Collateral Damage

Cashier at Sbarro’s: When you told me I had pretty eyes, for once I believed a compliment about myself. After I grinned back at you, why did you have to ruin things by saying “But I’m not gay or anything?” All I wanted was a slice of pizza, but you gave me a side of fear of being proud about my sexuality in public. One and a half stars out of five.

Alyssa: Sending me photos of manatees didn’t make up for how you couldn’t go on another date because you were afraid our relationship would end over the summer. I didn’t tell you, but on the day you sent your last message, my grandpa’s funeral was that morning. I kept telling you I wouldn’t let the miles between us matter because I couldn’t bear to lose two people at once. Except I did. When I was dodging roadkill while driving back to work in the mornings Grandpa was in the hospital, I sang in the car about both of you to The 1975. It should’ve just been for him.

Old man I hit in the kneecap with a golf ball in New Jersey: I meant to whack the ball over the chain link fence to get the attention of a pretty girl. You were just collateral damage.

Liam: I used to ride on the back of your bike when we were twelve and learned the curve of your smile by firelight. I always thought the necklace you gave me would be replaced with a diamond ring one day. While we were fighting about something I wouldn’t remember later, you told me I was gay. I wanted to think we didn’t play chess anymore because you hurt my feelings, but in the end, I stopped ringing your doorbell because I knew you were probably right.

Otis: When I was fifteen, you made my Confirmation class stand on the right side of the church’s gym if we believed that homosexuality wasn’t a sin. If we didn’t, we had to move to the left side. Those who were unsure remained dead center. From my place in the middle of the room, I heard you say, “My brother is gay, but he shouldn’t get married. I still love him though.” I wished I had been brave enough to walk to the right half of the gym and tell you that you didn’t know a damn thing about unconditional love.

Zoe: We became close in elementary school when you taught me how to play Superheroes and we had to make an egg remain intact after a several foot drop off the school’s roof using a tin and bubble wrap. During archery lessons in eighth grade, you said, “You’re not gay, right? You would tell me if you were.” The egg survived, but our friendship didn’t and yeah, part of it was because you dated guys who made me flinch when they yelled and I couldn’t take out my enemies like we did at age nine by shooting them with invisible marshmallows.

Grandpa: Mom said you didn’t start to tell people you loved them until Rachael and I were born. You let me sit on your shoulders while you built my Lego houses and from looking back at home videos, you held me as if I were your sun, moon and stars. Mom told me after you died that you still would’ve been hugging me hello even if I came out. I should’ve told you I loved you, too.

Mary McIntyre is an M.F.A. candidate at Chatham University. Her writing has been published in Great Lake Review and New York’s Emerging Writers: An Anthology of Nonfiction. McIntyre is from Central New York, which influences much of her work.