Chapter 1 TARAN #2
“Right?” He handed me his cigarette. He had a few stacks of shirts and pants on hangers piled up in the trunk, a half-open duffel bag stuffed full of what looked like gym clothes, and a yoga mat tucked in the back.
“God, what a fucking nightmare in there. Why do the straights do this to themselves?”
“Hey, marriage equality is a thing,” I said with a snort, holding the smoke away from my jacket. If Mom smelled it, I’d hear about it all week.
“Right, but no self-respecting gay would go with that shade of purple. I tried to talk her out of it. Believe me.”
I chuckled and leaned one hip against the mangled bumper. “How do you know the bride?”
“Stepsister.” He sighed and rolled his eyes.
“No shit? Is Frankie around?”
“We don’t talk about Frankie,” Diego said curtly. “Something about a defaulted loan that tanked Dad’s credit. And he stole my car, which is why I have this piece of shit.”
“Yikes.” So Frankie hadn’t changed, apparently. “Nice of you to come, anyhow.”
“Dad would never forgive me if I tried to bail. It’s nice that he wants me around and all, but Jesus Christ, this is a lot.”
I winced, remembering Diego’s dad from football games and opening nights. Classic Ohio Valley football dad, blessed with a grade-A fuckup for an older son and an unabashed theater kid for the younger. Diego used to hate him. I said, “I remember him being a dick,” I admitted.
“Yeah, well, the new wife voted for Kamala, so.” He buried his head in the trunk. “We’re cool now. She made him reconcile with the family faggot.”
I flushed. I didn’t like the word, obviously, but what really fucked me up about it was that it reminded me of my dad.
And of course, guys used to throw that word around all the time in the hallways, in the locker room.
Just that weird, casual homophobia that made it seem cool to dunk on anything slightly femme or pretty or not otherwise jacked up on toxic masculinity.
One second claiming not to care who anyone was sleeping with, the next accusing Mickey Mouse of being a faggot because his voice was high-pitched and he wasn’t a dick to Minnie.
Small town bullshit dies hard, I’d thought. It’ll be better when I get to college.
Then I realized the guys in that locker room, not to mention the adults in charge of it, were just as bad.
“It’s okay, man, I’m allowed to say it. That’s how slurs work.” Diego peeked from the trunk, finally looking me in the eye.
“I know,” I said. “Guess I just heard it too much growing up. Still bothers me.”
He looked me up and down. Seemed to be thinking about something. Then held out his hand for the cigarette. “It’s gonna go out.”
I handed it off gratefully.
He sucked it back to life and blew smoke away from me. “So you were engaged to a girl?”
“Yeah. Literally for a week.”
“How long’d you date?”
“About three years.”
“Why’d you break up?”
“She fucked a minor-league hockey player who only has about three of his original teeth left,” I said flatly.
He looked up sharply, as if to see if I was joking. Then burst out laughing. It was also his first full-on smile of the evening, showing the adorable little gap between his two front teeth.
I was glad he hadn’t changed that. Not that he’d care what I thought, but I’d always thought that smile was even hotter than the startlingly pretty eyes.
“Shut the fuck up!” he said.
I held up one hand. “Swear to god. Six months ago.”
He laughed even harder, turning so he could half-sit in the trunk. “Big handsome high school quarterback got cucked!”
“Laugh it up.” But I was smiling, too. Partly because I was at the point where I was more relieved than anything about the breakup.
Partly because Diego hadn’t changed—he was still a mouthy shit and it was still funny.
I hadn’t appreciated how goddamn tough he was, back then.
But now I could see it in the upward tilt of his chin, like he was expecting a fight, and the way his eyes darted to mine, then away again.
“Oh!” He wrapped his free arm around his own middle as if it hurt from laughing. “Sorry, but that’s delightful.”
“What about you?” I settled in beside him, ass against the bumper. “What are you doing these days?”
He took a deep drag. “Do you really want to know any of that boring shit?” He blew the smoke out.
“Yeah,” I said with a shrug. “That’s why I asked.”
He glanced at me. Away. And then rolled his eyes, though his smile still hadn’t quite faded. “You haven’t changed.”
“I was just thinking you hadn’t, either.”
“I live in a studio apartment in Pittsburgh with my cat, who I have to fight for the space heater in winter because she’s a bitch princess.” He looked straight through the car in front of us as he spoke. “I’m a struggling actor aka bartender at a South Side dive bar.”
“You said you didn’t use your degree.”
“Well, I’m currently not, except to flirt with the customers to get better tips.” The smile wasn’t touching his eyes anymore.
“That’s not acting.” For me, it would’ve been. But not for the Diego I used to know.
“You should see some of these customers, honey. It’s serious acting.” He chuckled and took another drag.
“Why’d you come back?” I asked.
“From… New York? Shit, that was ages ago. I made it two months there.” Another little sigh, this one more sincere, and it sent his bangs flying.
His hair was shorter and lighter than it used to be, in that fashionable llama style, short on the sides and curly on top.
It was naturally inky-black, but he’d bleached the shit out of it and dyed it every color in the rainbow in school.
Now it was a faded auburn at the ends but dark at the roots.
I had an urge to touch it. I used to love to wrap my fingers in his curls while he was in my lap. Soft and smooth as silk. I used to tell myself it was like a girl’s.
Oof. “Not a big fan, myself,” I said.
“I fucking loved it.” He snorted. “But I didn’t take it seriously enough. Parties, boys, drugs, repeat. You know.”
“Not exactly, but kinda.”
“No boys, huh?” Now he caught my eye.
I shook my head. “No. Not since you.”
His thick eyebrows went up. “We’re talking about it now?”
“I’m sorry I wouldn’t, back then. I’m sorry about a lot of things.”
He shrugged. “It taught me I don’t like being a dirty secret, anyhow.”
I suddenly felt like I was going to puke, but I pushed through. “Looking back, I’m honestly just surprised you put up with it as long as you did.”
“Well, I was a desperate theater geek and you were the star quarterback. It’s the stuff they make teen movies about.”
I hadn’t thought about it like that. Like, at all. But holy shit, it kinda was.
He must’ve seen it on my face, because he laughed again. “Jesus Christ, Kovacs. You had no idea what the fuck was going on, did you?”
“Apparently not.”
He dropped the cigarette and stepped on it. “Neither did I, if I’m honest. Not like I expected you to ask me to prom or anything. I knew the score. But you know how it is at that age; you still have hope about shit. Teenage rite of passage.”
The idea stunned me, which just drove home how right he was.
He used to bitch and moan about the opiate effect of mating rituals like homecoming and prom on boring robo-teens with nothing to look forward to in life.
Now, I had the distinct feeling he had, in fact, hoped I would ask him to prom.
A huge, sweeping, public gesture to make up for a year of sneaking around, redeeming myself like the teen movie hero.
Me. A fucking closeted, jock-brained idiot who kissed him in dark locker rooms after everyone else went home, who acted like we were just casual acquaintances in public, who never told my best friends about the nights we sneaked out of events together to screw around in my beater Volkswagen.
A lot less far-fetched than me hoping to play in the NFL, anyhow. “I hate how I acted. The whole time, but especially after I left. I should’ve texted. I almost did a hundred times.”
“You thought I’d come all the way to Tennessee for that dick, huh?” His smile was playful again even though his eyes were still wide.
I let him steer us away from the regrets and toward the laughter. It was his sweet spot, and that was all I cared about. I never thought I’d get the chance to apologize to him. I was gonna take it for all it was worth tonight. “No. But I thought about you a lot.”
I’d buried myself in training camp to stop myself from thinking about him, as a matter of fact.
I lived, breathed, spoke football, and in the offseason, I worked out, studied, and then did it all over again.
Eventually, the memories didn’t hit as hard, I found other outlets, and time did its work.
I told myself I was being responsible. That no one with a brain would let a high school hookup hold them back from a bright and celebrated future.
The sad part was I didn’t even care when the football dream came crashing down.
We were both quiet for a second in the growing dark, the buzzing of cicadas and crickets coming to life around us. The sound of a summer in the valley, oddly musical, very comforting.
He stood suddenly and went back to digging in his trunk. “I know it’s fucking in here somewhere…”
“Can I help?”
“No, it’s my mess; I’ll figure it out. How did you end up here tonight, anyhow?”
“Mom needed a date.” I snorted and shoved my hands into my pockets. “Which just means she didn’t want to come alone.”
“You have to come far?”
“Nah. My place is in Robinson.”
“No shit?” He peeked up again. “We’re neighbors.”
“Yep.”
“It’s the great escape, around here.” He plunged back into the trunk.
Pittsburgh was the nearest city to us growing up, even though we’d been on the West Virginia side of the border. But that wasn’t why I lived there. “Moved back after Dad died.”
He was quiet except for the clanging of hangers for a second. Then he stood up, a mostly wrinkle-free white button-down in hand. “Sorry about that, man. Sucks. I almost texted you when I heard. Unblocked your number and everything.”
“You had me blocked?” I had no idea why, but the thought made me smile.
“Obviously, oh my god. Hold this.” He threw the shirt at me and started unbuttoning the whiskey-stained pink one.
“So you wouldn’t have known if I’d texted you anyhow,” I prodded.
“No. Well, at first, yes. But after about a month, Toni made me block you. It gave me a spiteful kind of peace.”
“How is Toni?”
“Oh, she fucked her way through all the girls at home and moved onto greener pastures in Cincy.” He untucked the shirt and pulled it off, leaving him half-naked in the darkening parking lot.
He used to have one of those effortlessly decent bodies like an adult film twink, but he’d muscled up and acquired some chiseled lines since.
He must’ve waxed his chest or something, but his smooth belly featured a dark, thin trail of hair that thickened up as it dipped beneath his belt.
But the hottest part by far was the massive tattoo on his left lower ribs and belly: a black linework lion’s head wearing a watercolor-style flower crown.
“Still a little gay, huh?” he asked.
I realized I’d been staring and flushed. “Sorry. Nice ink, though.”
“Thanks.” He smiled smugly. “Really, not a single guy since me?”
“I was never single for long, so I didn’t date much.” Any time I’d been single, I’d been going through it, anyhow.
Still, I’d considered hookups a few times. Kissed a guy or two in a club while drunk. Installed Grindr, then uninstalled it the next day. Not because I felt like it was wrong or bad or dirty or anything, just because I felt like…I don’t know.
Like a little gay wasn’t gay enough, and I’d betrayed that side of me anyhow. I should stay in my fucking lane.
“Yeah, not like you ever struggled for a date.” He rolled his eyes again, but it was playful this time. “So you’re bi? Pan? I always kinda wondered.”
“I don’t know what I am,” I admitted, for the first time in my entire life, out loud.
He shrugged. “Whatever, babe. You do you. Labels are supposed to make people feel seen, not boxed in.”
“I used to think I was Diego-sexual,” I said with a laugh.
His mouth fell open, but his eyes were smiling. “Bitch, did you just say that?”
“What?” I held up both hands.
“Did you just imply that I’m the only man to ever get you hard?”
“To be fair, it never took all that much to—”
“Shh. This is my moment; don’t take it!”
“I did just imply that, yes.” I chuckled. Was absolutely untrue, but he clearly knew that as well as I did. Whatever made him happy.
“Okay. Okay, that makes up for a lot of the shit; for real, though.” He was smiling brightly now, buttoning up his new shirt. “Thanks for that.”
“That’s better than the multiple apologies?”
“Fuck yes!” He was cackling now as he tucked in his shirt and nodded to the trunk.
I reached up and shut it, and we started walking back toward the building. But slowly.
Adjusting himself still, Diego said, “Phew, for a second there I thought I was gonna be a little bitch all night, but now I’m in a great mood. Which is good, because I’m the only one in this fucking family who can dance.”
“I should’ve just skipped to the Diego-sexual thing, huh?”
“Nah. The apology was nice, too. Just not as nice.” He smiled so big, it showed the gap in his teeth again.
I tried to respond, but something was suddenly lodged in my throat. Felt like my heart.
“Okay,” he said as we approached the door. “If you see me, like, dissociating completely, come save me?”
“Yeah. Same, please.”
“Deal.” He opened the door and strode through it, head high, shoulders up, and a swing in his hips that dared anyone to say shit about it.
Goddamn, he was magnificent. What a dumbfuck eighteen-year-old me had been.
I made my way back to the table and slipped into my seat, hoping no one would notice and pretending not to watch Diego Marsh.