“He’s my friend,” I said. “That’s all.”
I didn’t have a thing for Chip.
I couldn’t.
“You won’t even take your shirt off around me. But he’s seen your dick?”
“That’s just soccer,” I said. “It was an accident. But us... you... I need more time. I told you I’m not ready.”
“Well, what about what I need? What about what I’m ready for? Why is it always about you?”
“It’s not,” I said. “I care about you. And what you want.”
“I’ve told you sex is important to me. But you never want to talk about it. You want to go to dances and look cute together, you want me to cook for you and your family, but when it comes to doing stuff—stuff that I told you I wanted, stuff that matters to me in a relationship—you say you’re ‘not ready.’ We’ve been together for four months now and you won’t even take your shirt off around me. You’re a coward. And you’re selfish.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say. I’m sorry. I’m not ready.”
“But you’ll go around swinging your dick in front of Chip?”
“It’s a locker room. What am I supposed to do?”
“I don’t even know.” Landon closed his eyes. “You know what? I’m going to go.”
“What?” I squeaked.
“It’s clear you’re not coming home with me. Are you?”
“Um.”
I wanted to say yes.
I wanted to say yes to everything.
But I couldn’t.
I wiped my eyes and said, “Landon...”
But he shook his head and said, “This is bullshit.”
And then he said, “I’m leaving.”
And then he walked away.
SUITABLY MELANCHOLY
I wanted to follow Landon.
I wanted to chase him into the rain, and reach out for him, and have him change his mind and turn around, and tell me he was wrong and he was sorry and everything would be okay.
But first of all, it was barely drizzling. Not nearly heavy enough for any sort of dramatic reconciliation.
Second, I was a coward.
And third, I didn’t know anything I could say that would change his mind.
I hovered inside the double doors while he waited for his ride to pick him up. Once he was gone, I slipped outside into the empty parking lot and watched the car’s taillights disappear into the haze, which at least felt suitably melancholy.
It was the type of situation that called for some sort of heavy piano music, or maybe a haunting cello motif, but the only soundtrack was the bass beat of “Despacito” rattling off the windowpanes of the Main Gym behind me.
