I lick my lips. “I’m bi. Bisexual. Queer.” The last word gives me pause. A straight guy saying that can make it a slur, but…I guess I’m not that, am I?
Hearing the words echo off the tiles doesn’t change much. My sexuality has never been a big part of who I am, but that’s my own fault. I’ve never been an introspective kind of guy. I liked who I liked, and before Rome, that had been women.
Now, it’s not. Now, it’s him too. The only reason I hate it is that he isn’t making this easy. Or simple.
Rome is fucking complicated. He hates me for who I am, but he wants me for it too. He can’t stand the sight of me, but he shows up uninvited to all of my gym classes to torment himself with ab workouts and glute building.
He looks like he wants to murder me while I’m lifting, but he follows me to the showers and sucks my brains out through my dick.
The contradictions are too fucking much. And when I reach out—when I think that maybe there can be something here—he lets himself have me, and then he ghosts me.
I don’t know how much more of it I can take, but I can’t stand around staring at myself forever. I have a life to get on with.
I make my morning shower as quick as I can and as cold as I can stand because I don’t want my dick getting any more bright ideas, and then I throw on something other than gym clothes because I need to run by campus before getting to work.
Before all this Rome business, I was stressing out over the latest ASL assignment, and I need to try to catch Denver during his office hours, which always seem to be the same time as when I have a spin class. Luckily, today I have some free time, and it’ll be nice to think of anything other than Rome.
And maybe that can be how much I fucking suck at this language.
I refuse to give up on it, but I wish my brain were more wired toward that type of learning instead of protein intake and how much I need to lift to burn fat while also building muscle. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the work I’ve done on myself, but I want to be more than just the gym himbo everyone thinks I am.
Denver makes it easy, of course. Well, harder because we’re also friends outside of the college. I’ve seen him twirling around onstage in fishnets and a skirt so short I could see the bottoms of his ass cheeks, which makes class a little awkward at times. But he’s also an amazing teacher, so I can separate both worlds.
And he never judges me. Not ever. Not even when I’m so far behind everyone else that I think I’m never going to get it.
Okay, enough wallowing. It gets me nowhere.
I shove on a pair of sandals, then grab my phone to check my messages. I have a couple of texts waiting for me, and my heart leaps for a second, thinking maybe Rome just got sidetracked. That he meant to head back after all, but none of them are from him.
I have one from Zev letting me know he needs to extend his leave by another six weeks, and then from Thom asking if I’m at the gym.
Me: I’m on my way to campus. I think Brian’s the manager on duty. You okay?
Thom: Yep. I’m god. I’m hedng over to see Robbie. I’ll cach up ltr with u?
That’s actually an amazing idea. Thom and Rome aren’t exactly friends. Rumor has it, Rome has labeled Thom his mortal enemy, but Thom would know better than I would if there’s any gossip about me and him. Or if something happened to him that he didn’t want me to know about.
My gut twists at the thought. God, why am I like this?
I deserve better. I deserve to be as happy as my brother and the rest of our friends, and Rome is so not the guy for that.
Snagging my keys, I check my messages one last time before the spark of hope dies. The only thing in the text thread is the last message I sent—now left onread. Nothing else.
It’s just as well. The universe is giving me a clearly written sign, and as much as I’d like to pretend I can’t read, I can.
“So,” I say to my brother when I catch him walking across the campus parking lot. I measure my tone in an attempt not to give anything away. “Have you or Robbie seen Rome today?”
“Rome? Dude, he’s not here anymore.”
“What do you mean he’s not here anymore?”
Thom scoffs. “I mean he’s not here. He left for France at ass o’clock this morning. And ask me how I know,” he says darkly. I don’t, but he tells me anyway. “He woke Robbie up to say goodbye on FaceTime, which interrupted this amazing dream where Robbie was…well.” He stops and blushes. “Anyway, yeah. His flight left at like eight this morning, I think.”
I stare at Thom, trying to process his words.
“For how long?”
Thom shrugs. “I don’t know. He said three years, but it could be for good. Robbie said something about him taking over his dad’s office in Paris.”
