“Are you going through some kind of crisis?” I ask, half seriously, half facetiously. “Seems like you got a lot on your mind.”
“Maybe. It’s normal, though, right? I mean, senior year, the end of all of this. Thinking about your future and what you want to do with your life.”
“I don’t know. I guess I’m not feeling any of that.”
“Yeah, but you know who you are. You’ve never been the kid who does things to be cool or to fit in.”
I smile at him. “Are you calling me a misfit?”
“Maybe. But in the best possible way.”
I stare at him for a moment, trying to figure out what the hell he wants and realizing I don’t really care. If he’s looking for a new BFF or curious about guys, or already knows that he wants me… I don’t care what his agenda is. I want to hang out with him.
I sit up, then stand. “Come on, let’s go have some fun… get your head out of the gutter.”
“Jesus, I’m being a drama queen.” He stands and shakes his head like he’s clearing it.
Is that normal… a straight guy calling himself a queen? This is gonna be one mindfuck of a day, I can already tell.
I head down the path, and he follows me. “You got other clothes with you?”
“Shit.” He looks down like he’s just realized what he’s wearing. “I’ll have to stop back at my house.”
“Which is where?”
“Folsom Hills.”
“No. We ain’t got time to go all the way over there.”
He pauses in front of his truck and looks at me, confused.
I grab his arm and pull him around his truck, purposefully releasing it once he’s moving again. “Come on. Now that we’re buddies, you can borrow a pair of pants.”
“Wow, okay,” he says with an uncomfortable huff. “I don’t think I’ve ever borrowed a friend’s pants, but… whatever.”
I watch him closely, noting every nervous tick he’s putting out there: the hand running through the hair again, the cap flipped back to forward, the tan skin around his eyes crinkling.
“You know what, Jay, I can already tell you think too damn much about everything. Why don’t you just try to chill out? Take a deep breath. It’s just a pair of pants.”
“Did I say something that would make you think I’m stressed out about pants? ’Cause I’m not.”
“Perfect. You’re getting the hang of it already.”
“Shut up,” he says with a smirk.
“This is it,” I announce when we get to my driveway, which is about a hundred yards from the park.
His eyes roam the brick rambler. “Nice.”
“It’s no Folsom Hills, but I like it.”
“I don’t live in one of those mansions.” There’s a hint of guilt in his voice.
“No? I didn’t realize there was anything but mansions over there.”
“I don’t know. It’s one of the smaller ones.”
I shrug at his guilty expression. “You don’t gotta feel bad about the fact that your family has money. I mean, shit, if I had a house like that I’d take a picture, have it printed on a shirt with the words, Yeah, bitches, this is where I live, and wear it every day.”
He cocks his head at me. “I can never tell if you’re fucking with me or not.”
I cock my head back at him. “I don’t fuck with people.” I open the door and am met with loud noises like always. “You want to meet the family?”
“Um… sure?”
“Good, ’cause you don’t really have a choice. I can’t get you to my room without walking past them.”
We head out of the entry and my little sister, Paisley, spots us and comes running. She jumps into my arms, and I hoist her up on my hip. “Who are you?” she asks Jay, and I smile like I almost always do when I’m around her. She’s a little spitfire and always says what’s on her mind.
“Jay,” he says, smiling down at her. “Who are you?”
She doesn’t answer. “I’ve never seen you. Are you Brighty’s boyfriend?”
“Huh.” Jay stutters something between a laugh and a sound of disbelief. “Ah… no. I’m just Brighty’s friend.” He cocks an eyebrow at Paisley’s nickname for me.
“Do you want to draw with me?” she asks him.
I set her down and tell her, “Sorry, kid, we don’t got time for coloring.”
She shrugs at us before going back to the paper and colored pencils she has spread out on the carpet in the living room.
“Brighton, is that you?”
“Yeah, Mom.”
“Get in here. I need you to taste this.”
“Ugh,” I moan as I head toward the kitchen. “Please, Mom… no.” She’s been trying to turn into a cook for her entire adult life, and she still hasn’t gotten the hang of it.
As Jay and I walk into the kitchen, my dad screws up his face at us, letting me know it’s not good. Thank God for him and his mad cooking skills or we’d be living off raw produce.
“Oh, great”—Mom looks up from the bowl she’s perched over—“another mouth full of taste buds.”
“Mom, no. You can’t subject a total stranger to….” I look down at her bowl of orange mush. “What the hell is that?”
She holds the spoon up to my mouth. “It’s mashed pumpkin curry.” I back away as she hunts me down with her spoon.
“Jesus, even in capable hands that would be dog shit… no.” I swat her hand away.
“You’re eating it,” she says with a mischievous grin, practically hoisting her petite body on mine, trying to force it in my mouth. “Max, tell him how good it is.”
“I thought we agreed we don’t lie to the kids anymore.”
She backs off me and turns to him. “Really? Are you saying you don’t like my mashed pumpkin curry, because I believe the words that came out of your mouth were ‘mmm, that’s pretty good.’”
She’s on top of him now where he’s sitting at the table. “Baby…,” he says, laughing while trying to fend her off. “You know I can’t say mean things to you. I’m not capable of hurting your feelings.”
She pauses right before the spoon enters his mouth and leans down to kiss him instead.
“Okay… awesome,” I say, turning away from the spectacle and grabbing Jay, who’s staring at them with amusement. “Come on.”
“You got an interesting family,” he tells me when I have us safely down the stairs and in my room.
I snicker at that understatement. “And you didn’t even get to meet Cooper.”
“Is that your brother?” He seems only vaguely interested. He’s wandered over to my “Wall of Wonders,” as my dad calls it.
“Yeah. He’s twelve… obsessed with girls, lifts weights, thinks he’s Rico Suave. It’s entertaining.”
“Huh.” He’s totally not paying attention. He grabs a comic off the shelf and flips through it. “God, I haven’t read one of these since I was ten. You must have hundreds of them.”
“I was gung ho for a few years. I started a dog-walking business when I was nine just so I could afford my obsession. Almost all my childhood crushes were on comic book characters. But Jason Todd… seriously in love.”
Jay’s eyes flash to mine, and his face looks a little shocked.
“What?” I ask.
He puts the comic back and shakes his head. “You don’t talk about any of that in class, besides the occasional Bic reference. I mean, you obviously don’t hide it. You wear all those shirts, and the fact that you’re gay is no secret. But, I don’t know, I guess it just takes a minute to get used to the fact that it’s all just out there. You’re not trying to hide anything or spare my homophobic feelings.”
I smile at the pissed-off way he says “homophobic.” I seriously offended him with that one. Because he’s gay? Or he really just wants to be perceived as open-minded, so much so that he would make a point to come hang out with me? “Why would I hide it?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Wasn’t it hard, telling your parents… tellin
g your friends… being okay with everyone at school knowing?”
Again, I’m trying to figure out if he’s just trying to get to know his new friend or if he’s wondering about his own future. I walk to my bed and sit down against the headboard. “I guess I’m lucky. It’s never been a thing in my life. It’s just who I’ve always been, and my parents have never questioned that. I mean, yeah, it was kind of a shock when I eventually realized that I was pretty much the only kid in my world who liked boys instead of girls. But I’ve been gay since day one so people just deal, you know.”
Jay takes a seat on the end of my bed and tells me, “Your parents seem cool. Like they really love each other.”
“You think? Jesus, they’re sickening,” I say, but I’m smiling. I like how in love they are. Relationship goals.
He chews on the inside of his cheek, and I wait patiently for him to say whatever it is he has to say. “Don’t take this the wrong way. I know I’m gonna totally sound like an idiot, but you don’t seem gay.”
“Yeah.” I laugh, kicking my feet up on the bed, preparing for a long conversation. I’m definitely thinking he’s got some issues he needs to work through. “I get that a lot. From straight people. I still haven’t figured out why people think that all gay guys are feminine. Like we can’t just be normal men.”
“But most gay guys are… feminine, aren’t they?”
“There are plenty of lacy guys out there—”
“Lacy?” he interrupts.
“You know… the kind of guy you think of as gay. But I’m obviously not that type of gay.” I smile so he knows I’m not offended. Living as an openly gay guy in a town like this means this isn’t my first gig as the representative of the entire gay community. I actually like it when people want to talk about it. It’s better than just getting stared at like you murdered someone. You know what they’re all thinking: That guy likes assholes. He nods at me but doesn’t say anything. “You got more questions?”
He raises his eyebrows at me then turns back to the Wall of Wonders. “Yeah. What kind of jobs did you have to get to afford your other obsessions?”
“Hmm… well, I started making those little Japanese cartoon-looking characters when I was twelve.”
“Wait.” He stands and goes back to my shelf, picking one up. “You made these, like from scratch?”
I laugh at his wording. “Yeah, from scratch. My mom is a ceramic artist, so that was my little hobby for a few years. I would go out back in her studio with her and make those little guys. So technically I didn’t have to pay for them.”
“Seriously? That’s… awesome.” He picks up another one and inspects it. “You still do this?”
“No. I’ll go out there and chill with her, whip up a vase or whatever. But no, not obsessed anymore.”
He turns and gives me that smile, plopping down on my bed, leaning back on his elbows. “What about the music?”
“Yeah… that shit I gotta pay for. I gotta little painting business going.”
“Like houses?”
“No, like hand-painted advertising. Mostly I do buildings, but sometimes it’s on vehicles—trucks, cars, motorcycles….”
He looks over his shoulder at me. “Can I see that?”
“What? The painting?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure. I gotta go collect a payment at a drugstore I just finished up. You can come along.”
“Right. We gotta get going.”
“Whenever. No rush.”
He looks back to my wall. “Looks like your taste is eclectic, judging from the bands I recognize.”
“I guess. I go through my stages.”
“You get that stuff off Bandcamp?”
“Mostly. Are you into Bandcamp?”
“Into it? I don’t know. Bought a couple albums off it.”
“That’s cool.” He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would have to get his music off of anything but iTunes. Figured him for a hot-100 type of guy. Or not a music kind of guy at all.
“Maybe someday you can school me on all these bands I’ve never heard of.”
“You think I’m gonna want to hang out with you again?” I ask, my subtle attempt at flirting with a guy who is very possibly straight.
He laughs. “I guess I don’t know why you would. You must think I’m boring as hell.”
“Why would you say that?”
“I don’t know.” He lies back on my bed. I’m distracted by the sight and by how comfortable he seems to be here with me. “I don’t do anything but play sports and party.”
“What are you supposed to be doing?”
“This, I guess. Playing sports and partying. I don’t know what the hell else I would do.”
“Is there something you want to do?”
“I hope so.”
“But what… you just don’t know what that is yet?”
“God, that sounds so stupid. I’m eighteen years old. I should know who the hell I am by now.”
I laugh out loud at that. “Says who? No one knows who they are when they’re eighteen. Most guys our age are serious about two things—getting laid and masturbating. No one has any real shit figured out.”
He stutters a laugh but doesn’t comment. I don’t know what that means. Maybe he’s agreeing or maybe he thinks I’m stupid. “You got a girlfriend?” I know he was in a relationship for at least a year with Colette Kennedy—they were the golden couple of our school—but I don’t know if he’s with anyone now.
“Yeah. Sadie Newcomb.”
I try not to be disappointed by that. “She’s a junior, right? Blonde… cheerleader?”
“Yeah. Exactly the kind of girl you’d expect someone like me to be with.”
“I don’t really have any expectations of you,” I say with a laugh.
“You know what I mean.”
“Is that a problem? That your type is pretty, popular cheerleaders?”
“Who else would I date, right?”
I don’t comment.
“What about you? You with anyone?”
“Naw. It’s pretty hard to start any kind of serious relationship when I’m the only gay guy in this town.”
“So… what? You’ve never been with anyone?”
Whoa. That seems personal. Not the type of question straight guys are usually comfortable asking me. They don’t want specifics about guy-on-guy action. “Of course I’ve been with guys. The whole online thing is all right, and I got friends in the city. I tried the relationship thing once, but between school and work, the opportunities to actually be with him were sparse.” I leave out all the crucial, ugly details of why it didn’t work. “I wish I could have that. Do the whole normal relationship thing—go out to dinner and a movie, chill out and listen to music in my room, bring a guy to dinner with my family as long as Mom’s not the one cooking, go to a school dance—you know. But sadly, most of my relationships last for one night.”
“It’s like that, huh?” He smirks at me. “You’re a hit-it-and-quit-it kind of guy.”
“I’m not proud of it, but yeah. I gotta get laid every once in a while.”
He sits back up on his elbows so he can turn and look at me. He takes his baseball cap off, runs his fingers through his hair, but doesn’t put the cap back on. He drops it on my bed instead, and then there’s a moment when we’re staring at each other, and it feels like a thousand thoughts are being exchanged. Questions mostly, I guess.
“I wouldn’t have pegged you for the school-dance type of guy,” he finally says, breaking the silence.
“I totally am. I love a man in a suit, and, you know, I got moves I wanna show off. Dancing is sexy as hell. The best foreplay there is.”
He smiles his crooked, beautiful smile. “I’ve always hated dancing. It’s totally awkward.”
The word awkward makes me ask, “You not comfortable with your body?”
He scrunches up his face. “I’m totally comfortable with my body. It’s the best thing I got.”
I l
augh at his cockiness. “Oh really?”
“Yeah. I mean, it’s the foundation of my whole life, right? I’m good at playing sports and getting girls. The body game’s gotta be on point.”
“Okay. That’s not really what I meant, though. Maybe you’re not comfortable in your body… or moving your body.”
“I think it’s you who’s thinking too much now. I’m just not comfortable dancing in front of people.”
“What about with people? That’s the best part of dancing. The flirting and the touching. Your bodies moving together.”
He turns away again. “I guess.”
“Sounds like you’ve never been danced with properly.”
“Maybe not,” he says with a quiet laugh.
We fall into a silence then that feels more tense than comfortable. With him on my bed, talking about dancing and his body, I can’t help but let my mind wander. I’m picturing him, right where he is, undressing and showing me just how on point his body game is. Shit.
“You ready to get out of here?” I ask, standing up and heading to my dresser.
“Yeah.”
I can hear my bed creak as he stands, but I don’t turn and look at him. Instead I open my drawer and pull out a pair of jeans. “You need a shirt?”
“Sure.”
I open another drawer and grab a T-shirt. “You good on underwear?” I turn to look at him.
He laughs, which is good. He’s not freaked out by a gay guy asking him if he wants to borrow his underwear. “It does kind of feel like you’re my mom picking out my clothes.”
“Please don’t tell me your mom still picks out your clothes and underwear for you?”
“She probably would if I let her.”
That comment has all kinds of connotations, but I don’t go there. “Bottom drawer, if you need them.” Handing off the jeans and T-shirt, I head out of my room, closing the door behind me.
While he’s changing, I head into the bathroom to take a leak. When I’m done, I brush my teeth and reapply my deodorant, fully aware that I’m doing it for Jay. That I’m letting myself keep the he might be gay door open. I take a minute to run my fingers through my thick, dark hair, trying to make the long part on top fall correctly. I even run my thumbs over my eyebrows in case there’s a hair out of line. I stare into my eyes, undoubtedly the best part about my face. It’s the first thing most guys notice—my eyelashes and the odd shade of green of my irises. I wonder what Jay thinks when he looks at me.
Riding with Brighton Page 3
