#benjamin heap

sam heap is fifteen years old, and he thinks he’s always known, but something about that moment solidifies it. the older boy’s hands brushing against his as he handed sam the oars, the way he’d looked at sam, thoughtful, as if wondering what a fifteen year old boy would even want with a bright green paddleboat, his gaze lingering on sam’s biceps as if mentally calculating how strong sam is.

i could probably carry you, sam had thought. he’d almost blushed, but not quite, so he was counting it a victory.

sam knows this fluttery feeling well.

he knows that girls never make him feel like this.

the knowledge is comfortable, safe, solid. he’s certain about this aspect of himself. telling other people, though, is still something he doesn’t know if he’s ready for.

so he’s here. test run, one two three. sam heap presses his palms against the bark of the tree, closes his eyes. 

‘grandpa,’ he says, softly. ‘i like boys. just boys. i’m gay.’

there’s a rustling of leaves, a branch swooping down, pressing against his head oh so gently. moving his hair out of his forehead. familiar leaves in sam’s face, like a kiss on the cheek. 

‘i love you,’ grandpa benji’s voice says. ‘i’m proud of you. thank you for telling me.’ 

and sam opens his eyes, leans back against his grandfather. he feels the branches gently caressing him, and he smiles. 

he sits there until it gets dark, and then he finally gets up. his brothers will need someone to prepare dinner, after all. but there’s a lightness in his chest, a sort of giddy euphoria. 

there’s something so special about a first time something happens, when it goes right.