Page 53 of Tobias

I give a little wave, mouthing the word “bye” and snap my laptop shut. That meeting took way too long.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I let out a deep sigh. I’ve felt a headache coming on for days. Lack of sleep, too much alcohol, and the season for germs. Hopefully, I don’t get sick.

Marianne and I are supposed to go out to dinner tonight with Asher and Morgan. I’ve been trying to come up with an excuse to cancel. I’m tired of pretending. It’s more work than it ever was before. It’s amazing how a little bit of knowledge can do that to you.

I am attracted to men.

The more I say it, the easier it is.

I spent most of my morning browsing the internet to look at guys, focusing on the way my body reacts to them versus females. If ever there were a test, this would be it, right?

The consensus is I can acknowledge when I find a female attractive. I can point out things that I like about them. Liketheir lips, eyes, even their breasts look good sometimes. But the only time I really get hard over them is when I think about being inside them, notthemas people. It’s more of my dick being wrapped up in something warm—the act. And forgive me, that is damn awful of me to think of women that way. I’m not trying to objectify them, not at all. I have so much respect for women, but my dick just isn’t into them.

When I look at men, preferably the more rugged ones who are bigger than me with nice abs and arms… my dick goes crazy. The way my body reacts to men is very different from the way it reacts to women. I don’t have to think about having sex with men to get turned on; just looking at them does it for me. How did I not notice this before? I think I was avoiding it. Lying to myself. Living in complete ignorance over it.

So now that this information is solid, that it’s etched into my brain, what do I do with it?

Avoidance seems to be a comfortable tactic for me, only it’s getting more difficult to do by the day. I can stop seeing Marianne, but our wedding is still planned. It’s still happening. Our mothers are diligently working to get everything in place for it. The venue is paid for. The color scheme has been decided.

How do I have this conversation with my family? With my fiancée? I don’t know how to do that, I just know it needs to happen. Who do I tell first? If I spill my guts to Marianne, will she run to my family? If I tell them first, will they run to herfamily, who will then tell her? Do I tell them together? That’s a daunting thought.

I guess until I figure out the best way to handle this, I do nothing. I can’t have this blowing up in my face and making it worse. It has to go smoothly, or I may not come out on the other side.

Maybe I should talk to Asher. He’s not great with serious conversations, but he could have some good advice. He’s surprised me before. He knows Marianne and my family. Talking to Tobias about this stuff is easy, but he doesn’t know my life the way Asher does. I pick up my phone to call him.

“Calling to cancel?” he asks with a grin in his voice.

“Not yet. Have you had lunch yet?”

“Uh, yeah? It’s two o’clock.”

“Can we go grab a beer or something?”

“This can’t wait until later?”

“Later might not happen.”

“Are you depressed?” he asks carefully.

I groan, ignoring his inference of me offing myself andthat'swhy we may not have dinner later. “Will you meet me or not?”

“Yes, okay. You wanna come over?”

“Fine.”

I end the call, burying my face in my hands. Why the hell am I friends with him?

I park my car beside Asher’s white Silverado and head to the front door. I ring the bell and wait for him to answer. Morgan and he have been living together in this house since they were twenty. It started off with them renting it, but then the owner wanted to sell it, and so they bought it. It’s in a nice area of town, a good little neighborhood to raise a family in. Not sure if they’ll ever do that, but at least they’re in the place for it if they choose to.

“Where’s Morgan?” I ask when I step into his house.

“Shopping with her mother,” he answers before biting into an apple.

I shrug my coat off and hang it on the rack, wipe my feet on the mat, then follow him into the kitchen. Tossing the core into the trash, he moves to the sink to rinse off dirty dishes to put into the dishwasher. I was always fascinated how they live. Walking into a house that isn't spotless took some time to get used to. It's not that I thought badly of him for it, but growing up where everything sparkled and I never saw dirt anywhere other than outside, it was a shock. Now, as I watch him clear dirty dishes from last night and maybe even the night before, I find myself jealous of the ease in which they live.

“So, what’s up?” he asks, looking over his shoulder.

I lean against the counter, out of his way.

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