Page 41

“But when you hear something enough,” I said, “you start thinking it has to be true. Everybody around me talked about what boys were supposed to become. Husband. Father. Leader of the household. Dick to the vagina, blah, blah.” I deepened my voice dramatically. “Protector. Provider. Man of God.”

Trevor made a face.

“Exactly.” I nudged his sneaker with mine. “So I tried.”

“Tried what?”

“To be normal.” The word tasted stupid even now. Normal. Humanity’s favorite imaginary finish line. The white picket-fence dream of America. Maybe it was called the dream because you needed to be asleep to fucking believe it anymore. “I tried liking girls.”

Trevor looked horrified. “Seriously?”

“I was committed.”

“How?”

“Well, mostly, I stared at them and hoped something would happen to my dick.”

He laughed.

“I had a girlfriend for six days.”

“No way.”

“Her name was Ashley.”

“What happened?”

“She kissed me.”

Trevor waited. “And?”

“I realized I liked her lip gloss a lot more than I liked her.”

His laugh cracked across the lake before he slapped a hand over his mouth. “Shut up!” he wheezed.

“Cherry Coke.”

“You remember the flavor?”

“I spent the entire kiss wondering where she bought it and if she’d notice me sneaking my hand into her bag to steal it.”

Trevor bent forward, continuing to laugh silently, and I smiled. That story used to embarrass the fuck out of me, but now it was actually funny. Time had a strange way of turning certain wounds into party tricks, didn’t it?

“I tried sports too,” I said.

“You?”

“Watch your tone, asshat.”

“You don’t seem like a football person.”

“I was certifiably horrible.”

“I figured.”

“Trevor!” I gasped, trying not to laugh, and he grinned.

“Sorry. Sorry. I mean…”