18. Malcolm #2
I nod. I like the way that sounds. Not because it gets me off the hook, but because it sounds way better than saying I was the asshole.
“And that did damage to you both,” she concludes.
I exhale. “Yeah.”
“You need to back off,” she says. “Don’t you think?”
I grind my teeth, and another tear falls, but I nod again.
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “Let him know you’re available if he wants to reach out, and back off.”
“Why is this so hard?”
“Well, I’ll have to think about that. You’ve dropped a lot in my lap today.
Granted, I feel pretty strongly that you should officially break up with Kaylin because neither of you are doing each other any favors by staying together, but I didn’t realize you were contending with a sexuality issue.
I’ll have to re-contextualize my thinking on our prior sessions. ”
“All of them?”
“Don’t worry about me, Malcolm. I have a good memory.”
I roll my eyes, wipe my face again, and lean back on the couch.
“I have one more question before we wrap up, though.”
“Fine,” I say.
“When did you start questioning your sexuality?”
The last two days without Ryan have given me plenty of time to pinpoint that.
“It was the first day of eighth grade. There was a gay kid named Ivan who’d just transferred into our school.
He was out and obvious about it. He was wearing rainbow Converse and had painted nails.
By the end of the day, he also had a bloody nose and a black eye.
Courtesy of the defensive line of the football team.
He never came back to our school after that. ”
“You…liked Ivan?”
“No. You asked when I started questioning myself. I already knew I liked boys. That’s when I started questioning whether I should or not.”
“You were thirteen?”
“Yes.”
“And you’d known you were gay since…?”
“Since I was seven.”
“Mal,” she whispers.
“What?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because…it wasn’t a big deal until I knew to be ashamed of it, and then once I was ashamed of it, why the fuck would I tell you?”
She makes a pitying noise, and I don’t mind it. I’m glad someone feels at least partly as sorry for me as I do for myself. “I guess the genie’s out of the bottle now,” she says.
“Yeah. Well… solves the Kaylin problem.”
She laughs. “I can cross that off the list. Same time next week?”
I nod, wipe my hands on my pants, and stand.
“Text me if you need anything?”
She always says that, and I sometimes take her up on it, but she doesn’t usually respond until the next day. She has better boundaries with her phone than I do.
As I’m leaving her office, however, I do send Ryan a text.
Me
Officially backing off. When you’re ready to talk, I’ll be available .
When he leaves me on read again, I go home, and after I stop leaking tears, I make a TikTok about estate planning with my shirt on.
It’s the first time I get any negative feedback from women.
I show up at Bailey’s apartment Saturday afternoon unshowered, unshaven, and ungroomed in general.
I put on deodorant before I came over, but that’s about as far as I went in terms of sprucing up.
Long story short, I’m not feeling very slutty today.
It’s been a warm day for San Francisco and sunny, which means everyone looks happy.
Couples are out en masse celebrating the beauty of love and the world and tank tops.
I, too, am wearing a tank top because it was clean, and I haven’t done laundry. It’s a black undershirt paired with red gym shorts that I also dug out of the back of a drawer. Tying shoes felt like too much work, so I’ve got on a pair of black knock-off Crocs, and my feet are sweating.
Bailey’s porch is packed with ferns and flowers in full bloom, which is not what I expected.
I was imagining something more along the lines of a thorny wreath and a sarcastic doormat.
The whole apartment complex is fucking cute.
Peak San Francisco modern hippie vibe. Macrame, wooden wind chimes, bougainvillea, and everything.
“Whoa,” she says when she sees me.
Her tank top says RESIST in pastel Pride colors. Her curly hair is up, and her penguin pajama bottoms signal to me she hasn’t been out enjoying the sun today.
“Hello,” I say.
She looks me up and down. “What happened to you? ”
“Nothing,” I say giving her an up and down perusal that’s just as obnoxious, I hope. “Nothing at all. Nice pants.”
“Thanks. Watermelon marg?”
I think I might love Bailey, too. “Fuck yeah.”
She smiles. “I was hoping for a taker. Ryan?—”
“Doesn’t like watermelon,” we say at the same time.
“I know,” I add. “Crazy, right?”
“Seriously.”
She steps out of the way, and I enter her incredibly cute apartment.
It’s the kind of place I thought only existed on TV.
The kitchen is quaint and hasn’t been updated, but it’s clean and bright with lemon and lime colored accents.
The living room, where Ryan is by the way, has a green couch, two bright yellow chairs—Ryan is sitting in one—and a shit ton more plants crowded around two narrow bay windows where an orange tabby cat is sprawled in a ray of sunshine.
The rug is multi-colored with a watercolor effect.
The thing that reminds me most of a movie apartment is the set of French doors leading to another room, maybe an office, maybe a bedroom where more light pours in.
“Hey,” Ryan says.
“Hey.” I don’t make eye contact and stick with Bailey, holding a glass while she pours a margarita for me.
I take a sip and nod my approval. I needed this.
I honestly don’t know how much help I’m gonna be today.
When I left work Friday afternoon, my finance brain shut off and my poor-me-I’m-so-lonely brain started running full steam.
I had a couple of extra videos I made when we were just starting out that I posted, and I envied that guy who looked like he had his shit together.
That guy had potential and things to look forward to.
Friday night Malcolm was dreading fake Croc Malcolm having to be within six feet of the man who gave me an anal tear and I let piss on me because it seemed really hot at the time. And it was. It was really, really hot. I think about it way too much.
Bailey’s work project stuff is taking up the entire couch—a laptop, a notebook, a bag full of pens and highlighters—so I sit on the other yellow chair and avoid looking at Ryan in favor of trying not to guzzle my margarita.
It’s a perfect summer drink and in direct contradiction to my mood, which is dark and sour. It tastes sweet and optimistic. Fucking delicious.
Bailey plops down amidst all her things and gives us the updated subscription numbers.
We’re at nearly two-thousand, which is mind-boggling.
Starting next week, she wants Ryan posting a video every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday, while I’ll pick up Monday, Wednesday, Friday.
Sunday is going to be Bailey’s poll day.
One of the worst parts of this week from a social media standpoint is that the secret of Ryan and I knowing each other is out.
In the first video we posted on the Patreon of Ryan, the corner of his bed where Bud and Stephanie were sleeping together was in the frame.
I hadn’t noticed because I was too busy ogling him, but I’m sick of answering questions about it on the Discord.
I let the subscribers know we’re working at the same investment company, and now they want content with the two of us.
It’s the one thing I need to bring up in case Bailey somehow missed it, and given the piles of other stuff she’s been doing, I’m assuming she hasn’t been able to keep up with the chat.
I can barely keep up with the chat, but it’s the one thing keeping me sane.
Talking with online strangers has been the only thing to look forward to because they’ll respond when I talk to them. They’re even excited to hear from me .
Granted, I stopped trying to talk to Ryan after he never responded to the message I sent after leaving Andrea’s office, but he’s still ghosting me in plain sight.
If this is meant to be a taste of my own medicine, I guess I have ten more years of it to look forward to—that would make us even.
At least I’m not in high school. I would not have survived what I did to him.
One more way he’s always been the strong one.
“So, we have about ten grand on hand,” Bailey’s saying. “What would you guys think about paying a PR consultant seven hundred bucks or so to give us some ideas for branding and merch?”
“Fine by me,” Ryan says.
I grunt and nod.
“I talked to my mentor about using the offices for a podcast, and she showed me a smaller conference room on the ninth floor with a nice set up for video calls. There’s a mounted ring light and a mic. She said we could use it on weekends. It’s not ideal, but it’s a starting point.”
“What’s not ideal about it?” Ryan asks.
“I mean—it’s a boring conference room. I want the aesthetic to be a little friendlier, I guess.”
“I assumed it’d be audio,” I say.
“Well…no—I mean, the podcast would be, but it’d be recorded from the YouTube Video.”
“Oh.” How’d I forget about the YouTube part?
Easy—because all you’ve been thinking about is having Ryan’s giant cock in your ass.
“Can I get another one of these?” I ask.
“Help yourself. They’re not very strong.”
In that case, I’ll take a double. I get up and shuffle into the kitchen, scratching at the itchy scruff on my face. While I’m pouring, I accidentally glance at Ryan and catch him looking at me. Pain zaps me directly in the chest. I look away first .
If it’s gonna be like this the rest of the summer, I need to start looking for a different job.
Bailey has a lot to talk about, and I finally start taking notes because there’s no way I’m gonna remember any of this. It helps me concentrate to write it down, even if it’s just in my notes app with a ton of autocorrections that won’t make any sense later.
She’s still talking after my second margarita, and while she was right—they’re not all that strong—I’m ready for a nap.
“Look,” I interrupt her mid-sentence. “I gotta go. Stephanie needs to eat and I…whatever. Oh, also, the Discord group wants content of me and Ryan together since they know we know each other now.”
“What?” Bailey looks at Ryan who looks as confused as she does.
“Yeah, so, figure out how you wanna do that and let me know. I haven’t changed my number or anything, so anyway…thanks for the drinks.”
“Seriously, are you all right?” she asks, standing when I do.
“I’m awesome. Your ideas are all good. We’re definitely gonna win.”
“Okay, Captain Monotone. Do I need to call you a ride?”
“No thanks. This one’s on me.”
Surprising the shit out of me, she gives me a tight hug. “I know it’s a lot,” she says, “But you’re doing great.”
“Thank you,” I say out of a genuine sense of gratitude. She smells like watermelon and mint. A hint of vanilla from her curly hair. It makes me feel disgusting for not showering today. “Sorry if I smell.”
She laughs. “You don’t.”
I glance at Ryan, and he’s standing, too, looking at me.
My heart starts beating like I just sprinted across a football field. Is he going to hug me, too? I might cry if he does—I might kiss him in front of Bailey and everything .
Before that can happen, I let go of her and back away. I need to go, or I’ll make a scene. I’m feeling too much all of a sudden, and it’s really better if I’m not around him when it all decides to come spilling out.