Page 13 of When Ben Loved Tim
“Super into them,” I lie.
He eyes me a second before offering his hand so I can help him up. “What’s your favorite kind?” he asks.
“I love Mustangs and um… Broncos and also uh…. Ponies. Because of the horse power,” I finish lamely, figuring that I’ve already revealed myself as a fraud.
“You’re into pony cars?” he asks with a grin. “Those are my favorite too!”
He starts naming different makes and models. I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about, but all I have to do is nod and say “Yeah, exactly!” as we hop through the kitchen to the garage door.
I get him situated in the passenger seat of the whatever-it-is he owns. I just know that, like the owner, the car has an impressive build. I return inside for the key and a pair of sandals I saw by the front door. Before long, we’re pulling out of the garage. Slowly.
“Watch the side mirrors!” Tim cries in alarm.
“Huh?”
“Stop!”
I hit the brakes and glance over. The passenger-side mirror is a fraction of an inch from hitting the wooden frame around the garage door.
“Oops!” I say, driving forward before I try to pull out again.
Tim’s head is whipping around in concern at this point. Especially when the second attempt doesn’t go any better. “Why do you keep reversing at an angle?” he demands.
“Because I can’t even drive straight,” I deadpan.
I finally get it right on the third try.
“So it’s true?” he asks as we cruise down his street.
“What?” I ask.
“The gay thing.”
“You think I made it up for fun?” I ask with a playful smile.
Tim shrugs. “Just because someone says something bad about you, doesn’t mean that it’s true.”
The grin slides off my face. “Is that how you see it? As a bad thing?”
Tim seems distracted. “That was a four-way stop back there.”
“I didn’t see anyone else,” I say with a shrug. “So do you?”
“What?”
“Have a problem with me being gay.” I look over at him, a lump already forming in my throat. I’m braced for the worst, but like Allison said, it’s better to know early on. “I’ll still drive you to the hospital. No matter what you think.”
Tim searches my eyes. “I don’t know,” he says. “It’s just… different.”
“Different,” I repeat before returning my attention to the road. “Okay, but in a good way or a bad way? Because it was different when the school cafeteria started microwaving their pizzas, but nobody actually likes it.”
“I don’t have a problem with you,” Tim says, reaching over to grab the wheel. He guides us toward the center of the road again. “But if you wreck my car, it’ll get real personal real quick.”
“Is that a promise?” I ask, placing my hand over his, but only to move it off the steering wheel. And yeah, for the fleeting physical contact as well.
“You’re crazy,” Tim says with a chuckle. “So what do you think?”
He nods in front of him. I examine the world outside the windshield and am none the wiser. “About what?”
