Chapter 7 DIEGO
I expected to dwell happily on the hours of wildly athletic and entertaining sex Taran and I engaged in all Saturday afternoon. And I did, I guess, but I also kept thinking of the sincerity of his big, blue eyes when he said, “I want to be your boyfriend.”
That bratty little teenage Diego inside me had jumped for fucking joy.
The grown-up Diego had too. Not gonna lie. But I buried it in sex, in spite of how he’d just read me for filth in our previous conversation about that very thing. And then realized how much it all affected me when I damn near went off on him about not texting his ex back.
The last few weeks had established that there was something worth exploring between me and Taran. Something beyond nostalgia and pure chemistry. But I couldn’t trust my own instinct, considering said nostalgia and chemistry. I needed an outside view, one that knew the whole story.
On my way home from work, I texted Toni to make sure she was still up. Two seconds later, she lit up my phone.
“Hey,” I said.
“Oh my god, are we doing birthday planning?” she asked.
“It’s like three months away,” I reminded her.
“Two and three-fourths.”
“Sure, sure. What’s going on with you, girl?”
“You said you had shit to ask me about.”
I rolled my eyes.
Somehow, she knew. “Don’t roll your eyes at me, bitch.”
“Fine. I need an opinion,” I admitted.
“On?”
“A situation.”
“Like, a family situation? A work situation? A boy situation?”
“Boy. One boy in particular.”
“Tell me you did not go back to that dirty old man. You want someone to spank your ass, you can—”
“Not Drake.”
“Oooh, a new guy! Spill.”
“Not new. Exactly.” Deep breath. “So, I ran into Taran at Kelly’s wedding.”
She was quiet for so long, I actually checked the phone to see if it’d dropped the call.
It had not. After ten seconds of dead air, she finally said, “Kovacs?”
“Have you ever met another Taran?”
“I assumed I had and forgot, because there’s no fucking way you’re hooking up with Taran fucking Kovacs again.”
I winced. “It’s different this time.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.”
“Toni, I’m serious. He was really, really sweet at the wedding. And hot. He got hotter.”
“He was always hot—that was the problem. Couldn’t pry you off him for shit.”
“I need you to be serious.”
“I need you to be serious.”
“I’m serious. I’m incredibly fucking serious. Almost as serious as he is.”
She sighed. “This is a bad idea.”
“I thought so at first too. But now I don’t know.” And then I explained what happened the night of the wedding and since. The date nights, the dinners he cooked, the stuff we started talking about finally.
By the time I finished, I was at home, Shortcake on my lap and a beer in my hand. I said, “So it’s different. It’s grown-up. It’s—I don’t know. It seems kinda real?”
No. It seemed really real. But I couldn’t make myself say that. Not even to Toni, who’d gone through the wringer of being gay in our small bullshit county right alongside me, all the way from fourth grade.
She was quiet for a few seconds. And then she said, “Is he rebounding?”
I winced. “No. I mean. He was engaged to this girl, but it fell apart like six months ago. He’s been single since.”
“Mmm, that’s not very long. Not for an engagement.”
“They were engaged for like a week before she cheated on him.” And I, like a complete asshole, had given him shit for not texting her back. God, my fucking mouth was the worst.
“Sucks. Though I’m not sorry to hear he’s had his heart broken.”
“He doesn’t seem all that broken,” I said with a snort.
“Oh yeah?”
“We ran into her at the Benedum on our first date. He seemed really over her.”
“Or he wants you to think he is.”
“Toni. I know you hate him. But just, try to put yourself in my place.”
“If I were you, I’d never speak to him again.”
That was undeniable. Toni could forgive after a while when someone fucked her over, but she sure as hell never forgot. One of the things I admired most about her; she never made the same mistake twice.
On the other hand, she couldn’t hold down a relationship to save her life. Went through girls like a box of tissues.
“Okay, but I did speak to him again. And hooked up with him. And went on a bunch of dates, and he spent the night Friday.”
“You let him use your bathroom?” She sounded so fucking offended.
“He’s super neat and tidy for a guy—you should see his place!”
“You bitch when I use your toilet.”
“Your bathroom is gross.”
“But you love me.”
“Look, stop. My point is that Taran has been really gentlemanly and really sweet and he wants to be my—my boyfriend. For real.”
“Does he?”
“Yes!” I insisted.
“I mean, he thinks he does. But what happens when shit gets tough?”
“What?”
“What happens when his Mom freaks the fuck out? What happens when his meathead friends find out and start giving him hell?”
“First of all, I think his mom’s—well she’s all white liberal like Annie, so she won’t say shit, at least,” I said. “You know that type hates to look bigoted even when they are.”
She was quiet for another moment. And then she said, “I remember that party, when you finally told him he was fucking shitty for never going public with you. And you cried in my car on the way home. Do you remember?”
I closed my eyes and petted Shortcake to soothe myself. I did remember. Of course I remembered. But like most memories from childhood, it was sort of washed out, the details hard to find, just the general sentiment remaining. Like a brick of cement and barbed wire buried deep in my psyche. “Yeah.”
“And do you remember that night when we heard his father died, like, what? Two years ago? Three?”
Another wince. Fuck.
She went on mercilessly, “Do you remember how drunk we were when we saw it on Facebook? And how you cried and said you wished you could call him, like a goddamn messy bitch?”
Three years ago felt like a lifetime, when someone had posted the funeral details on social media. And I remembered how Taran had idolized his father, and I’d thought about my father, and I just…
Yeah, I might’ve cried and said I wished I could call Taran. “I told him I unblocked him after I found out about his dad,” I admitted.
“What’d he say?”
“Nothing. He was too busy trying to prove he’s different now. More grown up. More authentic, I guess.”
“And you believe him.” Not a question but a statement. One-hundred percent pure judgement.
She thought I was a fucking idiot, and she might be right. This was what I’d called for, an unfiltered Toni Opinion. And boy was I getting one.
When I didn’t respond, she said, “Look, this is what narcissists do, D. They tell you everything you want to hear, they do exactly what you want them to, and they get the hook in. Then they slowly erode your self-worth until next thing you know, you’re stifling everything about yourself just to keep them happy, and they run your whole life. ”
“He’s a marketing executive, not a fucking cult leader,” I said.
“I’m just saying. He’s not the type to take someone else’s feelings into account.”
I shook my head like she could see me. “He is. He’s been really careful to, like, check in with me and be open with me. More than anyone else I’ve dated, actually.”
She sighed hugely. “Okay. Listen to me. I get that you want this to be real.”
I winced again, and this time I didn’t open my eyes.
“And okay, yeah, maybe it is. Maybe. But I know you even better now than I did then, and you know I don’t buy your cool standoffish slut act. I also saw firsthand what he did to you last time. I need you to protect yourself while I’m not there to do it for you.”
“You didn’t protect me last time,” I muttered.
“No, but I tried. I fucking warned you, D.”
Yeah. Yeah, she had. At the time, I’d pretended she was just envious because I got the football player, but the dance team girlie she was after wasn’t interested in her. If either of us remembered it accurately now, it’d be a miracle.
“Just take it slow and easy,” she said. “Promise me.”
“I am,” I assured her. On the one hand, this was classic Toni: She treated her relationships like competitions, like she always needed to have the upper hand, or she would lose interest. Which also contributed to her insane girlfriend turnover rate.
I was… historically, kinda the opposite.
But I didn’t want to be. I wanted balance, goddammit.
“I mean, we fucked like right away, but he’s not my boyfriend. ”
“He says he wants to be, though.”
“Yeah.”
“Do me a favor? Wait until I get there for your birthday to commit to anything. I just want to feel him out for myself. If he’s really changed, a few months won’t be a big deal to him, right?”
He hadn’t changed, exactly. He was still the same sweet idiot he’d been in school. But he’d grown up, matured, been through some shit. “I just think he knows what he wants.”
“He wanted to marry some chick six months ago.”
I licked my lips. Opened my eyes. “Yeah. Okay. You’re right. Not that he’s a nefarious cult leader type, but that I should take it slow and easy.” Because cool standoffish slut was an act, even if I’d only ever admit it to her.
Okay, the slutty part wasn’t. But the rest? Acting chops. At least I was using them for something.
She said, “If he’s really grown all this patience and understanding—”
“I don’t want it to be a test, though. It’s shitty to test people like that—it’s as bad as the weird lovebomb bait-and-switch you suspect him of. At least as bad.”
My turn to hear her rolling her eyes.
“I mean it,” I insisted. “I’m not playing any stupid games.”
“Yeah, fine,” she said. “Going into it with that mindset would just fuck it up anyhow.”
“Exactly.” I wasn’t gonna bring up a certain past relationship she’d had with a woman who was really into testing her like that. Because I was classy, goddammit. But yeah. “I’ll take it slow. At least, on an emotional level.” Too late for the physical one. Classic me.
“Is he really being all romantic?”