I reread our conversation, trying to find where I went wrong. I reread it again. And again. And by the fifth reread, I’m smiling with my head on the pillow, forgetting what I was trying to accomplish in the first place, and drift off to sleep.
I wake up to my alarm, tapping it with a lazy hand. My head is foggy and my mouth is as dry as a desert. I manage to peek open my eyes and I see my laptop has fallen to the ground.
Oh shit. The memories from last night all rush back as I place my laptop on my bed and open up the conversation again.
Marco: Jay are you there?
Message Failed to Send.
Goddammit.
I click over to his social media page and it’s blank. All his pictures are gone and it says his account is private? What the hell is going on?
I click to message him and type the same thing. It’s not even 10:00pm on the East Coast, and this is a normal time we’d start talking anyway. I watch the message and my fingers fidget over the keys.
But nothing comes.
What the actual fuck. He’s always quick to respond.
Jesus fuck, I think he blocked me.
I’m such a fucking idiot.
As I get ready for the day, I can’t think about anything else. I go through the motions of a wash thinking about him—how his hands would feel against me. I brush my teeth and think about his lips on mine. I pull on my fatigues and think about him wearing my shirt.
Wait—the shirt. He was wearing it but hiding it from me at first. Then that day on the soccer field…
It’s my good luck charm, he had said.
And the way he barked at them not to destroy it…Oh my god, he likes me too.
Then why the fuck did he block me?
I replay the conversation I’ve memorized. He’s thought about me; he’s thought about us. It breaks my heart to know I’ve been this dense—to not see him standing right in front of me. We could have been happy together all this time.
I go about my entire day with this question rolling around in my mind. When I have moments alone, I pull back up the conversation and reread it like it’s going to provide the answers. I zoom in on his pictures and long for him. Ache for him.
How long is he going to shut me out?
How long have I been harboring feelings for him? Maybe they’ve always been there. I’ve never had a guy friend like him before. Someone who makes me feel safe enough to let me open up. I let him see the real me, and he let me grow.
Realization once again dawns on me—he’s had my heart this whole time.
Am I gay? I think about all the women I’ve slept with, all the women I’ve lusted over—nope, not gay.
Bisexual, then… huh. Maybe if Jay would fucking answer my messages, I could talk to him about this.
Then, like a nightmare, an image of my father pops into my memory. The countless times he made disgusting remarks about homosexuals. The countless times he berated me for actinglike a girl. It kind of makes me want to dig my heels into this new discovery about myself. I never plan on seeing him again, but the thought that someday he might find out I’m exactly the thing he hates… Well, that brings a smile to my face.
The next few days go by much the same—me rereading our conversation like a bad habit and ruminating about what this all means.
Maybe I went too fast. Maybe it’s too soon. Doing this right before I come home? Right before we move in together? Maybe he thinks it’ll be weird if we live together after what just happened.
Maybe he’s upset that I was drunk. I try to put myself in his shoes. Listening to me tell him these dirty things I want to do to him… him telling me what he’s thought about us… Maybe he’s afraid I didn’t mean it? I’ve reread this thread too many times to count now, and I know with one hundred percent certainty, I meant everything.
Four days after the blocking, I’m packing up my field office for the day, when I hear a familiar pop sound off from my computer. My heart rate speeds up because it’s a message from Jay.
Rushing to sit back down, I read the text with wide eyes.
