Page 80 of Theoretically Straight

“Me too,” he whispers back.

“I don’t want you to go.”

“Me neither.”

I close my eyes against him, trying to memorize every detail of this moment. Now I understand why Harrison and Elise always linger alone at the end of our hangouts, taking any available opportunity to slip away just for a few minutes alone together. I get it. I never got it with Sienna, but I get it now.

“Text me when you get home, okay?” Caleb says, starting to pull away.

“Waaaaait,” I whine, pulling him back for another kiss. He smiles against my lips, which makes me smile, too. As we pull apart, I nod. “Yeah, I’ll text you when I’m home.”

“Good luck at work tomorrow,” Caleb says, opening the car door and climbing out.

“Thanks. Text me while I’m working? I’ll be bored, and I’ll miss you.”

Caleb chuckles and leans down to look at me. “Sure thing.”

“Cool. Bye, Caleb.”

“Bye, Theo.”

And with that, he closes the car door and walks to the front door. I watch him, frozen in place until he’s safe inside his house, and even then, I stare at the door for a few more seconds, just in case.

Before driving away, I pull out my phone to queue up Charli XCX, the artist Caleb said was his current favorite. As I drive, bobbing my head to the music, I can’t wipe the stupid grin off my face, replaying every moment we shared throughout the day.

The realization hits me fast and hard, almost knocking the wind out of me.

It’s been less than two weeks, but I think I might be falling in love.

* * *

Saturday, September 23

Work is as awful as to be expected for a Saturday. Thankfully, I do have a handful of coworkers who keep work bearable by goofing off in the back, making jokes in the kitchen, and tossing straw wrappers at each other in the breakroom. But if I’m being honest, escaping to the walk-in fridge or the bathroom to text Caleb is what gets me through the day.

I almost make it through the entire shift without even thinking about my nails. That is, however, until Antony, one of the waiters, gives me an intrigued look from the register as he puts in an order. “Huh, I didn’t know you painted your nails.”

I glance down at my hands, flexing my fingers, and then immediately shove my hands in my apron pocket. “Yep,” is the best I can come up with for a response.

Antony doesn’t respond right away, so I fidget with my apron, desperately surveying the dining room in hopes there’s a table to clean off, but of course, there’s not. I stand awkwardly beside Antony as he taps away at the screen, trying not to panic.

“I’d be careful with black, though,” he finally says. “I don’t want you to get in trouble with the higher-ups. You’re one of the good ones, you know.”

I turn to look up at him, not sure I heard him correctly, and Antony flashes me a kind smile before heading back into the dining room.

Part of me knows this should be encouraging that the one interaction I have about my nail polish at work is a positive one. But something dark and frightening curls in my gut as I consider the idea of getting reprimanded by “the higher-ups.” Will they ask questions? Will they reconsider my employment there if they think I’m too feminine? Or maybe they think I’m being edgy since the paint is black? Or too…something else? Logically, I know that this trail of logic is stupid, but I can’t stop it.

The nail polish has to go as soon as possible.

There is an immediate sense of shame that washes over me as I knock on Grace’s door to ask for nail polish remover several hours later. I can tell she’s disappointed by my request, too, but she doesn’t say a word when she hands me the pink bottle and some cotton balls, watching me retreat quietly to the bathroom.

I can’t do it. I can’t risk my parents seeing it. Or Sienna. Or Nathaniel. Or Chase.

I’m not ready.

I try to remember that I’ve only been with Caleb for a few days and that all of this is uncharted territory for me. I’ve told Harrison and Grace that I like a boy now. I spent time with Caleb’s friends, and Wren put makeup on my face and painted my nails. I was brave enough to keep the nail polish on at work, but that’s as far as I can go for now.

The black paint comes off, but it’s not easy. It’s slow and agonizing, both literally and metaphorically. I can tell that this pungent stench of the chemicals is going to linger in my nose long after I leave the bathroom. With each finger I de-polish, I feel like more of a coward.

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