Page 15 of Backward Motion

His mom checked the tag. “For nine ninety-nine, it could be made of recycled tires for all I care.”

They were in Grand Island, which was a forty-minute drive from Oakdale and the closest place with a decent-sized mall. He used to come here with his sister and later with friends, trawling through the DVD racks at the music store on the basement floor. It felt weird to be back and even weirder to be here with his mom. But she’d knocked on his door that morning and asked if he’d like to join her for some retail therapy. He knew she was going out of her way tospend time together, and what could be more conducive to bonding with your gay boomerang son than a trip to the mall?

“After this, let’s get pretzels,” his mom said, placing the sweater back on the rack and flicking through the remaining hangers with military precision.

Sam’s phone pulsed in his hand, and he glanced down to find another unsolicited message from his sister:It’s been two months. Time to get back on the horse. For M&D’s sake.

“Who is it?” his mother asked, catching his scowl.

“Georgia.”

“Oh, what does she say?”

“Hi. Hope you’re having a wonderful day.”

His mother tittered and shot him a knowing look. “Sounds like our Georgie.”

She picked out a lavender cardigan and a printed flower skirt for herself and motioned for Sam to follow her to the fitting rooms. After she pulled the curtain closed behind her, he took a seat on the bench across from the cubicle and waited.

“It’s so nice to have you along,” she said through the curtain. “You have a real eye for fashion. Your father never knows what to say.”

“Mom, you know that’s a stereotype.”

“No, it’s not, Samuel. I’ve seen your wardrobe. You’re very discerning.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but she was right. He was particular about his clothes. He cared about style and fit and looking good. His thoughts jumped to Connor, who hadn’t been far from his mind since the previous evening’s unexpected revelation. Connor gave the impression that he didn’t care how he looked, in his overalls and faded tees, but Sam had noticed the crisp polo and fitted jeans he’d worn to the football game. Not flashy, yet clear he’d made an effort.

Connor’s admission had come as a shock. He’d never given Sam reason to believe he was anything other than your average card-carrying heterosexual. Sure, sometimes Sam’s pulse skipped when Connor looked at him, but finding straight men attractive came with the territory. He felt a pang as he realized how much work had to go into maintaining that impression. It had been a big part of why Sam had come out in high school—pretending was too painful. Yet the almost defeated way Connor had revealed his truth made Sam wonder whether Connor’s decision to remain closeted was less a choice and more a product of his surroundings.

His mom emerged in the floral skirt and gave a little spin. “Well?”

“The fit’s okay, but I don’t like the pattern.”

She examined herself in the full-length mirror at the entrance to the fitting rooms. “It is a bit bold.” She returned to her cubicle, and this time when she spoke, her voice was cautious. “How are things going with Louise?”

One of his parents’ requirements, after he moved back home, was that he have weekly calls with a therapist. Louise was a little dowdy with her earth-tone kaftans and sensible frames, but she was nice enough and seemed to genuinely care about Sam and his struggles. He knew why his mom was asking this here, with the barrier of the curtain between them. It was easier to broach the tough questions without having to make eye contact.

“Fine,” he said. “Things are going well.”

“That’s great. Do you feel you’re making progress?”

It was such a mom question. As though the way through the dark forest was straight and linear. “In some ways,” Sam replied. “She’s helping me set healthier boundaries and get more comfortable with saying no.”

“And have you been practicing?”

“What?”

“Saying no.”

“Well, if this trip is any indication...”

His mother pulled back the curtain, her face sad.

“I’m kidding, Mom. I wanted to come shopping with you. Love the lavender, by the way. Come out here and give us a twirl.” She did, less enthusiastically this time. “Let’s get the cardigan,” he said, standing. “Pretzels are on me.”

Later, as they sat across from each other in the food court, with coffee and warm pretzels, his mother fiddled with her napkin. “It was wrong of me to ask earlier. Your conversations with Louise are private. It’s none of my business.”

Sam knew why she’d asked, though. Because back when he was an angsty, pimply kid, she had been his Louise, full of advice about how to ignore the haters and stay true to himself. He had confided things to her he’d never told his sister or his dad. She had been his rock.