15
There was a flare of shock in Leo’s eyes as if he’d completely sobered up. Both of us were silent for a long moment.
I pushed myself into a sitting position because this wasn’t the kind of thing you could discuss in someone’s arms. “You can be honest,” I said. “There’s no wrong answer.”
He didn’t say anything; just pushed himself up into a cross-legged sitting position, facing me.
“I totally understand if you want sex,” I continued. “It’s this new, exciting thing, and if I were me from last year, I wouldn’t hesitate to show you all the hot things two guys can do, but…” Courage, Edwin. Be honest. This is the year of getting what you want. “Now, I want something different. I want something meaningful. I want someone who wants me for me, not just my body.”
“I want you for you,” Leo said, and I realised I was wrong — the look in his eyes wasn’t shock. It was hurt.
“It’s okay if you don’t,” I said firmly. “There’s no shame in not wanting nothing more than hands or a mouth —”
“Winnie —”
“Just let me finish,” I interrupted. I thought of vape guy. “I like you, Leo. I mean —” I let out an amused huff — “that’s obvious. And tonight, at the party, I realised how much I don’t just want to be your friend. I want —”
God, no one had told me how terrifying it was to say this to the guy you wanted.
“I want to be your boyfriend,” I finished. “I want a relationship. I mean, obviously, since I talk about it all the time. And tonight, I felt sad, being left alone at the party.”
Leo’s eyes fell on the blanket, and he fiddled with it between his thumb and forefinger. I saw, rather than heard, his heavy exhale.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “It was a dick move, losing you at the party. I could’ve tried harder to find you. I should’ve tried harder.”
“Why didn’t you?” I asked.
He parted his lips, then seemed to think better of it and closed them. In the end, he shrugged, eyes darting away. “I don’t know.”
We sat there in silence. Was I supposed to force him to talk? I didn’t want to interrogate him, but it was like I was the only one who had a stake in this conversation.
Finally, he spoke. “Why don’t you think I want you?” He looked at me a little warily, like he was afraid.
I made a helpless gesture. “When we’re in bed, you never touch me.”
I expected him to argue, to insist that he did kiss me and cuddle. Instead, his gaze flicked away, his body folding in on itself. I waited for him to explain, to say anything, because right now, all I could see was undeniable proof he’d purposely avoided touching my most intimate place.
My throat suddenly felt painfully dry. Shit.
I pushed myself off the bed, stumbling slightly in the process. I needed to get out of here before I something I couldn’t take back — like cry in front of him. Or maybe even yell.
I moved to the front door, feeling disoriented. I pulled on my shoes, which was extra humiliating because it was impossible to pull on shoes gracefully while standing up.
I felt stupid. That was the biggest thing I realised. How dumb had I been thinking that he liked me?
But no. He was the one who cuddled and smiled and laughed at my jokes, the one who’d given me a nickname, the one who’d made me feel special.
I wasn’t dumb. I’d been tricked. And that tripled my anger at him. I knew if I expressed it, though, I’d look crazy. So, I clenched my jaw to prevent myself from saying anything.
“Where are you going?” Leo asked in a quiet, almost bewildered voice.
How could he be surprised? Did he think I’d stick around and settle to be his fuck buddy?
I didn’t reply and left the apartment.
I made it to the street before I started to cry. I couldn’t even blame the wind in my eyes because the air was completely still.
The next morning, my face smushed against a pillow, I reached for my phone. I told myself not to expect anything, but I was already imagining a text, missed call, or even a voicemail, even though no one under 40 left voicemails anymore.
There was nothing, and I felt terrible all over again and angry at myself for even having a second of hope.
“I know you’re not supposed to say this,” I said, “because you’re meant to have self-respect or whatever. But sometimes I think I should’ve just been Leo’s sex-teacher-friend-with-benefits, because at least that way, I’d still get to spend time with him.”
Sitting across the table from me were two expressions: the first sympathetic but slightly uncomfortable. The second impatient.
“That’s nice and all,” said Rome, to whom the second expression belonged, “but you’ve summoned me to this cafe with no explanation, made me sit down at a table with some random I’ve never met before, then started talking about Leo, which, in case you’ve forgotten, is who you’ve been talking about in every Intro to B Law class for the past two weeks.”
“I’m Atticus Sinclair,” said Atticus, helpfully. He offered Rome his hand.
Rome looked at it with faint surprise before taking it. “That makes a lot of sense. You do look like a male model.”
“Thank you,” Atticus replied, sounding unsure.
“That’s how Eddie described you, so now I see what he was talking about. I’m Rome, by the way.”
“Short for Roman?” Atticus asked after they’d let go of each other’s hands.
That, at least, pulled me from my daze of self-pity. I cracked a smile. “No, not short for Roman. Go on, Rome. What’s your actual first name?”
Rome shot me a withering glare.
“How bad could it be?” Atticus asked. “It’s not just ‘Rome’ is it? Because that’s a perfectly fine name —”
“No, it’s short for something,” I said.
Atticus tilted his head. “Romulus, perhaps? He’s the founder of Rome, so it does make sense.”
“No, it’s not short for Romulus,” Rome said with a huff. “My real first name is…Romeo.”
Atticus blinked slowly. “Oh.”
“It’s horrible, I know.”
“It’s not horrible,” Atticus replied. “It’s…romantic. Well, apart from the double suicide at the end of the play.”
I smothered a laugh. “It’s not horrible,” I agreed. “It’s actually a really pretty name. Your surname’s pretty, too.”
Rome glared at me.
“What is it?” Atticus asked.
“Lovelace,” Rome gritted out.
Atticus brightened. “Oh, like Ada Lovelace. The mathematician,” he explained.
Rome and I looked at him blankly.
“She’s Lord Byron’s daughter,” Atticus added.
I had no idea who that was, but Rome raised a brow. “You mean the bi poet who had a child with his half-sister?”
“That was never confirmed, but yes, that’s him,” Atticus said. “I agree with Edwin. Romeo Lovelace is a very…romantic name.”
I suppressed a laugh. Not because there was anything wrong with Rome’s name, but he was the kind of guy who regarded love the way he’d regard a snot-stained tissue.
Which pulled me back to the topic at hand. “You’re meant to be reassuring me,” I told Rome.
“I know. But I couldn’t keep sitting here without being introduced to Atticus.”
“I’m not actually annoying you, are you?” Because he was right, after all — I had spent every Intro to B Law class talking about Leo.
“No,” Rome said. “Although, you have made business law actually seem interesting in comparison.” His lips twitched, showing he was mostly joking.
“I think you made the right decision,” Atticus announced. “If you stayed with him, it would’ve been like an infection rotting your leg. Sometimes, it’s better to just amputate it.”
Rome gave him a look. “That’s an interesting analogy.”
“I’d rather have an infected leg than no leg at all,” I said, voice wavering close to despair.
“No, you wouldn’t,” Atticus said solemnly. “Have you seen infected legs? Imagine rot, blackened skin, maggots —”
I gave him an appalled look, holding up my matcha latte. “I’m trying to drink something here.”
He sipped his latte, unaffected. “I’m just trying to impress upon you how serious an infection is.”
“Atticus’s right,” Rome said. “It’d do you harm in the long run if you stayed with Leo. It’d make you feel shitty about yourself.”
I sighed because I knew they were right. If I stayed with Leo, I would be mad at myself. I’d have to stew in my complete lack of self-respect every time I saw him.
“But maybe,” I began, “if I was with him in a casual way, I could use it as an opportunity to make him like me.” A spark of hope made me straighten up in my chair. He might change his mind if I showed him just how great I was.
My hopes were shattered by the sight of Rome and Atticus’s pitying faces.
“What?” I demanded, defensiveness making my tone sharper than I intended.
They exchanged glances. Rome said, “he should like you already, Eddie. He already knows the kind of person you are,” he continued. “If he can’t see how great you are, that’s on him.”
“Then,” I said, “he doesn’t think I’m great enough.”
“No,” Atticus said. “It just means he’s blind.”
A silence settled over the table as I thought over what they said. It had stunned me — both because it was kind, a reminder that I should already be loved the way I was. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt under the surface.
The following week was my busiest yet. I knew that if I remained still for too long, I’d think about Leo and feel awful. I’d remember our last meeting and his tone of voice. I’d wonder what part of me wasn’t good enough. Then I’d think about the best moments — the laughter and the teasing, and even the sex, and I’d have to squeeze my eyes shut to make my brain stop.
I studied in the library and worked harder on my assignments than usual. I had lunch on campus with Atticus and Elena and meal-prepped with Rome. I spent time at the queer collective headquarters, a room that used to be a professor’s office but was now covered in rainbow flags, stickers and posters and filled with students who registered new members and organised future events. At one point, I considered visiting the university gym because exercise would be a productive way to manage my stress and emotions, but changed my mind in case I ran into Leo.
That was another thing I found myself doing — searching the faces of the people who passed me when I walked through campus. It’d only be after I sifted through them — no, no, not him, no, no, doesn’t have his smile, no — I’d realise I was searching for Leo.
Worse, I paid extra attention to my morning appearance, just in case I ran into him. Sometimes, when I was slouched at my desk in the library, hating my assignment, I’d remember that Leo could be around, and I didn’t want to look depressed. So I’d fix my posture and make a concentrated effort not to act weird, like scratch my armpit. I was living in a panopticon, and it was all his fault.
Friday night, I was staying in and trying my best not to wallow. I’d made myself a cheese platter for dinner and put on a comedy. Very soon, however, I realised the movie was a rom-com, and it was an extremely horrifying moment when even the sight of two actors holding hands made my heart ache.
A boy had never made me feel this way before. Which, on one hand, emphasised that it had been real, but also — why the hell did he have to ruin movies for me too?
Oh god. I was so sensitive, I probably wouldn’t be able to walk down the street without seeing something that would make me feel terrible.
That was it. I needed to get over him once and for all.
Maybe I should just rebound. Yes, I had ditched the whole casual thing for various reasons, but look where that got me. So, I paused the film, brushed the cracker crumbs off my fingers, and pulled out my phone.
I redownloaded a hookup app, logged in, and started swiping through the profiles. One guy was tall but not as tall as Leo. Another had a nice body, but I liked Leo’s. There was one guy who looked alright, but I liked Leo’s shade of blond hair better —
Oh my god. I needed to get a hold of myself. I started swiping right on everyone, and soon, my phone dinged loudly, signifying that I’d gotten a match. I watched the bubble with three dots pop up as the other guy typed.
AnonFella39: hey.
CucumberEggplant: hi.
AnonFella39: wyd tonight
CucumberEggplant: eating overpriced cheese and watching a crappy rom-com.
AnonFella39: lol
AnonFella39: send pic? ;)
CucumberEggplant: I have a pic on my profile
AnonFella39: I meant of your cucumber eggplant ;)
I hesitated.
CucumberEggplant: why don’t we get to know each other first?
A long pause.
CucumberEggplant: don’t you think sex is better when you have a connection?
My phone buzzed with a notification: AnonFella39 disconnected from you.
I dropped my phone, a mix of irritation and disgust. Then more irritation, but at myself this time.
No. I couldn’t give up. What if I spent the rest of my life depressed about this one boy? What if I was eighty years old, sitting in my bed at the nursing home, and my grandkids were like, ‘Granddad, where did you hide your money?’ and I’d be like, ‘There are more important things than the cash I hid somewhere in my floorboards, now sit down, and listen to your granddad tell you about the first time he got his heart broken. And listen well, kiddos, because I still remember every detail even though it happened more than half a century ago.’”
With renewed determination, I picked up my phone and found the Google form used to submit letters to LULL.
Hi. It’s me again — the guy who’s looking for a boyfriend.
About me:
- 20M
- marketing
- likes puppies
About you:
- 19-22M
- Wants a boyfriend.
I deleted everything. This was stupid. Then I started typing again.
So basically, I submitted a post searching for a boyfriend, and me and this guy started emailing, and we set up a date. But once I got to the date, I accidentally thought a random stranger was my blind date. So we spent the whole day together, and only that evening did I realise he was a random, and worse, he was straight. It was so embarrassing, but he said he wanted to be friends and meant it.
And we were really great friends. It was so fun hanging out with him. But then we started messing around, and I realised I really, really liked him. I wanted him to be my boyfriend. I could see myself loving him.
But he didn’t want that. So, I guess…this is a vent/advice post? Like, if anyone has any advice on how to get over a guy who played with your feelings, please comment below.
Hopefully, someone finds this post somewhat amusing. It’d be nice to think someone gets something out of this situation.
I didn’t let myself think about it. I hit the submit button, then put my phone away and resumed my movie.