I pace the tiny rectangle of living room, counting the lines in the laminate floor, thinking about what Darius said, what he didn’t say, about the look in his eyes when he handed me the phone, like he was giving me a loaded weapon but also trusting me not to shoot myself with it.
It’s stupid, but the thing that keeps replaying is not the article, not the betrayal, not even the “possible exchange of items” bullshit, but the way Darius let me have the choice.
For twenty minutes, I rehearse the call in my head.
I try out jokes. “Hey, Maya, guess what, your brother’s a cliche.” Or, “Hope you weren’t counting on grandkids.” Or, “Turns out I really am the family disappointment, but with bonus bisexuality.”
None of them sound right.
The phone is in my hand before I realize I’ve picked it up. I scroll to her contact, thumb hovering over the button so long the screen dims and I have to start over.
My palms are sweating.
My heartbeat is a war drum. I could just text her. I could just send a meme. I could just keep being the guy who never says the words out loud.
But I don’t. I tap “call.”
She picks up on the second ring, voice bright, the clatter of a dorm room in the background. “Hey, stranger! You alive?”
I breathe in. Out. “Barely.”
She laughs, because she thinks I’m joking. “What’s up? You win?”
“Lost. Got my face rearranged. You should see the other guy.”
“Jesus, Ash, are you okay?”
I sit on the edge of the unmade bed, stare at the pile of laundry like maybe it’ll answer for me. “Not really.”
The tone in her voice changes, the big-sister alert system flipping to DEFCON 1. “Talk to me.”
I close my eyes, count to five. “Can I tell you something and you promise not to freak out?”
“Ash, I literally have a pride flag on my dorm wall. Did you think I was going to disown you?”
It stuns me, how easy she makes it. The laugh that breaks out of me is half cry, half bark. “You knew.”
She snorts. “Please. You think I didn’t notice you only ever watched the ice dancing at the Olympics? Or that your only celebrity crush was the blue Power Ranger?”
I have to wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “I don’t even know what to call it. I mean, technically, I’m…”
“Bisexual. It’s not a disease, Ash, it’s a party. Welcome.”
“God,” I say, and then the tears are really coming, for real this time, not even hidden, not even trying. “I’m so fucking tired, May. I thought I could just… have a normal life. Just blend in. But now…” I trail off, the lump in my throat bigger than any of the words I was going to use.
She lets the silence hang, then, gentle: “You’re still you. The rest is just detail. Who is he?”
I choke on the answer. “What?”
She’s smiling, I can hear it. “You only get this wound up when it’s about a guy. Don’t deny it.”
For a second, I think about lying. But it’s Maya, and she always knows. “It’s complicated.”
She makes a noise. “You love complicated. Is it that guy, the goalie?”
I don’t know how she does it, but there it is. “Yeah. Darius. He’s… God, May, he’s the best person I know. And I fucked it up so bad. I let myself get used by this other guy, Vincent, and now—” I can’t say the rest. I don’t want to explain the article, the betrayal, the way my words are now a weapon pointed at my own head.
She doesn’t rush me. She never does.
