“I love you,” he says.
The sirens in my head start going off. At first I wonder if I’ve heard him right, between the heavy breathing, the sound of our kissing, the soft music he’s got playing. In fact, I’m sure I heard him wrong. Maybe it was a line from the song instead?
But then I pull away from Josh, and he’s staring up at me with those big brown eyes of his, like he’s expecting some kind of answer from me.
That’s when I realize I’m truly in trouble.
And here I thought this was going to be a nice visit, some making out, maybe fooling around before afternoon classes.
But no.
Instead, he’s said those three little words, and he’s waiting for me to say them back. Then we’ll kiss and fall back onto the bed and probably miss class, but it won’t matter because we’re in love! And everything is perfect!
Except it isn’t.
And now I have to have this conversation. So annoying.
“Neil?” He’s still looking at me.
“Okay.”
His face sinks, the smile gone in an instant. “Okay?” he repeats.
“That’s what I said.” I want to get off his lap, but his hands are still on my waist.
“I said ‘I love you,’ ” he says again. Like I didn’t hear him.
“And I said ‘okay.’ ” I huff, pulling myself away from him, his hands retreating. He’s always loved touching me, and usually I don’t mind. A hand around my waist or up the back of my shirt, faintly scratching my back while we watch movies. He always gets frustrated because I fall asleep before the movie’s over, but I can also tell he thinks it’s cute. Movie night’s the most we’ve ever allowed this arrangement to veer toward anything resembling us being boyfriends, and that’s only because I get a nice back scratch out of it, or him playing with my hair.
Josh and I laid down the rules firmly when this entire thing started. It was just a bit of stress relief, and that’s all it was ever supposed to be.
We’d both agreed to that.
“What else do you want me to say?” I ask him.
Josh still looks like he’s in shock. “I’d like it if you’d say something besides ‘okay.’ ”
“Thank you?” It comes out as more of a question than I mean it to.
All I can do is stand there awkwardly while he processes whatever is going on in that head of his. There’s disappointment on his face, anger, sadness, pity—a whole range of emotions he’s forcing himself through over three little words.
“I knew this was a mistake,” Josh whimpers. I don’t want to sound mean or anything, but he’s getting pretty pitiful. “I knew it.”
“If you knew it, then why’d you say it?” I ask him.
“I don’t know.” He hangs his head in shame. “I think part of me was just … I guess hoping you’d say it back.”
“Not really, sorry …” I tell him. I glance at the Rolex on my wrist—Oyster Perpetual, the one with the nice black dial. If we don’t wrap this up soon, we’re both going to be late for class.
I should have known that something was up; I should have felt it. I mean, did I have a gut feeling that something bad like this was going to happen? No, not really, but still, I should have seen it coming.
The only reason I came here is because he asked, because there was an unanswered text from him on my phone telling me to drop by before Classic Lit. I figured, why not? Josh’s dorm room was close to the English building, even if it meant that I’d be risking hickeys on my neck for the rest of the day. I imagined some fooling around would make the rest of the day a little more enjoyable.
“
I thought …” Josh begins to say. Then he backs up and starts again. “You’re telling me that you don’t feel this? You don’t think we have something real?” I think there might actually be tears welling up behind his eyes; they seem wetter than usual.
He reaches up for my hand, but I back away and let it fall.
“We had an agreement, Josh. No feelings, no dating, no emotions. Just fun. Look, I enjoy spending time with you, but that’s because we were friends before this entire situation was even an idea. That’s how I see us—two friends who happen to have sex every now and then.”
It’s been, up until this moment, an absolutely perfect setup. He has a single dorm room, so there aren’t any roommates to worry about when we want to be together, and he isn’t a half-bad kisser either; a little too much tongue, but that’s his only real flaw.
When this whole situation started up at the beginning of this school year, we’d made things clear. This was just a friendly thing, just us hooking up, relieving some tension, and helping each other out. We even had a Pull-Out Clause—Josh came up with the name: If either of us ever started to get serious about another person, we’d call the whole thing off and move on.
This was never supposed to be about love, or feelings, or any junk like that. We’re in high school, for fuck’s sake. Who falls in love in high school?
And now, with three little words, it’s all undone.
“I should probably leave,” I say.
“No, wait!” Josh jumps up. “Please, wait!”
I just stare at him, his eyes wide after the outburst. In all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him worked up like this. He isn’t exactly the loud type. He’s scrawny, with a little bit of muscle, and height that comes in handy when he plays basketball.
Maybe after things have calmed down a little, I can help set him up with someone, someone who wants the same things he wants. Let’s just hope this other boy doesn’t mind the amount of LEGO Star Wars sets that decorate his dorm room. My eyes avoid Josh’s and instead focus on this huge thing he calls a Y-wing; it had been a bitch to find because apparently it had been “retired.” I had to make an account on some LEGO-selling website just to find it, and we’d spent twelve hours total building the stupid thing.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly.
“Josh.” I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I’ve got to get to class.”
“Can’t I get anything from you?”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Anything.”
“I’ve said plenty and you didn’t seem happy with that either, so forgive me if I’m a little confused.” I glance at my watch, calculating the minutes it’ll take to get to Mr. Johnson’s English class. I think I’ve got three, and that’s being generous.
“What if we go back?” Josh asks. “What if we just hit rewind, undo the last few minutes, and pretend like nothing ever happened. I take it back, okay? Seriously. Let’s just forget it.”
Oh, how I’d love for that to happen, to be blasted with some laser that would erase both of our short-term memories. But now that I know the truth, now that I know how Josh really feels about this entire situation, there’s no undoing it. I need to pull the plug.
“Goodbye, Josh. I’ll see you at dinner?”
He’s known me for almost ten years, so he should know I’m not behaving any different than usual. He’s always been one to appreciate my bluntness, my ability to tell the truth.
“You’re joking, right?”
“What? It’s not like we’re broken up. I think it’s better if we go back to just being friends without benefits. Or, like, the sexual benefits.”
I know now I should’ve broken it off sooner. I take in the disappointment on his face, the sour expression, and I let out a low groan.
“Josh,” I say, “let me ask you, what did you really think was going to happen?”
He finally looks up at me again, and he stares, contemplating his words for a bit before he opens his mouth. “I thought … I thought that maybe you’d change your mind, or that our ‘rules’ didn’t matter anymore.”
“How do you think that’s going for you?”
Okay, maybe that was a little mean. But I’m getting annoyed, and I don’t want to be late for class.
“You don’t have to be a jerk.”
“I’m not the bad guy here, Josh. You knew what this was.”
“I’m not saying you’re the bad guy,” he tells me. “I was just hoping for a little compassion.”
“I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
His
shoulders slump. I’ve never seen him look this defeated. “Yeah … sure.”
I grab my backpack off his desk chair and slip out into the hallway as quickly as I can, walking as fast as my short legs will carry me. My mind keeps racing as I try to process everything that’s just happened, and I rub at my forehead to calm the headache I can feel coming on. And of course, Josh just had to make his declaration two days before we’re supposed to leave for Michael’s wedding. Josh was going to be the buffer between me and my family, the safety net so I could protect myself, but now that’s all gone up in flames.
An entire week spent in Beverly Hills surrounded by the awful people who make up my family. Josh was supposed to be there to save me, to drag me away from my grandparents when they asked about my surgeries, to distract me at the brunches and the rehearsal dinner.
Now I’m going to have to spend a week avoiding both him and my family.
That’ll be fun.
Maybe this is my fault? Maybe I gave Josh too much attention, too much time, too much effort?
No. The more I think about it, the more I can see this as his fault. I never gave him any indication that we could fall in love, that we could possibly be boyfriends, that we’d drive off into the sunset holding hands. Jesus fucking Christ, we’re teenagers. It isn’t that serious.
This isn’t my fault; it can’t be.
Unless I’m just too lovable for my own good.
* * *
I think the day can’t possibly get any worse, and of course it does. Between everything with Josh this morning, two quizzes in my final classes that I’m sure I failed, and being so distracted that I forgot to take notes in biology, I’m ready for this day to just end.
My stomach isn’t helping either, growling low enough for the people around me to hear. If Josh hadn’t dragged me to his room, I would’ve had time to eat lunch. Now I’m starving, and it’ll be hours before the dining hall is open for dinner.
The iced coffee I bought from the campus café this morning is definitely gone. I’m already plotting on how to get back to the dorm and grab the box of granola bars hidden under my bed before Fowler gets there and forces me to small talk.
God, that’s one more thing snatched away from me. Josh has one of the rare single rooms on campus, which means it’s been a safe haven, a sanctuary where I can use the spare
key he gave me to be alone if needed. Alone, and—most important—away from the annoying little Goody Two-shoes I’m forced to share this space with.
And now that’s gone.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
The final bell rings, and I’m the first out of the classroom. Political science is in the Henry building across campus from my dorm, so it takes some time to get back there, but if I’m not mistaken, Fowler should be at the music club until five or six, so perhaps I’m in the clear for the next few hours.
When I get to my door, I reach into my pocket, looking for my key ring, except it isn’t there.
I dig into my other pocket. Just my phone.
Wallet in the back right pocket. The back left pocket is empty like always.
Okay, Neil, don’t panic. Don’t worry because you always have your key in your right pocket, because that’s where it always is and now it isn’t for some reason. You probably just left it in your backpack, put it in one of the pockets.
Except it isn’t there.
Even after emptying my entire backpack on the floor, there isn’t a single key to be found.
I slowly bang my head against the door. How long will it take to concuss myself? I’ve seen guys in football games get smacked a lot harder and be … okay-ish? Maybe I should just do it harder? That’ll give me an excuse not to go to the wedding this weekend.
Except when I go to smack my head again, the door opens and I stumble forward and trip, actually hitting my head on the floor before I can catch myself. The result is a sharp pain, and an instant headache that no amount of rolling over or rubbing my forehead will make go away. I open my eyes slowly, ignoring the pain, and I see Wyatt Fowler staring up at me. Or rather, down at me.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
“You were banging on the door.”
“I lost my keys.”
Wyatt looks at my nightstand and pulls something off of it. “Here they are.” He tosses them toward me, but I make no effort to catch them, letting them hit my stomach with a jingle.
I
pick myself up.
Wyatt’s mostly dressed in his school uniform; the obviously secondhand blazer has been thrown casually on his bed to be hung up later. I suppose the music club is off if he’s here already. I throw my bag on the floor and fall face-first onto my bed, relishing the feeling of the plush comforter. And then I let out the loudest groan possible.
“Yeah?”
I don’t answer him.
“Rough day?”
“Stop talking,” I moan, my voice muffled.
“Did something happen?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“Whatever you say,” Wyatt drawls out. I don’t know where Wyatt was born exactly, but I do know he’s from North Carolina. He’s said as much himself. And even if he hadn’t, his accent alone would’ve told me he’s as southern as the biscuits and gravy that seem to be on nearly every breakfast menu in Charlotte. His words are slow except when they aren’t, when he mumbles so much that I can’t understand a word he says.
“Just stop talking,” I beg him again.
Wyatt whistles, turning up the same indie bullshit that he’s always listening to or playing on his guitar.
“Turn that down,” I tell him.
He ignores me.
“Hey, I said turn it down. Didn’t you hear me?”
“I did,” he says. “What I didn’t hear was a ‘please.’ ”
“I’m not going to beg you to turn the music down.” I turn my head so I can see the smug smile on his face and that stupid gap between his two front teeth.
“It’s not begging,” he says. “It’s called having manners.”
“Whatever.” I’m not going to fight with him over this. I just want to sleep. I don’t even remember when I decided that a nap would fix the things wrong with today, but I’m deciding that now. Except the bass is kicking in on his song, and a beat comes in and it’s super noisy, so I stand up fast and walk over to where Wyatt’s ancient iPhone is sitting on the shelf (I mean, it still has a home button, come on) and I turn off the music.
“Hey!” he protests.
“
I asked nicely.” I get back in bed.
“That’s the one thing you didn’t do.” He goes over and turns the music back on.
“I was trying to nap.”
“What’s up with you today?” he asks. “You never talk to me this much.”
“You’re lucky I’m acknowledging you at all,” I mumble back into my pillow. “I’m just in a bad mood.”
“Well, I don’t know what caused your foul mood, but it isn’t my fault, even if my last name is Fowler.”
My God.
The worst part is that I know he’s right. But it’s the fact that he’s right, and the way he’s being so earnest and sincere about everything, that’s driving me up the wall. That’s what I can’t stand about Wyatt, he’s just so …
Good.
He’s always asking me how my day was, if I did well on my exams or assignments. He asks me where I’m going when I’m leaving and tells me to be safe. And even though I never, ever ask, he tells me where he’s going and if he’ll be back late.
I’m about to get up to turn his music off again when I’m saved by my phone. Or, rather, Wyatt is saved by my phone. Samuel’s calling.
“What?”
“Whoa, sounds like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.” He laughs, and I can perfectly picture the way his mouth stretches into a smile while he does it. I wish I were there to smack the look off his face.
“What do you want, Samuel?”
“I was just calling you to see what’s up.”
“I’m in my room.” I peer over at Wyatt, realizing for the first time that he’s got an open suitcase on his bed. He’s walking over to his closet now, grabbing one of the dozens of flannel shirts or worn-out band T-shirts he wears when we aren’t required to be in uniform. The one he’s holding has a picture of some blond lady on the back with the words TINY HOT TOPIC BITCH written on the front. Even after almost a year it’s always funny seeing him outside of his uniform in this weird grunge guitar-kid aesthetic. The boy even wears earrings, tiny little hoops in his ears that he puts in every day so the holes won’t close.
Samuel mutters to someone off the call before he comes back to me. “We’re heading to the bridge; you want to come?”
“No.”
The chances of Josh being there are way too high.
“Why not? One last hurrah before spring break. Josh isn’t going to be there,” he adds, like he’s reading my mind.
I almost end the call there.
“Why would you say that? What difference does it make if Josh is or isn’t there?”
“You two had a fight, didn’t you?”
“Who told you that?”
“Let’s see …” Samuel does a little tut, tut, tut. “I heard it from Julien, who heard it from Hoon, who heard it from Mark, who heard straight from Josh that you’d broken up.”
I guess they had enough sense to not talk about it in our group chat.
“We didn’t ‘break up.’ You can’t break up if you’re not dating.” I realize I might be saying too much in front of Fowler, but he doesn’t even turn around.
“Well, the posts Josh is making on Insta and Snapchat sure make it look like a breakup.”
I pause.
“What?”
“Go check his stories—it’s kind of sad. I feel bad for the guy.”
“It wasn’t a breakup; you shouldn’t feel sorry for him!”
“Whatever. Just come down.”
“I’m good.”
Before Samuel can say anything else, I end the call, and a moment later I get a text from him.
SAMUEL: 
I ignore him and wonder if I should start packing now or if I can wait until tonight. I can’t imagine what the wedding will be like without Josh there; then again, I really won’t have to, because he’ll still be there, sitting across from me.
I wonder how mad Michael would be if I backed out of being a groomsman. It’s not like we even talk that much. He doesn’t text, doesn’t call. He likes my Instagram posts every now and then and we see each other at holidays.
You’d
probably never guess we’re brothers.
He looks so much like Dad.
And I … well, pre-testosterone, I looked a lot like Mom. But then my shoulders got broader, my jaw filled out, and I started growing facial hair, no matter how sparse it looks. So now I don’t look like her either.
If only 23andMe had some kind of service to wipe the rest of her DNA out of my gene pool.
I can’t go to this wedding alone. I can’t spend a week in Beverly Hills with Mom and Michael and them bickering with each other, and suits and family meals and parties, and Nana and Grandpa, who will most definitely ask me if I’ve “switched back to being a girl” or “gotten the down-there surgery.”
I’d rather pull out each of my teeth individually. I won’t be able to put up with Mother reminding me every chance she gets that I ruined everything, or the comments that my family will make about me behind my back.
I let out another groan before standing up and grabbing my suitcase out of my closet. Pants, shirts, underwear, socks, shoes—they all get stuffed inside, so stuffed I can’t actually close the damn thing.
I pull the zipper, but it doesn’t budge, because of course it doesn’t.
“You’ve packed it too tight,” Wyatt observes.
I step into his line of sight and pull the zipper again, and again, and again. It moves half an inch at a time, before it gets impossibly snagged.
“You’re going to tear the zipper,” he says. “If you packed neater, you wouldn’t have this problem.”
“ ‘If you packed neater, you wouldn’t have this problem.’ ” I mock the drawl of his accent. “I don’t need your help.”
“Clearly.”
I pull the suitcase onto the floor, sitting on top of it with all two hundred and twenty pounds of myself on top, pulling at it.
I pull, and I pull, and I pull, and suddenly I’m falling back toward my bed. My head hits the side of my mattress as I stumble, feeling the hardwood floor underneath my butt.
The reality of what happened only occurs to me when I’m sitting there, staring at the torn zipper, part still attached to the frayed teeth of the track and part in my hand.
“Fuck me.”
“I told you.”
“Just stop,” I tell him. “Please, for the love of God, just stop.”
I throw the zipper head down on the floor and pull my knees to my chest, hiding my face. Why won’t this day just end? Why? It started off so well too: I got my iced coffee, the weather was nice, I took the long way to chemistry, Samuel wasn’t a complete idiot and actually made me laugh a few times, and Hoon and I got some work on our Classic Lit project done.
Then Josh had to go and ruin it with three little words.
This is all his fault.
Everything.
“Don’t worry, you can fix this easy,” Wyatt says, picking up the broken-off part of the zipper.
“Leave it.”
“I’ve got my sewing kit—”
“I said leave it!” I shout, cutting him off. Then I stand up, making the split-second decision to grab my phone and slip my shoes back on.
“Where are you going?” Wyatt asks.
“Out.”
“Out where?”
“Out,” I say, pulling the door loudly shut. I walk past my classmates, taking out my phone and dialing Samuel back.
“Hey—”
“I’ll meet you at the bridge,” I say before he can get another word out. And then I end the call.
* * *
I promise I don’t make it a habit of hanging out underneath old bridges that no one uses.
I swear.
Hoon found this place first, near the south side of campus where no one really goes because it’s so out of the way. Mark bought a couch from a thrift store and dragged it down
here with Samuel, and Julien was always ready to provide something new to drink, typically stolen from his father’s liquor cabinet.
Just like that, we had our own little clubhouse, perfect for two white gay trans boys (Samuel and myself), a bisexual Korean boy (Hoon), a Black bi boy (Julien), a Black kid who was supposed to be our token straight but is now going through his own adventure with his sexuality and gender (Mark), and a cis gay white boy (Joshua).
We’re like our own gay Power Rangers, minus the color-coordinated rainbow suits.
“There he is!” Samuel shouts as I trudge down the steep dirt hill that we use as a walkway.
“Here I am,” I say, making my way toward them. They’ve got a fire going even though the sun is still out. Samuel and Julien are occupying the couch. Hoon brought the camping chairs from his room because, like me, he doesn’t trust a couch that lives outside. “Where’s Mark?” I ask when I notice that we’re down a person.
Or two people, I guess.
“He left early with his parents,” Hoon says.
Julien hands me a beer out of a bag that looks like it’s from the CVS
down the street. So that’s new.
“No bourbon?” I ask.
“Dad was catching on,” he says. “Gotta be careful. He won’t miss his cheap beers, though.” Julien’s parents live in Charlotte, so he typically goes home on the weekends, always bringing back goodies for us.
“Sure.” I open the can and take a sip, ...
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