Page 8 of Ancient History

I nudged the fries to the center of the table. I didn’t like being the friend who was falling apart, but I supposed it was my turn. We’d all dealt with our share of drama, from bad boyfriends to family issues to nightmare students. We could vent about anything to each other.

“You know what the brightside is here? When Hutch dumped me back in high school, I was all alone. I hadn’t told a soul about us, so I grieved by myself, which was not fun. WatchingYou’ve Got Mailcan only cheer a person up so much. But I’m not alone anymore. I have you guys.”

We tended not to get schmaltzy with each other, covering our love for each other under barbs. But sometimes, schmaltz was needed. These guys were the greatest.

“I may or may not knee him in the groin when I see him.” Everett strummed his fingers on the table. “Fuck him. Not literally. You know what I mean.”

“Forget him.” I liked the sound of that better.

“Exactly. Forget him,” Everett said with surprising seriousness. “You have a great life now. You’re an awesome teacher. You have a great condo, kick-ass friends i-m-h-o. Just because you two are working in the same building, doesn’t mean you have to interact. He’ll stay busy on the soccer field, and you can continue to do your thing in the classroom. It’ll be like he’s not there.”

I nodded and hoped that scenario could play out. “Consider him forgotten.”

* * *

An hour later,I was home, sitting on the floor of my bedroom, high school yearbook open in my lap, Hutch’s grin staring me in the face.

I didn’t save anything from our relationship. I purged every note and every picture. The only evidence that we ever floated in each other’s orbit was a single yearbook picture where we happened to be in the same frame.

Hutch was mugging for the camera, owning it like he did every frame. I stared back at him, willing myself to keep it together.

To paraphrase the old lady Rose inTitanic, Hutch Hawkins wrecked me in all the ways a person could be wrecked.

We started out like a typical high school cliche. He was the super-popular star captain of the soccer team. I was the nerdy closeted gay kid who secretly crushed on, and masturbated to, the thought of said super-popular star captain.

I was satisfied to pine from afar…until sophomore year when we finally had a history class together. I tempted fate every day by sneaking peeks at him one row over, his rumpled jeans hugging his strong thighs. I pretty much cataloged an inventory of all his sweaters. And mostly, I became the only kid in the world excited about history class.

Hutch would lean over and ask me questions when he was lost, which motivated me to become the star student of history. It was like this warm spotlight when he talked to me. I raised my hand and spoke more there than any other class solely so he’d look at me, and I’d have a chance to glance back at him.

My crush on Hutch took over my brain. By spring, I finagled an invite to a party hosted by the jock older brother of a quiz bowl teammate. We were nerds who’d snuck into enemy territory. I made myself a screwdriver that was mostly orange juice. Hutch gave me this big, welcoming smile when he spotted me and bragged to his friends about knowing this insane history buff.

I got permission to use the upstairs bathroom later that night. (Yes, I asked the host, revealing how inept I was at cool people parties.) My bladder went shy in highly public areas and word was that two girls had puked on the floor. When I exited, Hutch was standing in the upstairs hall, a glassy smile on his red lips. Helookedat me, and for the first time, I felt like somebody worth being looked at.

He put a hand on my chest—even now, I could feel its determined heat—and pushed me back into the bathroom where he proceeded to give me my first kiss.

And what a kiss. Earthquakes. Fireworks. Hallelujah chorus. All of it. His warm lips met mine in a perfect harmony. I was floating, ascending into heaven. I didn’t know how I could go on with my life after that kiss.

As I said, wrecked.

At first, dating in secret was exhilarating. Hooking up with the hottest jock in school? That was the gay dream.

Hutch left me secret notes in my locker, and I reciprocated. I pictured him sneaking off to write them, or drafting them while pretending to take notes in other classes, like I had.

And the sex? Wrecked.

The man was a natural born sex god. He was gentle but firm, letting us fumble through it together while being the one in charge.

But by senior year, the excitement of being his dirty little secret had faded. Other kids at South Rock had come out to an accepting student body. There was even an out, same sex couple. Why couldn’t that be us? There came a point when a secret curdled from intoxicating to just plain toxic. Each secret note and stolen glance was another paper cut.

Whenever I mentioned coming out, Hutch said he wasn’t ready. He needed to get through soccer season. He had to stay sharp for scouts. He didn’t want to lose his friends, who wouldn’t be accepting.

I didn’t want to push him, but it became all about his needs, his wants. Maybe Hutch could live this double life forever, but I couldn’t.

That was when we came up with the plan: Go to prom together. Walk in holding hands. Slow dance. Live happily ever after.

I was a jittery sack of pins and needles for the weeks leading up to prom. Soon, we wouldn’t have to wait until after school to hold hands. We wouldn’t have to crane our necks like dual periscopes to ensure the halls were empty for a quick kiss. It was this weight that had slowly built up until I finally recognized it was suffocating us.

The night before prom, Hutch texted to tell me that he realized he was actually straight, and we couldn’t see each other anymore.

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