from the moment he kicked off with Curtis in the bar. I feared the lies he’d tell about me; the way he’d twist and taint my reputation and make me a public enemy for saying what I think.
But now, fuck it. Bring it on. I know who I am and what I stand for. If the homos throughout history can survive being unfairly lied about and hated, I can, too.
After all, this all started for me the day Alicia Stratton outed me online when I was sixteen. I survived that outrage, so I’llsurvive every bullshit barb that’s ever hurled my way, until I’m gone like Curtis, gone like Matt, gone like my father – but never again will I shrink from a fight.
A few minutes after I post my tribute to Curtis, Ahmed swoops on me – fresh from the shower, towel still around his waist, smelling of earthy oat and jojoba moisturiser – and crushes me into a hug.
‘Thank you for those lovely words, beautiful boy,’ he says in my ear.
We both cry, and I apologise for it.
‘So dumb. Sorry. Shouldn’t be crying when you’re the one who’s, you know.’
‘Don’t apologise, you stupid slut,’ Ahmed chides. ‘If you didn’t shed a tear for Curtis after everything he did for you, I’d bitch-slap your ungrateful arse.’
We both laugh.
‘I really liked overhearing you when you’d get home and talk to each other in the kitchen,’ I confess. ‘After the experiences I’ve had, you and Curtis were like, my example that love between two guys doesn’t always have to end in tragedy. It gave me hope I’d find someone. I don’t know what to believe in now.’
