Page 76 of Haunted

“I’m being a student, Jonny. They like to provoke. You think you’re not going to get at least one activist who accuses you of not standing up for gay rights?”

His voice is stronger now, like he’s latched onto something he doesn’t want to let go of. “I’m not a spokesman for gay rights. I’m a travel host. I show people beautiful places and help them not get ripped off. If someone wants to make that into a political statement, that’s their agenda, not mine.”

“But you are a gay man with a platform. Don’t you have a duty to use it?”

“I have a duty to be honest. And honestly? Telling a gay traveler to pay attention to where he is isn’t cowardice. It’s survival, and I have been doing it for nine years, in Goa and in Georgia both.”

That’s good. That’s really good. But they won’t all be reasonable, so I decide to throw a curve ball.

“Try a hostile one,” I say. “A student stands up and says: you left this town to go running around India. Why is that? Did you try to monetize your fame as a survivor of these wildfires to jumpstart your career?”

“Wow. No. I explicitly used a different name, and I think only a handful of people from Fairhaven ever reached out to me. And to whatever you’re implying, I’d say grief doesn’t come with a required address.”

“Good. Now they push. They say the channel proves it—that you built a whole life out of showing strangers only the parts of India that you’ve carefully edited.”

His jaw tightens, barely. “I don’t hear a question in that. But I’ll engage with this. All places that you show on a travel show are carefully edited. If your cousin is coming to town, you don’t get to show him the Walmart or Jefferson Parkway or the power plant. You show him the downtown. The nice parts.”

“And what about you?” I say. “You’ve been doing this for about a decade. Is it still fun?”

“Sure, or else I wouldn’t do it.”

“Is it always fun, or do you think that there is something hollow about advocating for a lifestyle of permanent impermanence?”

I can see he’s starting to get irritated. “All things are permanent impermanence. That is the basis of several major religions.”

“That’s a cop-out. Why did you choose India and why couldn’t you have waited for me to go with you?”

The temperature in the room drops ten degrees.

“I went because it was cheap and far away,” he says quietly. “I went to India, learned to speak Hindi, and figured I could make money by telling people about my experiences. And to answer your question, you know exactly why I couldn’t wait for you. This is way too personal. Students don’t give a damn about this.”

“I want you to be prepared.”

“Are you prepping me or are you airing a grievance?”

“But you’re right. They don’t care about this. From the top. You train past the hurt.”

I blink at him as I connect the dots that created that philosophy.

“How often were you in combat?” he asks. His voice is gentle, which somehow makes it worse.

“Enough.”

“And how much therapy did the Corps give you after that?”

“This isn’t about me.”

“Honey, it’s been about you for the last ten minutes. You stopped being a student asking questions and started being a man I hurt a lot, who’s asking me questions I can’t answer without hurting him more.”

“I’m not hurt!” I shout.

“Then you’re afraid of losing control of this situation, and you’re doing everything to make sure you don’t feel like that. Does that land better, Lance?”

I open my mouth and nothing comes out of it, because he’s right.

“I’m not trying to come at you,” I say.

“I know you’re not. But that’s where you learned to do it, and you’ve never had to unlearn it.”