“You watchGetting the Goons?” I say skeptically.
He rubs the back of his neck. “Um, yeah, I think it’s really funny.”
I glance at the frozen screen.
“Is this the episode where Afu investigates the case of the missing sausage rolls from the dairy, and it turns out the culprit was the police station’s emotional support peacock?”
The sheepish look on Jared’s face disappears. “Yep, it’s that one,” he says with a smile.
“I love this episode.” I settle back into the cushions of his couch.
And so Jared and I hang out together binge-watching episodes ofGetting the Goons, eating the pizza when it arrives, and debating whether the bestGetting the Goonsepisode is the one where they investigate the mysterious disappearance of every last flat white from Wellington cafés, or the one where the sheep all start walking backward and the prime suspect is a hypnotist chicken.
Then, the moment comes when Jared and I both reach for the last slice of pizza.
Instead of pulling back politely like a normal person, I bend down and lick the entire length of it while maintaining eye contact with him.
Jared’s eyebrows shoot up.
A sinking feeling starts in my guts.
Oh fuck. I’ve been so relaxed and having such a good time with Jared that I’ve forgotten about my face.
I’ve spent most of my life being the gorgeous twink who could pull off bratty behavior because of what I looked like.
But I’m definitely not cute anymore.
And I’ve subsequently learned that without my looks, people are far less lenient about my tendency to act like a feral toddler raised by particularly sarcastic wolves.
I learned this the hard way the first time I went clubbing after my accident. I’d tried my usual move at a bar, sliding onto a stranger’s lap with a cheeky “Is this seat taken?” Instead of the laughs and interested hands I was used to, the guy had literally shoved me off.
The bartender had looked at me with pity, which was somehow worse than the rejection.
I swallow thickly at the memory now.
But before I can stammer out an apology over my pizza-licking feralness, I realize Jared is fighting a smile.
“I believe that kind of biological warfare is against the Geneva Convention,” he says. “However, I respect the power move. The slice is yours.”
“Thank you,” I say primly as I pick it up and take a large bite, trying to hide the relief shooting through me. I make a show of savoring it, maybe moaning a little too theatrically because if you’re going to win a pizza battle through saliva terrorism, you might as well commit to the victory.
“Just so we’re clear, that tactic won’t work with the last brownie,” he says. “I’ll still eat that no matter how much you slobber on it.
“But you’ll be able to make more,” I complain.
“Maybe making brownies that taste good was a once-in-a-lifetime planetary alignment situation. The oven may never cooperate again.”
I can’t help laughing out loud, and it’s my real, deep belly laugh that makes Jared grin broadly.
This is the first time in a long time I’ve forgotten to monitor myself. Forgotten to make myself smaller and quieter.
With Jared, it’s easy to accidentally be myself again.
The thought terrifies me almost as much as it makes me want to cry with relief.
The next morning,I spend far more time thinking about what I’m going to wear to the aquarium with Jared and his niece than is probably healthy or normal.
I used to love fashion, and I delighted in wearing clothes that attracted people’s attention.
