“He should. . . .” Cesar’s eyes are shiny, like he’s about to cry.
“Why?”
“Because he did everything for me and I broke up with him right when he needed me. He didn’t do nothing wrong, and I fucked him over. Here, I’m not hungry.” He hands me the bag.
“It’s okay. Feelings change. That’s not your fault.” I open the bag, hoping he might subconsciously start eating them if it’s open. I don’t know why I want him to eat them so bad. I just want to feel like some small part of this can still be normal.
“My feelings didn’t change, though. I’m just a shit person.”
“You’re not a shit person.”
He doesn’t answer.
“So, why did you break up with him?”
He’s quiet for a while. He draws in a slow breath, and his nails jab into his palms. It feels like a full minute passes before he says anything.
“Why did God make me like this if I’m not supposed to be like this, huh?” His chin quivers, and he wraps his arms around himself. I want to hug him, but I don’t even know if that’s allowed here.
“I don’t know,” I ask myself that all the time. “Is that why you broke up with Jamal? Because you want to be straight?”
It takes him a while to say anything. “It was my penance.”
“Penance . . .” It takes me a minute to process what that means. “Like from confession? The priest made you break up with him?” I never thought I could be so pissed at a priest in my life. What gives him the right to play God in people’s lives like that?
“No one made me do anything. I just wanted to get right with God. . . . I thought I could get better. Date girls from now on. And I could be good with Dad, too.”
“Better . . . as in straight?”
He doesn’t answer.
“What about me then? Am I going to hell, too? Is Jamal?”
“In lak’ech . . .” He shrugs. Meaning, we’re all going to hell. That’s a fucking shitty way to use that phrase.
“Well, I don’t believe that. There’s nothing wrong with us. There’s nothing to fix, besides your backward attitude.”
There’s a sting in his laugh. “Okay, so why are you still in the closet then?”
“Are you kidding me? I came out to Dad, to you, to Bo . . . it’s a process. I’m getting there. It’s not a one-and-done thing. It has nothing to do with shame. And if you’re ashamed of yourself, then are you ashamed of me, too? And Jamal? Is that how you feel?”
“I’m not ashamed of you. . . .” His voice is softer now. I don’t realize I’m crying until he reaches for my hand. He holds it gently and doesn’t say anything about the scabs. “Yami, I’m not ashamed of you, okay?” I hate that even now, with him in a freaking hospital, he still feels like he has to comfort me, instead of the other way around.
“Then how can you be ashamed of yourself?”
He looks down and doesn’t answer.
“You’re the one who said it. In lak’ech. I know you know what it means. ‘Tú eres mi otro yo.’ I love you, so I love myself. I love myself! And I know you love me, too.” I put my other hand on his so it’s sandwiched between both of mine. “So, you don’t get to say ‘in lak’ech’ to me and not mean it. You got to show yourself some love. If not for yourself, for me. Or Jamal. Or Mom.”
Cesar lets his head fall down so his forehead is on the back of my hand, and he whimpers. I want to leap over the table and hug him, but I don’t want to get kicked out. I know I can’t take all that shame away from him. But I can start by showing him how much I’m not ashamed. Not only am I not ashamed, I’m proud. I can’t make him love himself. The closest I can get is loving myself unapologetically right in front of him. Like Bo did in front of me. Maybe then he’ll get it. He doesn’t make any noise, but I feel my hand getting wet from his tears.