I shook my head.“Still doing that, huh?”
He glanced at me sideways and smirked.“Still doing a lot of things you don’t approve of, I bet.”
“Diego…” I sighed and ran a hand through my hair.“Man, I’m really sorry.”
“I said—”
“No, not about that.I mean, I am, but also about just being me.I was an asshole last time we… saw each other.”I fumbled my way through it, but it was a start.Better than I’d done back then, anyhow.
“Ages ago,” he said easily, though he wouldn’t look me in the eye no matter how hard I tried to catch his.He blew out a long trail of smoke before continuing.“We were kids.And look at us now: both responsible adults with college degrees and shit.How’s yours?”
“My degree?”
“Yeah.”
“I, uh, ended up with a business degree.Marketing.”Ugh, jock stereotype number 1082.
“And how’s business?”
“Fine.I might do an MBA.Did you—?”
“Oh, I did get that theater degree, and my father was correct: I will never use it.No regrets, right?”He shot me a look, finally, but it was brief.
He’d seemed so easy about running into me inside, especially compared to how flustered I’d been.But it wasn’t all water under the bridge for him, no matter what he said.Sure wasn’t for me.
I wished I had another drink.A real one, this time.
He led me to a bright red Honda with a banged-up bumper, then clicked a key fob to open the trunk.“So what else have you been up to?Got a wife?Three kids?Summer home in the Poconos?”
“None of that,” I said quietly.“I mean, I was engaged for half a second.Not sorry that didn’t happen.”
“Right?”He handed me his cigarette.He had a few stacks of shirts and pants on hangers piled up in the trunk, a half-open duffel bag stuffed full of what looked like gym clothes, and a yoga mat tucked in the back.“God, what a fucking nightmare in there.Why do the straights do this to themselves?”
“Hey, marriage equality is a thing,” I said with a snort, holding the smoke away from my jacket.If Mom smelled it, I’d hear about it all week.
“Right, but no self-respecting gay would go with that shade of purple.I tried to talk her out of it.Believe me.”
I chuckled and leaned one hip against the mangled bumper.“How do you know the bride?”
“Stepsister.”He sighed and rolled his eyes.
“No shit?Is Frankie around?”
“We don’t talk about Frankie,” Diego said curtly.“Something about a defaulted loan that tanked Dad’s credit.And he stole my car, which is why I have this piece of shit.”
“Yikes.”So Frankie hadn’t changed, apparently.“Nice of you to come, anyhow.”
“Dad would never forgive me if I tried to bail.It’s nice that he wants me around and all, but Jesus Christ, this is a lot.”
I winced, remembering Diego’s dad from football games and opening nights.Classic Ohio Valley football dad, blessed with a grade-A fuckup for an older son and an unabashed theater kid for the younger.Diego used to hate him.I said, “I remember him being a dick,” I admitted.
“Yeah, well, the new wife voted for Kamala, so.”He buried his head in the trunk.“We’re cool now.She made him reconcile with the family faggot.”
I flushed.I didn’t like the word, obviously, but what really fucked me up about it was that it reminded me of my dad.And of course, guys used to throw that word around all the time in the hallways, in the locker room.Just that weird, casual homophobia that made it seem cool to dunk on anything slightly femme or pretty or not otherwise jacked up on toxic masculinity.One second claiming not to care who anyone was sleeping with, the next accusing Mickey Mouse of being a faggot because his voice was high-pitched and he wasn’t a dick to Minnie.
Small town bullshit dies hard, I’d thought.It’ll be better when I get to college.
Then I realized the guys in that locker room, not to mention the adults in charge of it, were just as bad.
