“Your latte, sir.”
I blink, startled, and reach out my hand. The moment shifts, and Cal and I are no longer teenagers. The smiling barista, the dark wooden counters and floors, the groggy-eyed guests carrying plates topped with pastries and eggs and bacon, reappear, replacing the cold ice rink Cal and I used to hang out in.
“I want to talk to you,” he says, and for a moment, I want to give him everything.
But then I remember his article about me started this whole thing. Coach yelled at me when I said what I did about Dmitri, but he didn’t suspend me. Maybe he knew I was right.
Cal’s article changed things.
Cal’s article showed I had a “history of homophobia.” Cal’s article opined on whether I was making my colleagues uncomfortable.
And maybe I am.
But they’re so revoltingly happy all the time, so desperately in love, that they can handle it.
They haven’t sacrificed things.
Not that I have.
I’m straight.
It’s not like I’m sitting around in the locker room, yearning for a gay relationship or anything. Craving a man to hold me, and a deep voice in the dark.
Nothing like that.
Obviously.
But still, if I did think that way, if I’d actually sacrificed something, they don’t know what it’s like.
Finn and Luke all of a sudden declared themselves in love with men. They never deprived themselves, repressed themselves, they were just instantly happy and in love.
And Jesus Christ, who could blame me for resenting them?
But I know the thought is wrong as soon as it enters my head.
Everyone blames me.
They always have.
CAL
Jason’s face shutters. Being near him still feels strange. It’s embarrassing to remember the last day we saw each other as teens. Because the night before... I’d thought it’d been great.
My heart had been happy, bouncing against my ribs, unable to sleep as I relived our kiss a thousand times. His hands had run along my face in what I’d thought had been wonder. He’d been hard. I’d been hard.
But I guess teenage hormones can be blamed for any physical reactions on his part. The next day he’d left the program, and when I’d contacted him, he’d told me not to do so again.
I’d felt dirty.
God, I’d been an idiot.
“I’m sitting over there...” I point to a table outside by the water. “It has a nice view. Come join me.”
His face hardens. “We’re not friends, Cal. This isn’t the 2010s.
My cheeks flame. “I know, I—”
His gaze falls to the bracelet on my wrist, and his eyes bulge. “What’s that?”
