Page 36 of Strange Lad

“Sure.”

“Have you ever had a boyfriend?”

The light dims from his eyes. “No.”

Why is the light dimming? Why is he going back to his motorcycle? Wait, what did I do wrong? “Oli?”

“I’ve never had a boyfriend, Jorge. Never had a girlfriend either.”

“Are you a virgin?” I blurt before I think better of it.

The tool in his hand drops to the ground, and his eyes slam shut. Every muscle in his body ripples and tenses. “I’m not a virgin,” he breathes and visibly shakes now.

The refusal to look at me, his body language, and his voice send warning bells ringing in my head. Ohfuck. Fucking fuck. I’m an asshole. The biggest, gaping sphincter. How have I not connected the dots sooner? It all makes so much sense. I can only stare at him for a few beats, stunned stupid. Something terrible happened to Oli. And now that the door has been blown open, every little detail I overlooked as him being strange seems so significant.

His touch aversion should’ve been my first clue.

The next should’ve been how his eyes glaze over whenever I bring up anything sex-related. As much as he tries to act unfazed, he isn’t. He’s fucking traumatized, and I’ve been gallivanting around this friendship without a care in the world. There’s so much I want to ask, to say. I want to make it all better despite him not openly admitting it. But I see it.

Oh, I see you, beautiful.

Something like unbearable rage and soul-crushing sympathy presses down on my heart. My fingers twitch with the need to comfort him, to soothe and show him the only way I know how that I realize what he’s been trying to tell me this past year. I can’t throw around my words like they don’t bear weight and aren’t a constant reminder of whatever happened to him.

I want to know who did it.

When?

How?

Every detail he hasn’t shared with me. To do that, though, I have to shelve my sexual awakening and be his friend.

I can do that.

“What is that?” I point to the motorcycle, and he relaxes.

“The crash bar.”

I let him explain the part to me, forcing myself to remain calm. It’s difficult to pay attention, though I do try. I try really hard to learn and listen. To shut my fucking mouth for once in my life. Lowering to squat beside him, I watch the light slowly return to his eyes as he goes over what he needs to fix, where and when he plans on doing so, and time passes.

When he’s done for the day, and we go back inside his studio so he can shower, I feel the need to scream. To find whoever hurt him and make thembleed.

My sister was assaulted in her early twenties. Some asshole drugged her drink and felt her up. Thankfully, a good samaritan saw the writing on the wall and got her away from the creep before anything progressed. But it really shook Sonia to her core and made her lose trust in a way that she still struggles with. Just like I held her while she cried and told me everything, I want to do the same for Oli.

I’d protect him if only he'd let me.

Would that even matter? Could a good, long hug ease even a fraction of the hurt he carries?

“Jorge,” he says loudly, and I blink out of my stare down at the wall.

“Sorry.” I rip the headband off, and my curls fall directly into my face. I shove them back and behind my ear, walking over to his sofa and plopping beside him. “Refreshed?” I try to joke, but it comes out flat.

“Sure.” He gestures at the TV. “Movie?”

“Why don’t we go see one at the theater instead?” I ask, wanting a dark space to hide away in while thinking about how to handle this.

He studies me for a few beats. “You never ask to go there.”

My hands are sweaty, so I swipe them down my thighs and huff. “Yeah, I know. But I was going to try something new.”

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