33. Star of the Week #2
“Big Bro, you’re playing on a gay and lesbian softball team. I think you’re the one who has something to say, not me.”
“If you know everything already, why do I have to say it?” He turned to face her and realized he’d crossed his arms, but he couldn’t seem to uncross them or get into a casual pose.
“Because you have to practice?”
That made him spread his arms, because she wasn’t wrong, fuck it. “I’m gay, okay. I’m gay. There. I don’t have a problem saying it.”
He felt so stupidly flamboyant with his arms out as if he was going to fucking twirl, which was Jonathan’s skill, not his. He must look like a lunatic standing here on the ramp to the manure trailer.
“I have a boyfriend who used to be a figure skater and we go wine tasting together because he doesn’t even like beer and we have all the gay sex and he likes to boss me around and I think he’s really cute when he wears eye makeup, because I’m gay. Gay, gay, gay, so very gay.”
What was coming out of his mouth? How did Jess do this to him? Every fucking time. He bent at the waist and tried to bow, but again, Jonathan’s skill, not his, so he straightened and dropped his arms. “Happy now? Happy?”
She clapped and then turned to wave at Cashew, Penny, and Bug who were hanging their big heads over the paddock fence, clearly thinking about treats. “Does anyone else have something to share with the circle this morning?”
“That’s it? That’s all?”
Jess shrugged. “You want star of the week? And for the record, everyone likes to boss you around.”
“What the fuck? That’s all you have to say?”
“Yep, that’s it. No, wait. Do you have a picture of this so-called boyfriend?” She wrinkled her nose and tapped her chin. “Because I’m dubious about who would be willing to date you.”
And that was it. Jess was being herself. He’d done it and it was done, and his breathing was normal, and they were normal.
“Brat.” He flashed to the memory of the past weekend when he’d called Jonathan that same word for teasing him about lazing around on the couch. As he pulled his phone out of his back pocket, his hands were not shaking. That was normal, too.
He opened the lock screen and immediately saw Cowboy Jonathan wearing his unbuttoned white pants, and nope, not showing her that.
He swiped to his photo gallery, and she could not see sleepy, shirtless Jonathan with Pawsley on his chest either.
And not that one in the short boy toy shorts or whatever Jonathan called them, right, his three-inch inseams, like he was auditioning to be a high-end tailor for male dancers.
“You’re turning so pink. So, so pink.”
“Shut up,” he muttered. He really had to put these photos in a special folder before school started, because he could not accidentally encounter shirtless Jonathan during the day, and then lose his voice when he was expected to teach reading fluency.
“Why is it taking you so long to find a photo, huh? Maybe we should play that stupid game where you have to show me the fifth photo in the roll?” She was leaning forward toward him.
“You wish. Here.” He thrust the screen in front of him like Cap’s shield and used his free hand to ward off her grabby fingers.
It was a picture of Jonathan on his bike, paused in a shaft of sunlight angling through a gap in the trees lining the lane to a winery.
His helmet dangled from one fist. He was laughing with victory, because he’d once again beat Connor in a meaningless race.
He’d raised his arms in a way that hiked up his silly cycling jersey, revealing his waist, since he always wore his technical shirts a shade too tight and a smidge too short.
His head was tossed back, mid-laugh, and the line of his throat was right there begging for Connor’s mouth.
The light bounced off his cheekbones and his raven hair and the stretchy clothes fit him so, so perfectly.
He popped out of the background blur of vineyards, trees and road all winding away from the jubilant man on the bike.
“Oh my god, Connor.” His sister’s mouth dropped open and he wasn’t sure if it was real or if she was teasing him again, but he felt extremely happy to know that indeed, his boyfriend was smoking, even in his sister’s eyes. “He’s really hot, and that’s like the most amazing photo.”
“I told you.”
“No, you said he was cute when he wore eye makeup, and I was expecting something else. You didn’t say he was like a K-Pop thirst trap even when he’s just existing in the world.” She waved her hand at the screen. “That’s totally different.”
“Is not.”
“Honestly Connor, you might be gay, but I think I’m a better judge of hot men than you are.”
How had this become real? How was he having this conversation with his sister?
“You know that I”—he pointed at his own chest—“am considered a hot man? I’m hot. You know that, right?”
“Eww, Connor. Are not.”
“I am!”
“Beg to differ.”
“I can prove it! I have receipts! I am hot!”
She rolled her eyes. “Whatever you say.”
“Before Jonathan, I pulled professional athletes. More than one.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“In more than one sport!”
“I guess pickleball and pool—billiards?—have professionals now, don’t they?”
“In the NHL!” Jess always did this to him, made him live in exclamation marks, made him walk around like a cartoon character trying to get someone to understand the speech bubbles over his head. She could push his buttons like nobody else in the world, and she lived for it.
“Yeah, whatever, millionaire hockey dude hookups, sure, Connor. Sure.”
And they both burst out laughing, him because he was relieved it was the same as it ever was, and his little sister because she thought she’d bested him.
“My fucking life,” he gasped, clutching his stomach.
His life felt amazing. Jess knew and she’d made him laugh and his fucking life was amazing.