Page 97 of I'm Your Guy
“Not as sorry as she was. She was nice about it at first. But it made me so tense.”
“Which only made things worse?” Carter guesses.
“Yeah, of course. So avoidance became my big strategy. I was busy traveling. Or I was too tired. You name it, I used it as an excuse. She took it personally. We started fighting. And eventually she asked me point blank if…”
I swallow hard, because I can still picture her tear-stained face when she asked me if I was gay. She was sobbing. Angry. Hurt.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Carter whispers. “I don’t want to upset you.”
“Oh, you aren’t.” I sigh. “Water under the bridge. I lied to that girl’s face, because I was still, uh, lying to myself at that point. I was hanging onto that lie with two hands.”
“It happens.”
“I know that. But I still feel bad about it. I made that nice girl cry, and then I made her leave me. I couldn’t even man up and tell her it wasn’t her fault. I’m as bad as that jerk you were with in Montana, Carter.”
“Nah. You didn’t mock her to your friends, right?”
“Of course not.”
“You’re not blameless, and you probably owe her an apology. But the difference between you and my jerkwad high school boyfriend is whether you’ve learned anything from the experience.”
“I’m trying.” I tuck my hands behind my head. “It’s hard, though. Talking about it is like pulling off my own skin. And then there’s you—willing to tell anyone who you really are. And proud of it.”
“I have my moments,” he says. “But I knew I was gay from, like, birth.”
“Hmm.” I stare up at the ceiling. “It took me a little longer. There were clues, but I chose to ignore them. I told myself that I liked looking at men because I admired them.”
“You probably did, though,” Carter says. “Can’t it be both?”
“Sure. But I just didn’t want to question why I loved the men’s underwear aisle at Target so much. All those models with their biceps and their bulges.”
Carter chuckles. “Oh yaaassss. Many a queer boy had his sexual awakening staring at a three-pack of briefs.”
I don’t tell him, though, about what Marco said when he found me there. What are you doing, you creepy little freak? The sneer in his voice had been very educational.
I change the subject. “Want some waffles?”
“You know I do.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Carter
I’m the kind of man whose conscience is easily bought with good sex and waffles. Tommaso and I sit down to another excellent breakfast, and I let myself enjoy it.
It’s easy, because he’s in such a good mood. He turns on the Christmas tree lights, and tells me a story about how his nephews pulled the beard off a New Jersey shopping mall Santa.
“My sister has her hands full,” he says. “You’d like Gia. She’s a charmer. Like you.”
I decide to take it as a compliment.
After breakfast, we clean up the kitchen together. It’s cozy. His hand on my lower back as he reaches for the dishtowel. His smile as I make him another cup of coffee, since we were too busy jumping each other to drink the first ones.
It’s all fun and hot glances until someone suddenly knocks on the front door. “DiCosta! Special delivery!” a voice calls. “Okay, it’s not all that special. It’s a half dozen muffins I just baked.”
Just like that, our cozy morning ends as suddenly and painfully as a record-scratch. I check Tommaso’s expression, and my heart sags. He looks spooked.
“That’s my neighbor,” he whispers. “Newgate’s boyfriend.”
