Chase the Storm

This storyis dedicated to everyone trying to find their pathto happiness, don’t give up. I would like to thank the following people for their contributions to my inspiration, knowledge, and help bringingthis storyto life.

Thank you to my incredible husband and wonderful children for allowing me the time to write and understanding my many hours in front of the computer. This story would not have been possible without their unconditionallove and support.

Thank you, C.M and S.M, for their amazing advice, encouragement, talent, and opinions, allofwhichmade me a better writer.

 

Thank youto Dannie for inspiringa love storyfromjust a few words. Thank you to all my readers who have followed me and consistently supported me and pushed me to publish.

 

Ahuge thank you to everyone at Dreamspinner Press for their help, skill, and for takinga chance onanunknownauthor and the boys she wrote.

 

V~
Prologue

 

B
ROWN
.
Everythingwas brown.

Different shades of it, of course. Everything from tan to sepia appeared in the fields lining both sides of the two-lane highway. As I drove, the tall wheat swayed back and forth in the constant wind, almost like it had been choreographed. Contained in their stalks was a vision ofa summer long ago, one that had changed my life, the kind where a single person had such a profound effect on another that they never forget them, no matter how many miles between them. My heart fluttered like the heads of the wheat, strengthening the ache I’d felt every day since that summer. Surging through me with such force, the memories stole my breath.

It had beenso longago, and yet it felt like yesterday.

The now familiar twang of country music filtered through the shitty speakers of my run-down truck. Every few words were lost to the static, and no matter how many times I banged my fist on the top of the dashboard, it never sounded any better. Smiling, I shook my head. Even with the many spots of rust marring the distressed red paint on the worn body, the crack in the windshield, and ripped vinyl interior, I held a fondness for the truck that could never be explained.

There might have been enough money sitting in my trust fund to purchase a new truck, or like the rest of my fellow college graduates, a new Mercedes or BMW. It was all about keeping up with the Joneses, who had the nicest car and largest bank account. Fortunate enough to have been born to a father who was the vice president of a Fortune 500 company, I was accustomed to having the best of everything. There was onlyone thingwrongwiththat.

It wasn’t who I was.

I’d never cared about being number one, about being able to travel the world or afford designer clothes and the finest house furnishings. That was my parents, my grandparents, and even my sister, but it wasn’t me. Much to my family’s dismay, I was a simple man, a homebody who preferred curling up with a good book or playing my piano to jet-setting around Europe. Music was my love; I secretly looked forward to the piano lessons I complained about because they were the only times I got to do what I enjoyed. However, according to my mother, it wasn’t my musical talent that would garner attention from others, it was my allAmericanlooks.

In a rare moment of parental caring, she told me, “People will trip over themselves to be near you. Your looks will open many doors for you.”

Later that night, I’d stared into the mirror in my bathroomsuite. AllI saw was mousy brown wavy hair that was a little too long and eyes that were an odd shade of green, somewhere between grass and moss. My lashes were so long they looked feminine, and my cheeks seemed to be stained permanentlypink evenwhenI wasn’t blushing.

I was the epitome of an outsider looking in. Other kids my age listened to pop music, I loved classical. They dressed in the latest runway fashions, I preferred jeans and sneakers. They cared about cars, computers, and cell phones. My most prized possession was a battered first edition copy of
The Catcher in the Rye
. I wasn’t like them, any of them. I didn’t belong anywhere, certainly not at the privileged private schoolI attended, and I felt it more everyday.

During my senior year in high school, I’d spent hours scouring the internet and brochures, looking for colleges that would take me far away from New York City and my parents’ high-rise penthouse. When I’d found a college in Montana that would allow me to study music, I daydreamed of walking around the tiny campus. For as long as I could remember, I’d wanted to be a musician. I’d never really cared in what capacity; perhaps as a teacher or composer. I just wanted to be around music every day. But as I grew older, I’d realized I was expected to attend a large college and graduate with my business degree so I could follow in my father’s footsteps. For weeks, I had argued adamantly with myparents.

Inthe end, theywon.

The September after graduation, I packed up my belongings and enrolled at Harvard. At first I was too busy to notice I didn’t belong. My roommate, Trent, was from southern California and had a girlfriend he flaunted in front of me. I woke up more than once to the concert of their moans and grunts as theymoved under a blanket. There were manynights I came back from the library to find a sock hanging from the doorknob. Sometimes I’d sighand returnto the library, but once I slid downthe wall, put my earbuds in, cranked Mozart, and studied more. Hours later, I was roused by a foot nudging my thigh. When I looked up, I saw a very satisfied smile on Trent’s face, his surfer boy golden locks falling over one ofhis blue eyes.

“Thanks, man,” he said as I shoved past himand into the room. “Ya know, anytime youwant to have your girlfriend over, just let me know.” “Yeah. Thanks.”

 

Wasn’t going to happen. I had been sixteen when I’d figured out I would never want a girlfriend.

 

I was gay.

 

I hadn’t told anyone, and Trent certainly wasn’t going to be the first to know.

Instead, I admired cute boys from afar, blushing whenever they happened to look my way and catch me watching them. One night, I dared to venture into a gay club. I had spent hundreds on an authenticlooking fake ID only to find myself plastered to the wall staring with wide eyes at the shirtless menbumpingand grindingonthe dance floor. Whena guy approached me, his eyes sparkling as he took in my awe, I panicked. Puttinghis fingers under mychin, he forced myhead up.

“Come to pop your cherry, gorgeous? I canhelp withtha”

I never heard the rest because I wrenched my chin from his grasp and ran. Outside, I bent over with my hands on my knees, panting for breathand tryingto slow mythumpingheart. I was frustrated evenmore. I knew I was gay by the erection I’d gotten seeing the men dance, but I didn’t seem to belong in their world either. Most boys my age, gay or straight, had had several lovers, but not me. I hadn’t even kissed a boy, muchless fucked one.

It wasn’t that I didn’t have the desire to, and maybe I was old fashioned, but I didn’t want to just fuck anyone. I wanted to be in love; I wanted it to mean something. I was looking for my forever, not a onenight stand, and I wasn’t goingto find it ingaybars or oncampus. So until I found the one I wanted to give allofmyselfto, I settled for fantasies and myhand.

T
HOSE
first few months of college were long, but I threw myself into my classes, none of which were music related, and tried to do the best I could. When Christmas break arrived, I flew home. I hadn’t seen my parents since August because they’d been in Germany over Thanksgiving break. Arriving in New York City, I was greeted by my father’s chauffeur, who drove me home.

My parents’ penthouse had been decorated by professionals for the holidays. My mother threw a party almost every night, and I was forced to put on a smile and fake my way through the pleasantries about college when all I wanted to do was scream. The days at home dragged, and I found myself eager to return to Boston, and even Trent. At least he listened to me whenI spoke.

The middle of January arrived, and I was put back on a plane to Boston. I landed in a snowstorm, made my way to the campus, relieved to find my roomempty, and flopped onto my bed. Tears I hadn’t realized I was holding in began to fall, and before I knew it, I was sobbing, grieving for a life I would never have but had always wanted. Every day I lived a lie, more suffocating than the day before. I was lying to my family, myself, the world. Harvard wasn’t me, the money wasn’t me, studying business wasn’t me, girls weren’t for me. Each night I hoped for a way to escape, and each morning I woke up and faced it all over again. Numbly, I continued throughthe farce ofa life, fakingit just like I had for years.

One day in early May, I was one test away from my finals being completed and returning to New York City to start a summer internship working for my father. It was going to be sixteen weeks of hell. With coffee in hand, I was walking to the library for some last-minute studying when a flash of red across the street caught my eye. Looking more closely, I saw it was an old Ford pickup truck parked on the side of the road. Perched inthe back window was a black and white “For Sale”sign. Suddenly, I was assaulted byimages offreedom, solitude, and solace.

I knew right then that decrepit truck held the ticket to my summer. I could continue to my dorm, pack my things, and fly home the next day to be the robot I’d been raised to be, or I could get into that truck and take off for parts of the country I didn’t know existed. My heart beat with excitement for the first time in years, and before I could change my mind and act rationally, I pulled out my phone and called the number on the sign. An hour later, I was the proud owner of a four speed 1965 Ford F100 withanAM radio.

Back inmydormroom, Trent slept as I pulled out myduffle bagand started emptying my bureau drawers, shoving clothes, toiletries, towels, and laptop in the bag. Opening my footlocker, I stuffed it with my blankets and books. Whatever was left behind, I could do without. I didn’t want to take the time to pack more. If I hesitated, even for a minute, logic would settle in and I would end up in NewYork. Scrawling a note to Trent, I told himto have a good summer and maybe I would see himin the fall. It took two trips, but I lugged everything down to the truck and put it in the bed, chuckling to myselfwhen the tailgate stuck and I had to kick it to get it closed. Then I ran to my last class of the year, rushed throughthe test, handed it to the teacher, and left the building. It was early afternoonbythe time I climbed into the old truck, mynew friend.