Page 20 of Off Sides

“Yeah,” He offers her the slightest smile, but I can tell he’s really trying. “Sorry I left so fast last time.”

“Hi.” Jenna walks in, all put together and happy with bright red lipstick that really suits her. Her pretty smile in place. “Calvin, it’s good to see you again.” And I know she means it.

“Uh yeah, sorry I left like I did last time. I should have at least said goodbye.”

Uh-oh. Jenna looks like she might melt, her face all giddy. “Oh, honey, don’t you worry about it. I’m glad you’re back.”

Calvin looks like he wants to be anywhere else, and I know he’s searching for something to say, so I try to swoop in and help. “We’re going to go study.” I say, not touching Calvin this time, but directing him to my room. He follows quickly to get out of the conversation. I’m glad she doesn’t call us both out on not even having our backpacks with us this time.

Oops?

But unlucky for him, I want to talk too. I sit on my bed and pat the spot next to me—a respectable distance, might I add—but he ignores that and takes a seat in my desk chair, looking at me warily.

I don’t want to scare him off again, but I have this strong urge to talk to him. To help him not be so afraid. And I get it, believe me, do I get it. Growing up with a pastor for a father who loved to preach about the sins of homosexuality . . . I definitely get it.

The town I grew up in may have been fairly liberal in some ideologies, but not my house. Not with my parents’ friends. Not in the church, and hell, some of my siblings are even shitheads who believe the horrid words my father spewed.

“We forgot our bags,” he says, his eyes wide like he just now realized.

“Yeah, I don’t have any homework or any tests coming up. Do you?”

He shakes his head slightly. “No.”

“I just wanted to hang out. You looked pretty distraught out there on the field,” I say, not trying to tease him or make light of it. But I’m not sure anyone has ever been that concerned for me. Not even Micah.

“I didn’t mean to not block for you. I was, um . . .” I wait, but he stops. We sit there, kind of in a standstill for a moment, but I’m quiet, and I continue to wait because I want to hear why—even if I’m not mad at him for it. I need to know what he was going to say. “I guess I was too in my head out there. Not paying attention.”

“Thinking about Friday?” I ask, and I know it’s bold, but again, I need to know. Being out there is a little scary, even for me. I’m someone who knew he was gay for a really long time and am proud of it, despite being kicked out of my home. Despite my father and mother doing what they could to talk me out of it. Spoiler alert—that’s not a thing.

He looks nervous, stretching his long legs out in front of him as he shifts around in his seat, fidgeting. “Yeah, I guess.”

“You wanna talk about why you ran out of here?” I know why he did it, and he knows I know why, but if we’re going to be friends—if I’m going to try to help him out of this obvious hell he’s been locked in—then we have to talk about it.

I don’t need him to come out to me or tell me any of his truths before he’s ready, but he has to let me be me. I won’t hide for anyone. Not ever again.

“Not really,” he says in a clipped tone that’s just this side of angry. Well, too bad. I want to help him. I want to be his friend, and there’s no denying I’m attracted to the guy, but this is nonnegotiable.

“If we’re going to be friends, there’s something you should know about me.”

“I don’t need to know . . .”—he stops, snapping his mouth shut and then looking at me with such a pained expression, I almost back off entirely, which is so not like me—“that.”

He can’t even say it.

Poor guy.

My heart aches for him, but I just sit up a little taller and look him in the eyes. “I’m gay, Calvin. It’s not that. It’s not something I’m ashamed of, or something anyone should be ashamed of.”

He stands up abruptly, and I think he’s going to leave again—I’m almost certain of it, but his feet don’t move toward the door. “Why did you need me to know that? Why?”

I stay seated and look up at him, his large body rigid and stiff, anger and fear written all over his face. “Because it’s part of me.”

He shakes his head, and I’m starting to worry a little because it’s not the cute little flustered thing I’m really starting to love that he’s doing right now. No. He looks downright distraught. Full of stress and panic. “But why tell me that?” He places a hand over his heart when he says the word me.

“Because we’re friends, and it’s part of me.”

“We aren’t friends though.” He starts pacing my room now. “We aren’t. We hung out for two seconds on Friday. I let you get smashed into the ground today, and now we’re in your room, and you’re telling me . . .”—he stops pacing and turns to look at me, his hand sweeping in the air in my direction—“that you’re . . .”—he motions again—“you’re . . .”

“Gay,” I say, supplying the word he can’t seem to say. Someone really did a number on him, that’s for sure.