Johnny is right there, and he’s scared, and he’s hurting just as much as I’ve been hurting. I don’t think I want him to hurt, though. He might be a douchebag, but he’s a scared douchebag. Just as scared as me. Just as unsure of his standing in thisthingbrewing between us. I can’t make myself any surer of the situation, but I can do it for Johnny.
I reach down and squeeze his hand again. He’s staring down at it as I weave our fingers together. I feel like a Miss America finalist waiting to be crowned or quietly ushered off stage. It hurts, because as much as I want that crown, I don’t want to keep it from Johnny. I give him a gentle nod, trying to reassure him.
“He can sit by you. It’s okay, Johnny,” I whisper. “Promise.”
His grip tightens around mine like a vise, as if I’ll slip away should his grip become too gentle. “You’d do that for me?”
I swallow and attempt a shrug, but I’m so wound-up, it probably looks like I’m having a seizure. “I guess.”
“Boys?” He waits for us to look at him, and when we do, he’s grinning like a fucking maniac, because it’s clear as day neither Johnny nor I is okay. Bubba points at the back of the booth, toward the small gap between us. “You know where I belong.”
Johnny and I tremble together, breathing a collective sigh of relief, and even though his grip eases, he doesn’t let go. I clear my throat to get his attention, and when he looks at me, I dart my eyes at our woven fingers.
“I’m going to need you to let go if you want to let Bubba into the booth.”
Blinking, he looks like someone coming out of a hypnotic trance. “Huh? Oh. Yeah, sorry Ez.” My hand feels a whole lot colder with him gone, but I push those emotions down into a tiny ball and scoot toward the end of the booth. Johnny’s got the same idea, but he must’ve had it first, because he rises out of the booth and sidesteps to give Bubba room. Bubba scoots in, and we all scoot close together, leaving no space between.
We spend a whopping five minutes in the booth, both of us cuddled at Bubba’s side, Johnny’s head resting on his shoulder, mine aimed right at Bubba, unloading on him for the drink selection, but all the insults I hurl out are just lies meant to entertain my Bubs. He enjoys the drama. He pretty much lives for it, and I know if I ever stop fighting with him, he’ll see just how little I have to offer. And then I’ll be alone. Truly alone. Again. I can’t ever go back to living like a second-class citizen, never knowing where I’ll sleep, looked down on like I’m less than nothing. I nearly didn’t make it last time, and I’m not strong enough to do it again. So, I fight like hell to prove my worth.
Through it all, he stares at me like I’m a god amongst men.
The open mic situation is a national fucking tragedy. I don’t know where these people come from, or who raised them, but I’ve just about reached my limit. After listening to a man with a disastrous shade of maroon hair poison our ears with idiotic haikus celebrating the art of wiffle ball, the host steps onto the makeshift stage, tapping the microphone five times, even though it’s obviously fucking working, since Haiku Hector over there bored us all to fucking tears with it moments ago.
“Next up, we’ve got the beat poetry stylings of a man who claims to be the next Edgar Allan Poe.”
“Oh, God,” Johnny and I groan in unison, and the look we give each other feels like tiny pops of static.
Bubba motions for us to get up, and it’s clear I’m not going to be the one to budge, so Johnny sighs and stands, letting Bubba out. Bubs heads toward the stage, and as he does, I’m taken by surprise when Johnny slides right next to me in the booth and grabs my hand.
Jesus Christ. He’s holding my hand.
“I’m scared for him,” he admits in a whisper. “I love his poetry because I know how much love he puts into them, but they’re not exactly—”
I place my hand over Johnny’s mouth and shake my head. “No. We both know it, but we don’t say it. It’s like my singing. I wasn’t the best singer in the world, but Bubba never—”
“‘Wasn’t the best’ is an understatement.”
“I have a unique vocal style. Just because you don’t appreciate them, it doesn’t make it a lie. Several people have told me they love my voice.”
“Name them,” he says with a soft chuckle, giving my hand a gentle squeeze. For a moment, I forgot he’s holding it, because it feels like an extension of myself. It feels natural. Like two sides of a triangle,watching the man wewhateveras he walks to the stage. “I don’t hate your voice, Ez.”
“You don’t?”
“It ain’t very good, but it’s you.” His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and no matter how long I look at him, he doesn’t take his eyes off Bubba. “I like it because it’s you. I think it’s real pretty. You can sing to me sometimes. You know, if you want to.” He closes his eyes and nervously exhales. “I want you to, Ez.”
I open my mouth, God knows to say what, because I’m a little speechless. Thankfully, Bubba’s voice comes through the speakers, low, gravelly, and full of his trademark country twang. He’s saying something, but I can’t hear a fucking word of it, because his jeans are clinging to to his bulge in the most unholiest of ways, making my mouth water. I assume it’s simply the beginnings of a psychotic break.
When I’m finally able to focus, Bubba’s already reciting his poem as a lovely woman with a blonde beehive and flawless brown skin makes beatboxing sounds, occasionally banging the side of the large round drum she’s sitting on.
“Straight man’s got the lay of the land,” Bubba begins, and inwardly I’m dying. “A buffet of endless pussy, while his pretty baby stands by her man.”
“I don’t know what any of that means,” I whisper to Johnny. “But I may have changed my position on providing unwavering support.”
“Man comes home, but it ain’t really his home, because he’d rather live a lie than to live alone.” His eyes lock with Johnny’s, and I’m pretty sure he means for this to be some touching, heartwarming moment, but in reality, I just want to dive under the table. Johnny seems enthralled, though. He’s hanging on Bubba’s every word like it’s gospel. Maybe it is. Maybe I’m the asshole here, coming in with preconceived notions about his prowess in beat poetry. Any poetry,really. It’s all boring words and unnecessary rhymes to me, but Johnny sure does like it, and aside from the catfishing thing, I trust Johnny. I think I do, at least. “There’s a rainbow out there, and it’s waiting for you to ride it,” he tells Johnny, andourhillbilly himbo smiles up at him and nods. “Just slather us in lube, and we can simply slide in.” He pauses, chewing his cheek. “No. Sorry, that line was shit.” He skims the page before nodding to himself as the lady behind him beats her drum, looking stoned out of her fucking mind. God, I wish I was. “Cause there’s a big, gay world, and it’s waiting for you, and Daddy’s going to ... Ah, hell, I spilled coffee here and I can’t read this one. I think it says ‘Take you to the zoo,’ but that doesn't sound like me.”
“Maybe you meant you wanted to take him on a rendezvous,” one audience member suggests.
“No. Not at all,” Bubba says.
