“Maybe.”
Parker draws her fingers to a close in front of herself and takes a deep breath. “The bumper stickers.”
I snort. “Oh my god, some of those were so fucking hilarious. And he only caught, like, half of them.”
The look she gives me makes my heart drop into my stomach.
“I thought most of ’em were funny. But did you really think ‘Fuck the Police’ was a good bumper sticker to put on the car of a Muslim immigrant from Iraq? In this climate? In this state?”
Parker’s family is from the Philippines, and she’s talked openly about some of the shit she gets for being both brown and Asian. So…yeah. I feel about two feet tall.
She continues. “He’s been trying to become an American citizen foryears. He’s literally months away from taking the oath. He got pulled over with that bumper sticker. Didya know that?”
Shit. “No.”
“Yeah. Thankfully, the cop was cool once Omar explained your dumbassery, but…he shouldn’t have had to deal with it in the first place. For a number of reasons.”
I scratch my chest, averting my gaze. “I just like fucking with him.”
Odd knuckle-punches my arm, again, this time causing the muscle to form a knot.
Fuckingouch.
“He fucks with me, too, you know!”
Parker holds up her finger. “Everybody benefits from the gray sweatpants. Nobody benefits from you stealing his espresso machine.”
I narrow my eyes at my good friend Parker. “How do you know about the gray sweatpants?”
She shrugs, nonplussed. “First of all, I have eyes. And second…I may have suggested them.”
Odd, the traitor, fist-bumps her. My jaw drops, and I push his shoulder. “You can’t look at his gray sweatpants!”
Odd raises his brows in a knowing look. “And why not? Am I not a red-blooded queer like everyone else in this restroom?”
“You know why.”
“Yeah, I do. ’Cause I recognize this bullshit. It’s schoolyard behavior, plain and simple.”
Sigh.
“I know,” I say, rubbing my arm. Damn, he hits as hard as I do.
“No, I don’t think you do. I mean, it’s clear you want to get into his pants, but…I’ve never seen you like this. You’re a cool guy and super generous with your friends, and then if it’s someone you want to sleep with, you’re usually charming and kinda…sweetto them. But you’re not any of those things with Omar. Actually, you’re kind of being a dick to him.”
Before I can say anything else, Parker adds, “It was sorta funny at first, but if this is what you do when you have a crush on a guy, it’s not a good look.”
Ugly realization dawns, and I look at Odd. “So y’all are saying I’ve become ‘that guy.’”
“That guy” was always our code at clubs for the clueless, dick-swinging assholes who think you should just be happy they’ve noticed you.
He shrugs. “You’re etting’ awfully close, buddy.”
“Well,shit.”
And that brings up another thing. Odd is the love-conquers-all relationship guy, but I’ve been happily single all my life. I usually brag about making it to my midthirties without ever having had a serious girlfriend or boyfriend, but now I’m realizing there’s a gap in my knowledge.
“How do I know if I’ve got a crush on him?”
