Chapter 5
Sandwich Theory
Gavin
The bass from downstairs vibrates through my floor.
Thursday night at Delta Psi, which means Drew's orchestrating another mandatory bonding session. He’s been talking about "brotherhood cohesion" and "shared experiences.
" Pretty sure he pulled that from the same management book he quotes during chapter meetings.
BANG BANG BANG.
"Gavin! Get down here and vote!" Tyler's fist hammers my door hard enough to rattle the frame. "We need you to break the tie!"
"Busy!" I call back, staring at my Psychology of Human Sexuality textbook like it holds the secrets of the universe. Which, considering my current situation, maybe it does.
"It's Predator versus Pitch Perfect!" he yells through the door. "Come on, man!"
I blink at my door. "How did those even become the choices?"
"Democracy is messy, bro! You coming or not?"
"Twenty minutes!"
"Fine! But if I have to watch another shirtless Arnold scene without backup, you're dead to me!"
His footsteps retreat down the hall, leaving me with my textbooks spread across my desk while I ask myself so many questions.
My notebook lies open, headers written in my most academic handwriting:
Write it up like any other paper, research, and conclusions… You can do this.
Behavioral Patterns Indicating Potential Same-Sex Attraction: A Clinical Self-Assessment
Right next to it, my laptop displays a significantly less clinical page, ‘Which Taylor Swift Era Represents Your Sexuality?’
Fuck. How did I get here?
Ten minutes ago, I was reading about the Kinsey Scale, taking notes like a proper psychology major. Scientific approach. Objective analysis. Then somehow, and I'm still not clear on the exact chain of events, I'd typed "am I gay quiz" into Google and fallen down the scariest rabbit hole of my life.
Now my browser history is a crime scene of increasingly desperate searches:
"Kinsey scale test legitimate"
"Questioning sexuality at 23 normal?"
"Can you be straight but think about men sometimes?"
"Straight guys who—" Delete Delete Delete
Holy Fuck… straight guys do anal for cash…. This is a thing???
A much safer Taylor Swift quiz judges me from my screen. I've already taken it twice because "Reputation Era" seemed wrong the first time. Got "Folklore Gay" on the second attempt, which isn't even a real term. The quiz maker definitely just made that up.
Another notification pops up. A new quiz: "Build a Sandwich, and We'll Tell You If You're a Top or a Bottom."
What does that even mean? How can food preferences possibly—
But I'm already clicking it. For science. Data collection. Part of my comprehensive self-assessment.
My phone vibrates on the desk, dancing across the wood. I glance at the screen, Haru's name lights up with a message preview.
Haru
The movie night is starting soon. Will you be attending? We're voting between Predator and—"
He even texts perfectly.
I flip the phone face down without reading the rest, cutting off the notification mid-sentence.
The movement is sharper than necessary, bordering on aggressive.
My psych textbook lies open in front of me, waiting to rescue me from whatever internet-induced crisis I'm currently experiencing.
The Kinsey Scale diagram practically glows on the page, with its clean numbered spectrum and objective definitions.
Right. Back to actual psychology. The kind with peer-reviewed studies and controlled variables. Not the BuzzFeed variety that determines my entire sexual identity based on bread choices.
I force my eyes to focus on the chapter, reading the same paragraph about sexual orientation research three times without absorbing a single word.
My brain refuses to cooperate, too busy replaying the sandwich quiz questions and wondering why I'd selected "extra mayo" when I don't even like mayo that much.
The Kinsey Scale stares back at me. Zero is exclusively heterosexual. Six is exclusively homosexual. I tap my pencil against the page, creating a nervous rhythm.
In high school, I was definitely a zero. Dated Courtney sophomore year, Madison senior year. Did all the things I was supposed to do. Prom. Homecoming. Making out under the bleachers after I blocked for the winning touchdown.
Except...
Except I spent more time thinking about the game than the girl. Except kissing felt like it was what I was supposed to do rather than something I wanted to do. Except I was always relieved when they wanted to "just cuddle."
The sandwich quiz blinks at me, waiting for input.
This is ridiculous.
But I click "sourdough" anyway.
My door flies open without warning.
"Time's up, GR!" Tyler waves a clipboard at me like it's a weapon. "Movie vote is happening NOW."
I blink at him, my brain still spinning from sandwich ingredients and whatever the hell they're supposed to reveal about me. The next question is still loading in the background, that little spinning wheel mocking me while Tyler stands in my doorway looking expectant.
"What?" I manage, hoping my voice sounds normal and not like I've just been having an existential crisis over whether choosing whole wheat makes me bicurious.
"Dude, are you okay?" His forehead wrinkles with concern. "You look like you just saw your GPA drop."
"I'm fine." My keyboard clacks as I minimize the browser window, probably with too much force. "Just... studying."
Tyler's eyes track the movement. "Sure. Studying." I think he knows I'm full of shit but doesn't push it. That's why he's my best friend. "So? Predator or Pitch Perfect?"
"Pitch Perfect," I answer automatically. "We've watched Arnold oil up enough times."
"THANK YOU!" Tyler throws his hands up in victory. "Finally, someone with taste. Though if they'd picked T2, different story, right?"
"Obviously. T2 is a damn masterpiece."
He laughs, marking on his clipboard with a flourish, then looks up at me closely and pauses. "You sure you're good? You seem..." He waves vaguely at my room like he's not sure what to ask.
"I'm good. Just thinking through some stuff."
Tyler hesitates at my door. For a second, I consider telling him. Just opening my mouth and saying, "Hey, so I might be into dudes, same as you, and I'm freaking out about it."
But the words stick in my throat. Tyler only came out a few months ago. He and Ethan are so fucking happy together; it sometimes makes my chest hurt to watch them. Not jealous exactly, just... aware of what I don't have.
"Alright," he says finally, backing off with that careful way he has when he's not going to push. He shifts his weight, clipboard tucked under one arm. "But you know I'm here if you need to talk about... stuff. Whatever it is. No judgment, man."
The offer hangs in the air between us, genuine and safe. Tyler would get it; hell, he's been through it. The whole messy process of figuring yourself out while everyone watches. But the thought of saying it out loud, making it real... Why the fuck are you scared of telling your best friend?
"Yeah. I know." My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. "Appreciate it, Ty. Really."
He gives me one of those looks that says he sees right through my bullshit but loves me anyway, then nods once. "Movie starts at nine. Don't be late, or Drew will pick your seat, and you'll end up squished next to the speakers again."
"I won't be late."
He heads back downstairs, and I listen to his footsteps fade before turning back to my laptop.
The sandwich quiz waits patiently. I've made it through bread; sourdough seemed less suspicious than brioche.
Turkey for protein because it felt safe, neutral.
The vegetable section took forever. Why did they include cucumbers?
That felt like a trap. Went with lettuce and tomatoes like the most boring straight guy ever.
For condiments, I picked mustard because mayo seemed too. .. soft?
Jesus Christ, am I really assigning sexuality to condiments now? Just finish it already. For the data.
Click. Submit.
While it loads, my brain unhelpfully provides a memory: Dad and Uncle Pete on the back porch, summer before high school. They'd been drinking, voices carrying through my bedroom window.
"You hear about the Thompson kid?" Uncle Pete had said, his voice carrying that particular tone of gossip mixed with judgment.
"Came back from college all..." He'd made some kind of gesture I couldn't see from my bedroom window but could absolutely imagine, probably a limp wrist or something equally ridiculous and stereotypical.
Dad's laugh had been ugly, harsh in a way that made my shoulders tense even though I was two stories up and nowhere near them.
"Always knew some shit was off about that boy.
" The way he'd said 'off' made it sound like a disease.
"Good thing they ran him out of town before he could corrupt anyone else's kids.
Last thing we need is more of them around here, thinking they can just.. . be like that."
Uncle Pete had grunted in agreement, and the conversation had moved on to the Seahawks' chances that season, but I'd stayed frozen at my window, fingers clenched around the edge of my desk.
I hadn't understood then, not really. The Thompson kid was just someone's older brother who'd suddenly moved away. Now, though...
"One of those fucking fruits." That's what Dad had said, voice dripping disgust.
My stomach turns. What would he say if he knew his son was up here taking "What Kind of Gay Are You?" quizzes at 8 PM on a Thursday?
Maybe that's why I dated those girls in high school.
I remember strawberry lip gloss and soft hands. Girls who always smelled like vanilla and wanted to plan our wedding. They were nice. Pretty. Everything a guy was supposed to want.
Except I'd felt nothing for those girls.
Assumed I was just focused on football. Told myself sex was overrated when everyone else seemed obsessed with it.
Made excuses about being tired from practice, and was always the best boyfriend who didn't pressure anyone.
I've had sex, but I was always okay to cuddle.
"That's what a man does." Dad's voice again, from a thousand different conversations. A man dates women. A man gets married. A man provides for his family. A man definitely doesn't wonder what it would feel like to run his fingers through another guy's dark hair or—
Fuck... Definitely not straight then.
But Tyler's happy. Really fucking happy. And Ethan's not some corrupting influence; he's smart and funny and makes Tyler laugh in a way I'd never seen before they got together.
Maybe Dad was wrong about this, too.
The thought hits suddenly and sharply. He was wrong about needing to hit kids to make them tough. Wrong about Mom being weak for crying. Wrong about education being worthless if it didn't involve your hands.
So… yeah, he was wrong about the Thompson kid. About guys like Tyler and Ethan, he's definitely fucking wrong.
About... whatever I might be.
My notebook full of "scientific observations" mocks me from across the desk. I've been trying to quantify this, to make it logical and academic. But maybe some things can't be reduced to data points and behavioral patterns.
If Tyler can be this happy, then it's not wrong or sick or whatever Dad said...
I look back at my laptop. The quiz is still loading, that stupid spinning circle taunting me. Part of me wants to close it, delete my browser history, pretend this never happened.
But I need to know. Even if it's just a dumb internet quiz. Even if the methodology is completely fucked. I need something, anything, to help me understand what's happening in my head.
The screen finally refreshes.
My eyes practically pop out of my skull.
"Your Result: Bottom Energy %"