Page 136 of Code Word
“And you never said anything? All these years?” Maddox asked. “When the media used me being gay as clickbait, when Jeremy went through the whole Steve-sexual thing? You never said a word.”
He wasn’t mad. There was no malice in it. Just curiosity.
“Because I told myself I wasn’t. Back in ninth grade, I just thought I was infatuated with Blake because he was my best friend. He was cool, could play any instrument, was funny, hot.”
“It’s true. I was,” I said. “Still am.”
Luke’s soft eyes met mine. “I just thought it was teenage infatuation, hormones—I didn’t know. It was barely a bisexual litmus test. I was fifteen. Hell, the wind changed and I popped a boner.”
Roscoe choked on his beer, and everyone cracked up laughing.
“And then I found girls,” Luke added with a shrug. “We were on tours at sixteen, seventeen, and it was easier to pretend that part of me didn’t exist. I was with Blake every day, every night; it wasn’t like I was deprived of his attention. It was just... platonic.”
“It’s not platonic anymore,” I declared.
Luke shoved my arm. “I tried dating, and we all know how that worked out.”
I made a sad face. “Poor Vana. I never did apologize to her for looking her dead in the eye and kissing the top of your head when she told me she was leaving you.”
They chuckled, but Luke sighed. “And then the wheels fell off rather spectacularly, and we all know how that ended.”
“I dunno. I think my wheels falling off was way more spectacular,” I said, almost wistfully. “Which we wereallwitness to. You’re welcome.”
Jeremy put his hand up. “Um, if this is a contest on spectacular, I almost died twice, and then a psycho tried to finish the job.”
Maddox snorted. “Uh, excuse me, by definition of spectacularity, one might deduce it requires an audience, and when my wheels fell off, it was on stage in front of about ninety thousand people. I’m still the poster boy for anxiety. That deserves some accolades.”
We all laughed, and Wes handed Maddox the guitar. “Okay, you win.”
Jeremy gasped. “I almost died.” He held up three fingers. “Three times.”
“How’s your diabetes doing?” Luke asked him. “I’ve been meaning to ask.”
“Yeah, it’s fine,” he replied. “It’s amazing the difference a normal lifestyle makes. Regular meals, sleep. No crazy tours, no dance practice for eight hours a day.”
“No crazy fans trying to kill you,” Maddox said, strummingthe guitar. “No crazy paparazzi.” He strummed again. “We can kinda go shopping now without it being too much of an issue. Don’t need security anyway. But there’s nothing like having fans freak out in the supermarket when you’re holding a pack of toilet paper.” Then he strummed again and sang, “I wish I was joking.”
We all laughed at that.
“We normally get groceries delivered,” Roscoe added. “It was one time.”
“We kinda get left alone now,” Wes said. “At play group and play dates, that kind of thing. One good part about being in Hollywood is that we’re not the only ones who get noticed.”
“It was bad in the beginning,” Amy said. “But they know us now.”
“It was weird trying to do normal things when we first disbanded,” Jeremy said. “Like we had to learn so much as twenty-six-year-olds that most people learn at sixteen.”
“Like cooking,” Steve said. “You’re a great cook now,” he added, looking at Jer. “Cleaning is still a work in progress.”
“It is weird,” I said. “Like buying furniture and stuff. Like actually going into the store and picking out things. Booking plane tickets.”
Luke patted my hand. “He booked economy. He’s still traumatized.”
I snorted. “True. But the good part was no one expected to see me in cattle class, so no one looked twice. I totally got left alone.”
“You also hadn’t slept in two days, hadn’t showered or shaved, and you looked possibly homeless,” Luke said.
“Also true.” I nodded. “But still. I think that’s why I love it here. No one cares.”
