The truth is, what happens in the office reflects as badly on me as it does on Isaac. Meanwhile, I’m in a total spiral of picturing the two of them together. The way they’d look walking into an event together in suits––or worse—tuxedos. They’re both so fucking gorgeous and…tall. Wait—what do they do together? Is Deacon a bottom? Because Isaac certainly isn’t. Or—hold on—do I know anything about Isaac at all? This hurts like a fuckingbitch. On both sides. Because Deacon isn’t a corporate attorney or a runway model. He’s a programmer. Likeme. Which means maybe I’ve been misunderstanding Isaac this whole time. Oh, Jesus, I can’t think like that. Deacon’s way hotter than I am, and he has a better job. It actually makes sense. Mostly.
At least I know a few things for sure—Deacon’s gay, he’s into Isaac, he’s never wanted me, and there’s not a fucking thing I can do about it. But where does this leave me with my boss?
I hadn’t thought about it much before this week, but the way Isaac is constantly horny for me is how I get a lot of my validation needs met. But I guess this explains why he’s been keeping his distance, until I literally threw myself at him like a brat in heat this morning.
My self-worth is approaching an all-time low, and that’s saying something. I have not made many good choices, and now my heart, which I’ve tried so hard to keep safe from exactly this kind of hurt feels super fucked.
“I would never ask you to leave.” Deacon says.
“Don’t promise something like that,” I say.
“I can, though. It’s my apartment. Ours, I mean.”
“Don’t you own it?”
“You pay rent.”
This is the longest uninterrupted conversation I’ve ever had with Deacon by a mile, and I’m discovering it’s a little like talking to a chat bot. I feel like I have to keep re-inputting my question to get an answer that makes sense.
How painfully good-looking he is tonight is helping nothing. His clothes are casual, but there’s nothing understated about the way his hair is the perfect length and shade to set off his dark blue eyes—the way his cheekbones catch the shadows, and the hint of his dimples showing from the press of his full lips.
Now that I have firm confirmation that he is, in fact, into men, I’m convinced Idorepulse him. But also, I kind of have toknow. I need him to tell me I’m not his type, and I never even had a chance.
So I ask, “Do I like—repulse you or something?”
He scowls. “Repulse me?”
“Do you think I’m ugly?”
“What? No, of course not.”
“And you’re gay?”
He nods.
“Not that I’m saying both of us being gay means we have to hook up, but is there something that’s ruled me out for you?”
“You’re my roommate,” he says again, almost robotically.
“Well, yeah, but…”
“And we’re friends. I don’t think about it,” he adds.
“Ever?”
He doesn’t answer except to say, “Do you?“
“Well, yeah.”
“Is that supposed to mean it’s obvious?” he asks.
“I mean, I guess I’ve tried not to betooobvious about it, but Iamattracted to you.” I’m not looking at him when the word vomit comes. I’m loading up my plate with shrimp and salad and pita bread. I’m glancing around for the waiter because I’d like a shot of something much stronger than beer. “Like I’m human,” I go on. “You’re basically one of the best looking people I’ve ever met. So yeah, I’ve thought about it. Wanted it. You. Whatever?—”
“Can you slow down?” he asks.
I snap my mouth shut and look down at my plate. “You can forget I said all that.”
“I don’t need to forget it,” he says. “I just want to process it. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but my brain doesn’t work the same way yours does.”
