But after the eighty-first time, I couldn’t deny it anymore.
Which, I suppose, makes me bisexual.
I’ve been replaying that realization on a loop for the last few weeks, half expecting it to feel strange. But it hasn’t. It just feelstrue. Unfamiliar, sure, but grounding. Like something that was always there waiting for me to notice.
In a small town where the overwhelming majority of the population tends to be a bunch of homophobic pricks, I wish I could keep denying it. But I can’t. I can’t even hate myself for it or have some kind of existential crisis over it because, for some reason, it just makes sense. Lusting over a man was a lot easier to accept than I thought it’d be.
It probably has something to do with the way ProfessorKendall looks when he’s teaching, confident and composed. Hands tucked in his pockets, sleeves rolled up just enough to show the veins in his forearms. He wears those vests like armor—tailored, crisp, and precise—while the rest of us shuffle into class half-awake and crumpled.
Or how every time he and I end up in a conversation during one of his lectures, it’s as if everyone else in the classroom fades away and it becomes just the two of us.
Or that a simple nod or comment of approval from him makes me all warm and fuzzy inside.
I’ve been in his class for a month now, and I’ve never felt as engaged or motivated as I am inhisclassroom. I’ve always been a good student, but I want to be an even better one for him.
Of course, I don’t plan on actually doing anything about it. Not only is he my professor, but I have a girlfriend.
Speaking of Molly…
I’ve been debating with myself for the past week on if I should tell her I’m bisexual.
I don’t have any plans on acting on that part of it either. It’s not like I want to experiment while I’m in a committed relationship. But I also don’t want to keep something like this from her and wait until after we’ve graduated and gotten married and have kids before she finds out. That wouldn’t be fair to her.
I like to believe I’m as good of a boyfriend as I am a student.
But I still have a crush on someone else, so maybe that’s not true.
The least I can do is be halfway honest with my girlfriend.
I decided to try to ease the blow of the news by making dinner tonight. It’s Saturday, and I went grocery shopping earlier this afternoon while Molly was out with one of her girlfriends. I’ve been in the kitchen for the past hour making her favorite—chicken piccata with pasta and spinach.
The apartment smells like garlic and lemon butter. I’m sweating under the bright fluorescent kitchen light, trying to time everything just right. The pan hisses as I add the last squeeze of lemon.
I want everything to be perfect. I don’t want her to remember this conversation as a fight.
I want her to remember that I tried.
The door to the apartment opens, and Molly appears from around the corner on the other side of the bar just as I’m finishing up the food.
“Something smells good,” she says as she sets a couple of shopping bags down on the table in our small dining room. She flips her long, blonde hair over her shoulder as she turns toward me with a smile. “What are you cooking, babe?”
“Your favorite. Chicken piccata.”
I’m feeling pretty proud of myself for about two seconds before her smile turns amused and she says, “That’s not my favorite.”
I freeze with a piece of chicken in the air halfway to her plate.
Fuck.
That’s right. Her favorite is eggplant parmesan.
Getting off to a great start, Jackson.
“I’m sorry. I completely spaced,” I tell her as I finish plating the food. “I guess I’ve just had too much on my mind.”
“It’s okay.” She pushes her bags to the edge of the table before taking a seat. “I like chicken piccata too. You’re a great cook no matter what you’re making.”
I let out a tiny breath and manage a small smile. “Thanks.”
