Monty

Monty wanted nothing more than to return home, to forget it all happened, to curl up on the sofa and play happy families with his parents, watching TV in the safety and warmth of the living room. That, or simply joke and laugh with them, just as they used to. 

But he couldn't. Not without denying himself the basic decency and love he deserved. Not without playing a part, like a method actor so invested in their role that the lines between reality and fiction blurred beyond recognition.

He had known who he was for years. He was Monty. Surely he hadn't changed that much?

He'd hoped to find the right time to tell them, but that time never came. He'd tried to broach the subject, dip his toe in, and test the waters.

His decision to move from gymnastics to hockey? That was fine. Cutting his hair? That had raised eyebrows, but was still acceptable, except for his father saying he looked butch. No—he hadn't said "butch." He had called him a "dyke." And not in a positive way. It was meant as a slur, the same way he would use "queer," "gay," "fag," and "transgender," then wonder what he had said wrong when Monty looked nervous and upset.

The pressure to mask and hide was suffocating him. He couldn't breathe at home.

School was different. He had friends—amazing friends. When Monty first came out to them, Barney took him to get new shoes, something more comfortable than the pair Mum had bought him for the start of term. Riley had given him some of his old clothes. They were baggy and oversized and felt incredible.

Then he would come home, hide the clothes and trainers, and hope Mum and Dad didn't find them. It would be hard to explain. There was the truth, and then there was the easier lie— "that he had a boy in his bedroom", with all the awkwardness that would entail. Fortunately, they never found them.

Then came tonight.

Monty had planned and prepared. He'd watched so many coming-out videos, hoping that no matter the outcome, he'd know what to do. He'd hoped that by telling them the truth, it would bring them closer together, that he wouldn't have to continue hiding such a big part of himself, that they could know their son for who he truly was. He thought there might be some initial awkwardness, some questions, some time to let everything sink in. That was to be expected.

But no amount of planning had prepared Monty for this. Riley's clothes—his clothes now—stuffed into his rucksack. He had hoped to see acceptance and love from his parents. Instead, all they showed him was the door.

Wandering aimlessly through the empty streets, lit by the dull glow of streetlights, he trudged with no real destination. He needed to keep moving because if he stopped, even for a moment, his whole world would crumble around him.

His hands were frozen, his eyes stung, and his hair—overdue for a cut—whipped around his face in all directions.

He was helpless and alone, with nothing but the clothes on his back and a rucksack with the barest essentials. He'd managed to grab them before he left. They'd given him five minutes before they marched him out of the house.

By the time Monty reached Riley's house, he was shivering and bedraggled. Riley didn't know he was coming. His phone had died, and it was late, though the living room light was still on. That was a good sign, at least. It was either this or a park bench.

He hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.

Riley's mum, Mrs Wesker, answered the door, peering anxiously around the chain. She looked ready for bed, dressed in her Moomin onesie, dressing gown, and slippers. In one hand was the family's baseball bat, kept by the front door for emergencies. She'd seen many horror movies in her life, and it paid to be cautious.

"What the hell— You look absolutely dreadful. Come on in, dear. Riley!"

Monty tried to talk, but he couldn't. His teeth chattered, and he swayed. It took all his energy just to stay upright. Mrs Wesker guided him into the living room.

Mr Wesker was there, watching Match of the Day.

"You sit down, dear. Riley! Monty's here!"

"What?" Riley's voice shouted from upstairs.

A minute later, Riley was downstairs in a pair of pyjama shorts and a vest. He looked as if he had just woken. His eyes were bleary, and his usually preened hair was sticking up wildly in all directions. 

"Monty?" He stood in the doorway, looking concerned. "What happened?"

"Pa... pa... par..." Monty couldn't finish his sentence. The words caught in his throat. Then he burst into tears.

Mr and Mrs Wesker looked at each other and nodded. Riley had told them enough about Monty and his home life for them to put the pieces together.

"Riley, get the sleeping bag. You'll have to share with Monty top-to-tail. I hope that's okay, dear?"

Monty nodded, struggling to catch his breath. His chest heaved up and down, sucking in huge lungfuls of air. Mrs Wesker tried to help regulate his breathing. "In for four. Out for four. In for four. Out for four. And once more, just to make sure."

Meanwhile, Mr Wesker got him a glass of water, turning off the TV as he went.

Riley returned with a large red bundle hoisted over one shoulder.

"I'll just set this up, mate. Then I'll be right back. Two minutes, yeah?" Riley disappeared back upstairs.

"If you'll excuse me, I just need to make a quick phone call. Gerri, keep Monty company. Maybe put the football back on. You like football, Monty?"

"I... do... yeah."

Mr Wesker turned the TV back on.

"I'm sorry..." Monty began, but Mr Wesker cut him off.

"We'll have no more of those tonight. They’re not necessary. So, what's your team?"

"Um... Everton. And you?" It was a welcome distraction. For the last two hours, all he had been thinking about was the furious howls of his dad, yelling at him to leave and never come back. Again and again, getting louder with every loop.

"Aston Villa. That's my team. Riley supports Man City."

Monty already knew this. One of Riley's old tops had been a Man City training shirt from two seasons ago. He would have held onto it, but it had shrunk in the wash, either that or he had another growth spurt. 

It was the only piece of clothing Riley was reluctant to part with and joked about taking back every now and again.

"Don't tell Riley, but for his birthday we've gotten him a season ticket. Cost a bloody arm and leg, but you don't turn eighteen every day, you know what I mean?"

Just then, Mrs Wesker stormed into the living room, shaking her head in utter contempt. She pocketed her mobile, muttering under her breath, and sat down. After a moment, she looked at Monty. There was sadness in her voice.

"Monty, dear... You are to stay here. Gerri, tomorrow I'm going to need you to get the air bed out of the garage. We can set it up in Riley's room. It's too loud to do tonight."

"Was that... my parents?" Monty asked hoarsely.

"I'm afraid it was," Mrs Wesker replied, doing her best to remain calm. She was still seething. "And... I'm sorry, love."

"I can't go back... can I?"

"I... don't know. Not right now, at least."

"Fuck."

"What matters now is that you are here and safe. I don't know what tomorrow will bring, but today, you have us. Would you like a hug?"

"I... yes, please."

"Come here, then." Mrs Wesker opened her arms.

Monty stepped into the embrace, feeling her arms close tightly around him. It was as if all the tension and fear melted away, replaced by a sense of safety he hadn't felt in a very, VERY long time. His tears soaked into her dressing gown, but she didn't seem to mind.

They parted.

"Better?"

"Yes." And he meant it, too.

Tonight had been awful—truly awful. A night so terrible that he wanted to forget it ever happened.

Yet at least in this moment, for the first time, Monty allowed himself to believe things might just be okay. That no matter how much he had lost, he wasn't alone. That here, in the Weskers' living room, under the gentle hum of the TV, he had something that no one—not even his parents—could take away from him: hope.