God help me, I pray.
I’ve been able to push this down for my whole life, even when I lived across the street from Emmanuel and had to see him strutting around in crop tops like the one he’s wearing right now. I thought I’d conquered this particular proclivity, ripped it out of myself like a weed in a garden, but now it sprouts, buds blooming all over my brain like I really am the infected zombie I was supposed to portray tonight.
Something slithers against my ankle. I look down to find fog trundling across the floor. It’s probably from one of the fog machines in the haunted house rooms, but in this moment it feels like ghostly fingers searching for a way to crawl inside me. The mist seeps up my pant leg, but before I can freak out, Emmanuel grabs my chin in his free hand and tilts my face up so I have to look at him.
“Why did you ruin our party?” he says. “And what are you doing here?”
The mirth in his dark eyes suggests he knows the answer to both of those questions, and I stubbornly refuse to give him thesatisfaction of confirming it.
“How do you know my name?” I counter. It has taken me way too long to remember that it’s as strange for him to know me as for me to know him.
He scoffs. “Everyone knows the name of the local buzzkill. Answer me. Why is a good Catholic boy working a haunted house, huh?”
“You already know,” I say, “so either go on and gloat or leave me alone.”
He smirks, revealing which path he’s about to choose. Something burns inside me, but it isn’t indignation.
“Aw, is it hard facing your own hypocrisy?” Emmanuel says. “You’re fine intruding on other people’s business, but you don’t like it very much when the tables are turned, do you? Maybe you should have left our party alone if you wanted to be left alone in return.”
“Your party was heathen indulgence.”
Emmanuel barks a laugh. It isn’t as ugly as it should be. “But your haunted house isn’t? What would you call this then? Is dressing up as a zombie one of your commandments? I don’t remember hearing about that one in Sunday school.”
I scoff. “As though you went to Sunday school.”
“I did, in fact. I’m confirmed and baptized and everything. Do you think I chose Arpor Sacred Sacrament for no reason?”
“But you’re…”
I trail off. Heat lights Emmanuel’s eyes. He squeezes my jaw harder for a moment before releasing me, though he’s still gripping my wrist and holding it against the wall near my head.
“Gay,” he says. “I’m gay. You can say it. I’m not as scared of that word as you are.”
I swallow instead of responding. Uttering that word aloud would add fuel to the fire burning in my face. It would give that weed I’ve been rooting out for all my life fertile soil in which togrow, especially since Emmanuel is still holding me, his hand warm against my wrist and his body too close to mine. The spicy scent of aftershave wafts over me, and even as my head goes light I wonder how a guy who always has so much stubble shadowing his tan cheeks can smell like aftershave.
“Emmanuel, please, I—”
“Many,” he cuts in. “No one calls me Emmanuel.”
That comes as a relief for some reason. The name Emmanuel carries too many heavy connotations, connotations that belong in a chapel and not this secluded hallway in the back of a haunted house.
“Many,” I say, “I know you hate me, but your party was inappropriate, and we both know it. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You—”
He looks about to snap my head off, so I rush on.
“And I work here because I need the cash, okay?”
Embarrassment adds to my unfortunate flush, but I clench my teeth and meet Many’s eyes, refusing to back down. He blinks with surprise, his handsome features softening. It’s incredible how emotion flashes through his face the moment he feels it, nothing held back or restrained or dulled in order to appear more palatable. He is who he is, he feels what he feels, and the world can deal with that. I would be jealous if he weren’t a filthy heathen.
“I didn’t have any other choice,” I say. “A.S.S. Uni. is a huge school. All the on-campus jobs got scooped up. I needed something, anything. Otherwise, I…I won’t graduate on time.”
I grind the rest of the story between my teeth, but judging by Many’s expression, he guesses at it. I don’t need to tell him that money is tight back home, that the savings that were supposed to be for my education had to go toward paying medical bills, that I found myself choosing between a lifetime of loans or dropping out entirely in the middle of my senior yearand therefore grabbed any odd jobs I could find out of sheer desperation.
His grip on my wrist softens. He doesn’t apologize, but he does release me. I hug my wrist against my chest and rub it, but it doesn’t actually hurt. He knew exactly how hard to hold to keep me where he wanted me without actually hurting me.
“Are you going to tell everyone?” I say. It’d be no less than I deserve after calling the cops on his party, but it could cost me this job if him or one of his fraternity brothers decide to make a stink with my boss.
