Page 42 of Roommate
“It was okay.”
He seems to think this over. “Not everyone likes sex. I can’t, uh, quite understand not liking it. But asexuality is a real thing.”
“So I’ve heard,” I say, and then take another achingly good bite of meat and fresh bread. It’s occurred to me before that I could be asexual. It’s true that I don’t spend much time thinking about sex. I don’t watch porn, and I don’t hook up.
On the other hand, I spend a fair amount of time avoiding thinking about it. My life is complicated enough as it is. I watch my brother flirting and chasing women and making a fool of himself on a regular basis. And for what? A hookup after a night drinking at the bar.
Sex with strangers doesn’t appeal to me. Women don’t appeal to me half as much as they did when I was a horny teenager. And experimenting with random men off an app? That’s just awkward.
I like the idea of sex. It’s just that I’ve never worked out the details.
“You’re thinking really hard over there,” Roderick observes.
“Yeah. One of the reasons I wanted to move off my parents’ farm is that…”
“Your dad is an asshole?” Roderick guesses.
“Sure, but that isn’t what I was going to say.” I have thought the word asshole many times while tangling with Dad. But my relationship with him is more complicated than that. I never asked to have a father who resents me, and he never asked to raise my mother’s biggest mistake.
“What, then?” Roderick asks.
“I wanted the distance so I could figure it all out.”
“Your sexuality,” he guesses.
“That,” I agree. “And my career, too. I need a better graphic-design job, and some more coursework. I don’t want to hear Dad’s opinions all the time. Not about that, and not about…”
“Steamy-hot man-loving?” Roderick offers, and I almost choke on my sandwich. “Sorry,” he says with a grin. “I was born with no filter.”
“It must be nice to say what you’re thinking all the time. I can’t really do that.”
“And I can’t stop,” he says with a sigh.
“You never told me why you left Nashville in a hurry.” One of the only tricks I know to get people to stop asking me questions is to ask one back. “Zara and Audrey are curious, too.”
“Ah,” he says, setting down the last bit of his sandwich. “It’s not a very interesting story. I was in a relationship for three years with a country music singer.”
“A famous one?” I ask, fascinated. I don’t know of any gay country music stars.
He shrugs. “I won’t tell you his name because I’d never out somebody. I owe this man nothing, but it’s the principle of the thing.”
“Okay.”
“We were a big fat secret, and I was okay with it for a long time.”
“And then you weren’t anymore?” I guess.
“Right.” He looks glum. “The weird thing is I totally understood why he had to stay in the closet. Country music is a weird scene. Lots of conservative fans. But whenever I got frustrated, he always made me feel bad about it. Everything was always my fault and never his. If he had just commiserated a little, I might never have left.”
“Oh,” I say, hoping to sound supportive. But I’ve never been in a relationship, and I have no idea what that’s like. “So you just had enough?”
Roderick laughs, but he’s bitter. “I stayed, even as he got meaner about everything. He said I was too clingy. That hurt because I had completely arranged my life around his. I wasn’t allowed to enter our house through the front door.” He rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. “I know it sounds ridiculous. But I didn’t give up until he cheated.”
“Ouch.”
“I know. Not only did he cheat, he set it up so that I’d catch him. It was the most cowardly thing in the world. I left Nashville right after I walked in on them. I got in my car and drove to this twenty-four-hour health clinic that performs STD tests. And then I drove home, walked through the backdoor like I always do, packed up my shit, and left.”
“Holy crap.” I cram the last bite of heaven into my mouth. “I’m sorry,” I mumble.
