“Jackson.” His tone is patient but firm. “You’re holding that shoe upside down. Is it because you’re dating a man? I know you’ve only been with women before. If Drew is pressuring you into anything you’re not comfortable with?—”
“What? No!” The shoe tumbles from my grip and hits the floor with a thud that echoes through the entire store. Heads swivel in my direction—a teenager with his mom, an employee folding shirts, a couple browsing basketball shoes. Dropping to one knee, I snatch it up, heat crawling up my neck. “Ryan, Drew isn’t pressuring me into anything.”
His eyebrows furrow with concern. “Then why do you look like you’re about to flee every time he touches you lately? I’ve observed multiple instances of physical discomfort. The way you tense slightly when he kisses you, how you shudder after?—”
“It’s not about the gay stuff,” I blurt out, then immediately want to crawl under the shoe display and die.
“The gay stuff,” Ryan repeats slowly.
I grab another shoe—Air Jordans this time—and pretend to examine the sole. “I mean, it’s not about…that. The physical part. I’m fine with guys. With Drew. With Drew being a guy. And the things that guys do. Together. As guys.”Someone please put me out of my misery.
“I see.” Ryan’s voice is carefully neutral. “Then what is causing your discomfort?”
The truth sits heavily on my tongue. I’ve been carrying it around all week, this gnawing insecurity that gets worse every time I see Drew with someone who’s his type. Yesterday at The Brew, I watched him chat with a rugby player and wanted to disappear into my coffee.
“Have you seen the guys Drew usually hooks up with?” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “They’re all…I don’t know. Buff. Aggressive. The kind of guys who could bench press me without breaking a sweat.”
Ryan’s expression shifts to understanding. “Ah.”
“And then there’s me.” I gesture at myself with the shoe. “Mr. All-American Quarterback. I throw footballs and make safe plays. I’m about as exciting as vanilla ice cream.” It’s not lost on me that I’m spiraling in the middle of a Foot Locker. “The point is, I’m not his type. At all.”
“Have you considered discussing this with Drew?”
I snort. “Right. ‘Hey, Drew, I’ve been extremely insecure lately about not being the kind of guy you’re usually interested in.’ That’ll go over well.”
“Relationships require communication,” Ryan says. “Even complicated ones. How can Drew address your concerns if he’s unaware they exist?”
“It’s not a real—” It hits me that we’re in public and that Ryan doesn’t know the truth. “It’s new. We’re still figuring things out.”
“All the more reason to establish open communication early.” Ryan straightens his already-straightened collar. “Consider this: Drew chose to date you. Out of all his options, he picked you. Perhaps instead of assuming you know his preferences, you should ask him directly.”
The logic is annoyingly sound. And yet, my gut twists into a pretzel at the mere idea of having this conversation with Drew. What if he confirms my fears? What if he laughs? What if he realizes this whole fake dating thing is more trouble than it’s worth?
“You’re spiraling,” Ryan observes. “I can see it on your face.”
“I’m shoe shopping,” I protest weakly.
“Talk to him. Drew may surprise you. From my observations, he’s quite invested in your relationship.”
Something in the way he saysinvestedmakes me wonder exactly what he’s observed. But before I can ask, he’s moving toward another display rack.
“Now, shall we find you appropriate footwear? These should work for both athletic and casual wear.” He selects a pair of black-and-white shoes with the efficiency of someone who’s never spent more than ten minutes shopping for anything.
I grab a size ten pair of shoes, plus a pair of running shoes on sale. The familiar routine of trying on shoes helps settle my nerves. Ryan’s right. I need to talk to Drew about my insecurities. If we’re going to keep this charade up until spring break, I need to stop telling myself I’m playing a role I’m not qualified for.
“These work,” I decide after walking a lap around the store in the ones Ryan selected.
“Excellent. Shall we proceed to checkout?”
At the register, the teenage cashier rings up my purchases while I replay Ryan’s words. Drew chose me. Even if it’s fake, even if it’s for show, he pickedmeto be his pretend boyfriend. That has to mean something.
“Will that be all?” the cashier asks.
“Oh,” Ryan interjects, “we need to swing by Macy’s next.”
“Macy’s?” I nod to the cashier and hand him my credit card. “What do you need at Macy’s?”
“Undergarments,” Ryan says matter-of-factly. “Specifically, white briefs. My current supply is running low. And we’re buying you a pack. I’ve seen you eyeing mine every time I put them on. You liked how they felt, didn’t you?”
