Another knock.
“Bubble?”
I open the door slowly.
“H…hi? Do you need sugar?” I ask.
He stares at me and then laughs.
If he’s laughing, maybe he’s not too upset…right?
“No, I don’t need sugar. But I do need to apologize to you. Can I come in?” he asks.
I stare at him. Wha…what?
“Bubble,” he calls.
“Yes…”
“It’s a bit cold out here.”
“Sorry. Come in, I just…” I laugh. “For a moment, I thought you said you were coming to apologize. That’s funny. Let me put some sugar in a small box for you.”
I go back inside and leave the door open. He follows me, and I hear him shake the snow off his boots. When I turn around, he’s right there in the kitchen with me. His boots are by the door.
“You didn’t need to take your boots off. I could have brought you the sugar. I know those laces are a pain in the butt to do up. You would think a state that expects snow on a yearly basis would have invented some kind of slip-on boots or something.”
“Bubble,” he says, catching my arm and holding me in place. His nearness feels unsettling, especially because, this time, I’m not the one causing said nearness.
It also feels so good when his big hands hold my arms, just like that time in the locker room. Coach is strong but gentle, and my mind can’t help thinking about other things.
Does everybody feel like this? Is this how people know they found their one? All the tingles from the tips of your toes to the ends of your hair. Your heartbeat going crazy. And you just want to get close to them.
And what happens when you find your one and they don’t find you back? Do you just hurt forever? That…that would be so sad.
“Hey, Bubble. Where did you just go? You look like you’re about to cry,” Coach says.
“Oh, nothing. Just lost in thought. I don’t know why you’re here. I’m really sorry about yesterday…and all the days.” I move my eyes away from his.
He sighs. “Come, let’s sit.” He leads me to the couch, adds another log to the fire, and sits next to me.
“We’re sitting,” I prompt, stating the obvious.
He smiles, but his expression changes as he looks into my eyes. “I’ve been an asshole to you and want to apologize. I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did yesterday. You were worried about my safety at the expense of yours. For the love of god, you didn’t even have a coat on.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, please stop apologizing. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Okay,” I say. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Do I make you uncomfortable? Like…am I too much, too in your face”—I look away—“too gay?”
I don’t know where the sudden courage to ask him these questions comes from, but it’s out there now and can’t be taken back. Maybe it’s too much to hope he’ll say what I want him to say. But if not, then I don’t understand him.
Sure, most straight guys don’t like getting attention from gay guys, but he hasn’t exactly been pushing me away. He never told me to stop baking for him, never took down the inspirational posters. He didn’t trash the pen holder.
