You pass through New Orleans around eleven. Though Chris can’t stand going through and not stopping, you remind him that the point of this trip is not to see the things you’ve already seen again.

He acquiesces.

And since you’ve passed through New Orleans, you have three hours to tell Chris before you hit Port Charles. Three hours to reveal one of the biggest secrets you’ve ever kept about yourself.

You’re wearing one of your Madonna shirts. Gay man’s icon, yes. At least it’s not Celine. Madonna makes you feel strong, independent. Celine makes you feel like killing yourself.

You eat lunch in Rayne.

“So we can be Phoenix brothers,” Chris says. You don’t get it for a bit, since his name is Joaquin, not Rayne.

It isn’t until Chris says “like River,” that you finally get it.

You get sandwiches at a Subway and go to a park that Chris managed to find on his way back to the highway to eat them. There’s a picnic table underneath a tree that you sit at. You carefully eye the children at the playground near you, but eventually figure that they’re too young to know who you are. Chris sits behind you on the bench.

“Do you miss your hair?” he asks when the sandwiches are a memory, the only testament to their existence the trace of onion on your breath.

You reach up to finger the ends of your hair. “Only on my neck. It felt kinda cool.”

“Yeah,” he says. He’s still sitting behind you and you’re facing away, toward the children on the playground.

You jump when you feel his breath on your neck, the tickle of his hair against warm skin.

“Yeah, like that,” you say, sighing as he wraps his arms around your waist and rests against you.

You make Chris pull off at the last rest stop before Port Charles. He makes bathroom jokes and you let him because you know he wouldn’t pull of just because you had to tell him something.

You do go to the bathroom to throw him off. Or prepare a speech; you’re not sure which.

You spend several moments staring at yourself in the mirror. The haircut hasn’t lost its new feeling yet and you still run your hands through it, expecting there to be more.

You stole Chris’s scissors several stops back and fixed the bottom line. Your hand hits your neck and you shiver at the memory of warm, soft hair pressed against you. You close your eyes, your hand still at the back of your neck.

Someone opens the door and you pull yourself together and go back outside.

Chris is sitting on top of one of the picnic tables outside.

“Ready?” he asks.

You shake your head. “I’m gay,” you blurt, staring at his scuffed converse. Words used to be your strong suit, your forte, and you don’t remember when that changed.

Chris looks for several moments like he’s struggling with something. Eventually he gives up and starts laughing.

You’re not sure whether or not you should be hurt.

He’s pointing at your shirt.

After Chris stops laughing he tells you that it was something they’d always believed but never talked about. Justin had toyed with the idea of starting a poll about when you’d finally tell them, but that was years ago.

He wonders why you felt like it was some well-kept secret.

“Fuck you. I haven’t told my parents.”

“Well, fuck. Why am I the first one?”

You’re not sure what to say.

Chris lets you drive through Port Charles. You think it might be the name of a soap opera, but you’re not quite sure. You only watch the ones on NBC.

He tries to keep up conversation so you don’t zone.

“How did you hide your sex life from us? Because I know I haven’t seen anything.”

“I haven’t had one.”

“What!?” You look over and he’s looking at you like you’re a genetic freak. Like you’d just confessed to having two dicks.

“There hasn’t been… I haven’t seen… I just…”

“Haven’t found anyone good?”

“Yeah. I mean, I’ve messed around. You guys haven’t been around ALL the time. But, yeah. No relationships.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah,” you say, as you drive across your second state line.

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