I wonder what he’s talking about, then remember the excuse I told him for getting Dave’s number. “Nah, not really.”
There’s a break in the game, and Chris’s eyes center on my face. He squints a little. “Did you start shaving?”
My face flames up. Not that he’s trying, but he makes me feel so stupid and childish sometimes.
“Yeah,” I say like it’s nothing.
“Did Dave do it for you?” he asks in a low rumble.
“He showed me how.”
Chris gets quiet then, brooding. I can feel his irritation reaching out to me like tentacles, lifting the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck. It puts me on edge.
“I could have showed you,” he says sullenly.
I glance over and see that he’s really hurt by it. His lower lip juts out in an adorable pout,perfect for sucking on, I think, then scold myself for the mental slip. I don’t know why I didn’t think to ask him. Just, we’re so close—too close, it seems—and our relationship is so confusing already. I’m trying to simplify things. Strictly bros.
“It just happened. He cut my hair and then it was like, whatever, you know?”
“Yeah. Whatever.” Chris grumbles.
“Sorry,” I say, not exactly sure what I’m apologizing for.
Chris breathes out a long, bullish sigh.What’s his problem?He’s always hanging out with other people—other girls—doing God knows what, and I don’t give him the third degree.
“How’s Kelli?” I ask to remind him of the score and the fact that he’s, you know, straight.
His head snaps in my direction, and he practically glares at me. Honestly, it stings.
“She’s fine,” he growls.
We play in silence for another ten minutes, and then Chris stands abruptly. “I’m heading out,” he says.
“Hot date?”
“Not quite,” he says testily and strides out of my room without looking back. I hear him say goodbye to my sister and my mom, and then the front door opens and shuts. I turn off my light and go to the window to watch him stalk across our driveways and into his house. I hate it when Chris is mad at me, and even though he has nothing to be angry about, it feels like my fault. Or like he’s making it my fault.
Maybe this has nothing to do with Dave, specifically, and everything to do with the fact that Chris suspects I might be into dudes. Is he worried I’m going to ruin his rep? Knock his cool factor down a few pegs? The thought of that being his problem makes me kind of pissed.
Would Chris ditch me if he found out I was gay? I hope not, but there’s no way to know unless I tell him, and I’m not even ready to face that myself.
I turn off the TV, brush my teeth, and climb into bed, thinking about Dave, seeing if I can get hard, but my thoughts keep drifting back to Chris, that night in Sebastian, the look on his face, the smell of him, the way I felt cocooned inside the tent with him like he and I were the whole world and nothing outside even mattered. The release I achieve on my own is an echo of the one Chris gave me, and I find myself feeling a little bitter I need him for that too.
As Beyoncé Would Say, Watermelon
I PICKup some hair gel on my way home from work on Sunday. I feel a little stupid doing it, and it’s probably not worth the money, but I want to look nice when I go over to Dave’s, even if all we do is play video games.
When Dave opens the door to his apartment, I can tell from the curl in his upper lip he likes what I’ve done with it. “Aye, Papi,” he says like an asshole, almost ruining it but not quite because I’m getting used to Dave’s particular brand of humor. When a guy is into you and makes it known, you make some allowances.
I go inside and cross the room, not knowing what to do with myself, which happens quite often. My mom says it’s because I’m growing so fast, but to be truthful, I’ve never felt comfortable in my skin unless I’m doing something like skating or playing soccer or mowing lawns, something to take my mind off my own bumbling awkwardness.
It feels so small in here, just the two of us. Like a fishbowl. I glance toward the couch, but I don’t really want to play video games. Then the bed, which is, like, way too intimidating. I start doubting myself, thinking I shouldn’t have come at all. Dave seems to sense my anxiety because he offers me a drink. I tell him I’m not thirsty.
“You want to play video games?” he asks. I stare at him, unable to form the words. I shake my head instead. “Okay.” He takes a step toward me, and I shift nervously from one foot to the other. He tilts his head and narrows his eyes, studying me like an algebraic equation.
“You’ve never done this before,” he says, a statement, not a question.
I shake my head again and glance toward the door. I don’t want to leave, but this is awkward as hell. What changed since yesterday? Dave tells me to have a seat on the couch and make myself comfortable. He puts on some music, not anything romantic either. Hip-hop. Not too soft, not too loud.
