Page 28 of Attractive Forces
Because as the days go by, it’s getting harder and harder to deny I have feelings for a guy.
Not just any guy.
Logan freaking Madison.
It appears when I go gay, I have extremely good taste. Nothing but the best for me.
I now have something in common with every girl at school. Awesome.
Although isn’t that me stereotyping? Some of those girls might be interested in other girls or nonbinary people, not guys. The LGBTQ+ group is way smaller here than at my school in Wellington, but it still exists. There’s definitely not the same diversity though. We had trans and nonbinary students at my school in Wellington, whereas here in Heath Valley High, no one is openly out. No one that I know of anyway.
I guess that’s small rural towns for you. Mum joked that when she grew up down here, she felt it was twenty years behind the rest of the country.
Which definitely doesn’t make me crushing on Logan any easier.
After our tutoring session on Thursday, where I’m way more aware of Logan’s proximity than usual, and there’s an embarrassing incident on the basketball court where I almost drool when he accidentally bumps into me, I spend my evening on the internet.
I learn all about the Kinsey scale, which is underpinned by the idea that at any point in time, people’s sexual orientation can be rated on a scale from zero—completely heterosexual—to six—completely homosexual. After I go through a few quizzes to determine where I’m at, and my results range from two to four, my breathing rate speeds up.
I tilt my head back and try not to freak out. After all, what’s actually changed? Nothing.
Logan and I are friends. He doesn’t know the weird wonderfulness my brain has conjured up.
And while I’ve never thought of myself as gay, I haven’tnotthought about guys like that either. I mean, some thoughts have slipped in now and again. And I’ve had some dreams that the quizzes definitely seem to take as evidence my subconscious is trying to tell me something.
Compared to the average guy, I’ve probably thought about sex with girls less than normal. Like, studies say teenage guys think about sex every eight seconds. How do they get anything done?
I’ve always thought that maybe I’m a late bloomer, but maybe, I just hadn’t worked out exactly what fertilizer I needed to make my plant bloom. Which is an absolutely terrible metaphor but leads me to another round of googling about whether I’m demisexual and need to feel an emotional connection before I’m attracted to someone.
Great. Let’s just add that into the mix.
Does it even matter? Does having a label change anything about my current reality? I’m friends with Logan. I’m attracted to him. In the history of the planet, I’m sure there have been many, many people who’ve had to cope with being friends with someone they’re attracted to. It’s not like my dilemma is original.
Anyway, I can’t spend my entire evening trying to work out the complexities of my sexuality. I’ve got a calculus test to study for and a geography assignment to complete. I need to maintain my grade point average to win an academic scholarship to university.
Besides, it’s much easier to spend time on things that have a right or wrong answer.
* * *
Next Wednesday,I’m at Logan’s house. It’s one of those rare afternoons when Logan doesn’t have rugby practice, and he invited me back to his place to hang out. I have assignments I should be completing and tests to study for, but I’m not going to turn down the chance to spend time with him. We’re hanging out at his house, just the two of us, without any tutoring.
I try to wrestle control of myself as I sit at the breakfast bar watching Logan make us snacks. But it’s like the genie has been let out of the bottle, Pandora’s box has been opened, the atom has been split. Figuring out I’m attracted to Logan is not something reversible that I can pretend never happened.
I find myself admiring the little crease of concentration between his eyebrows that mars his smooth golden skin and the way his T-shirt hugs his shoulders like it’s a design that should be patented.
“Here you go, a cheese sandwich just like you ordered.” He pushes the plate toward me with a smile that’s got a hint of shyness in it.
My heart rate speeds up as I lift my gaze to his. He stares back, the smile lines around his eyes still bunched as a leftover from his grin. Neither of us looks away.
My phone starts to hum, interrupting the moment.
I scramble to get it out. An unfamiliar number lights my screen.
“Hello?”
“Is this Jake Stenton?”
The authority in the voice makes me sit straighter in my seat.
