Chapter 9
It physically pains me to ogle Cooper—I’d rather walk on hot nails than be attracted to this man—but it’s impossible not to notice he has an impeccably bombastic ass as he leads me up the stairs to his recording studio a few days after brunch.
It’s a bit obscene and offensive for a man to be so caked up on a Sunday afternoon. I force my eyes to my feet.
Cooper is all good cheer and chatter as we set up, oblivious to my attempts to ice him out.
He gushes about some amazing pasta dish Steve made for them all last night as he places a perfectly brewed cup of peppermint tea in front of me, and I deeply resent that he has the home life I crave like an orphaned Victorian child.
“Congrats on conning people into taking care of you, but can we get on with this?” I wave at the mics and camera setup.
Cooper blinks a few times, his smile slipping. I almost feel bad, but then his grin fixes back into place and he says, “Right. Gotta give the people what they want.” He laughs, and it’s a harsh reminder that this is all a scheme to him, that I’m a pawn in his sponsorship ploy.
With little fanfare, Cooper starts recording, moving smoothly through his intro. “Well, let’s recap,” he says coyly. “Date one was a shit time with good intentions, but shitty nonetheless. Date two, you took the lead on and tried your damndest to woo me.”
“I was not trying to woo you,” I interject.
“Sorry. I should have known all that charm of yours comes effortlessly,” Cooper says with a flirty wink.
I glare back, my annoyance compounded from the tattletale blush burnishing my cheeks.
“I must have walked under a ton of ladders and shattered all the mirrors recently because bad luck would have it that I ran into you at brunch,” I say into the mic, trying to navigate away from Cooper’s insatiable flirting.
We go over the main points of the meal for listeners, then Cooper asks, “Where does the experience rank in my sparkling track record?”
While I’m not feeling generous by any stretch of the imagination, I shrug and decide to be honest. “You’ve done worse in a group setting.”
Cooper’s smile is radiant, eyebrows raised in excitement. “Does that mean I’ve made up for the infamous frat house night that haunts you still?”
“Oh god, nothing was worse than that frat house night. I’m not sure you made up for it, but you certainly did better than it.”
“Come on, that night couldn’t have been that bad!” Cooper splays his hands, leaning back in his seat. “Me and the boys always knew how to have a good time.”
“You and the boys were toeing a fine line between a good time and a massive drunken orgy incorporating Solo cups and beer pong.”
It all comes back to me as rancidly as if it happened last night.
The heavy scent of weed and beer and Axe body spray.
The pumping music and rowdy crowd. Cooper and his buddies all shirtless in jeans and cowboy hats, a sheen of sweat on their chests as they slapped each other’s backs and loudly ogled the few women in attendance.
“Like I said, we knew how to have a good time,” Cooper quips, but there’s something deflated in his tone, his smile forlorn and not reaching his eyes.
“I have never seen a more homoerotic gathering of men than at your frat house and I’ve been attending NYC Pride for nearly a decade.
There were numerous points during the night where you and ‘the boys’”—I offer my most exaggerated air quotes for the video recording—“screamed ‘No homo’ before pantsing someone or sticking your tongues down each other’s throats after successfully shotgunning a beer.
All in the name of brotherhood, of course. ”
The memories feel like a smack on sunburn, a quiet, hot ache that lingers even after all these years. The humid, suffocating energy of Cooper and his friends, their toxic deployment of neutral words, the sinking feeling of disappointment I wasn’t sure I was even entitled to.
I’ve been aware of liking people, not genders, since I was old enough to register a crush, but growing up lonely in such a crowded house required all my energy be applied to getting by and taking care of myself.
I didn’t have the bandwidth to process a label for my sexuality until I found breathing room in college.
But even twenty-one-year-old me tiptoeing around my pansexual identity—not sure if I was outwardly and actively queer enough to claim a spot in the community—felt uncomfortable at the way Cooper and his friends acted.
I remember watching him, the cavalier way he paraded around as a stereotype of masculinity, the reeking perfume of it that I pretended to like as I curled into myself, annoyed that I felt annoyed.
I’m surprised to see remorse flash across Cooper’s features now before he hangs his head. “I remember that. I think about it a lot, actually.”
“One of your prouder moments?”
His head snaps up. “One that eats at me. So much about that time in my life haunts me.”
My lips part, instinctually prepared to snap back with something inflammatory, but my throat hollows out at the serious expression on his face, the lines notched between his eyebrows in a frown instead of around his eyes in a smile. I bite my lip, then tilt my head, silently telling him to go on.
Cooper leans away from the mic and takes a deep breath. Then another. I hear the rattle of nerves with each exhale, and something in my chest shifts, my heart giving a sudden and surprising squeeze at his discomfort.
And it clicks. I sense what he’s about to say, the defensive but proud set to his shoulders and jaw. My expression turns open and genuine for the first time in a long time with him, and I give the tiniest shake of my head, telling him it’s okay. Telling him he doesn’t have to go on.
He drags his hand down his face, then leans his cheek against it, partially covering his mouth from the cameras. It’s okay , he mouths, then gives me a wink and a smile before dropping his hand back to his lap.
“I’m bi,” he says at last, forming the words clearly and steadily as he hunches closer to the microphone.
“This isn’t my coming-out or some secret, I’ve alluded to it a few times on here before, but my sexuality still feels somewhat of a private topic to me so I don’t talk about it often…
Maybe that’s just my internalized biphobia holding me back, though, who knows. ”
He lets out a rough, self-deprecating laugh, eyes meeting mine. His smile is slow, a little timid. I want to return it. I want to silently, softly, encourage him to keep going, but my breath is snarled in my mouth, and all I can do is stare.
His smile falters, and he clears his throat, bashfulness returning.
“Regardless, I was not out in college. I was very, very deep in the closet, and acting out in a lot of ways that were toxic and perpetuated this idea of heteronormativity that I thought could save me, especially within frat life. I thought if I was masculine enough, aggressive enough, the one delivering the funniest jokes at the expense of a community I wasn’t openly a member of, I could maybe earn my straight guy card.
And that infamous night with you was one of my more extreme showings of that. ”
There’s an extended pause, and I belatedly realize I’m supposed to fill it. Cooper is staring at me with a brave face, a tiny glint in his eyes that says he’s ready for whatever jab I’m going to throw.
Instead, I shake my head, trying to clear the fog. “What… what changed?”
Cooper starts like I surprised him. His jaw works as he studies me, weighing how genuine my question is. And in his true, unguarded fashion, he slowly smiles again, eyes locking with mine like nothing makes him happier than opening up to me.
“Well… I hit rock bottom. And it was dark and shitty and I lived down there for a while. But, eventually, I realized I couldn’t hate myself into someone I liked.
So I decided to give accepting myself a try.
” His voice is low, almost a whisper, eyes fixed on me.
“Extensive therapy did some heavy lifting too, I’ll be honest.”
From a distance, I remember we’re recording all of this, that he’s sharing this into a microphone, and part of me wonders if what he said was even picked up.
But the greater, stronger, delirious part of me wants to shut down every microphone and camera and grab Rylie Cooper by the front of his sweatshirt and shake him, demand he tell me every last detail that has actually changed in him since I knew him.
Beg him for more of this truth. Collect all these new pieces as I try to put his puzzle together.
Make him tell me if I can trust this version of him or if I’m just adding layers to the man that’s profiting off this whole ordeal.
But this moment isn’t about me. None of this has ever been about me, and that’s a new and hard truth I need to reconcile with.
Silence stretches again, and Cooper clears his throat. “So… yeah. I was a total dumbass that night—”
“Interesting you used past tense,” I say, words sharp but mercy soft as I half-heartedly step back into my role. It seems to spark fresh energy in him, and he reaches across the table and gently chucks my chin.
“Fair. But I’m a dumbass in new and exciting ways now. Ones much less clichéd and damaging than being closeted and homophobic. And I’m very grateful you’ve given me a chance to explain myself. That’s not an opportunity people get often.”
It feels like my chair is pulled out from under me, my world tipping and temple hitting the floor, the impact rattling my brain and scrambling all the things I thought I knew about this guy.
He… he sounds genuine. Like he truly is grateful to be around my hateful ass, working to undermine every notion I have about him. The idea is candied, too sweet to tolerate, and my teeth ache as the idea melts through me.
The rest of our conversation passes in a blur. I must respond, because Cooper’s eyes keep trailing to my mouth, his own curling in a smile or opening in a laugh every few minutes from something I say. I can only pray it’s nothing as soft and dangerously tender as the pressure building in my chest.
Do I… Oh good god, do I actually like talking to Rylie Cooper? Have I not done anything to cure this terrible affliction in the past six years? I must be more mentally ill than I realized.
“Regardless, I’m sure I’ll knock it out of the park with our third date,” Cooper says in a way that signals a wrap-up to the episode, a smirk that’s pure, hungry challenge.
“Not gonna hold my breath, baby girl.”
“Want to give me a hint on what will win you over?” he says, leaning forward, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his sharp nose.
“And ruin all my fun? I’ll pass.”
Cooper laughs. “That’s fine. I’ll nail it without your help.”
I go to make a low-hanging sex joke, but Cooper holds up his hand.
“Now I know what you’re about to say, I’m sure it’s the same thing our listeners must be thinking: Rylie, you took a women’s study elective in college, why would you need a hint? You must be an expert on women! ”
I roll my eyes so hard I see spots.
There’s a laugh in Cooper’s voice as he continues. “Well, I’m here to set the record straight by saying, yes. Yes I am. But you, Eva Kitt, are not just a woman. You have the devil in you. But don’t worry, I’ll win her over as well.”
I roll my eyes again, but a giggle bursts out of me. “You’re an idiot.”
“Yeah, I’m that too,” he says with a crooked grin.
Heat rushes through me, and I swipe my headphones off as Cooper closes out the episode. I take a deep breath to clear my head. Another. One more should do it…
It’s no use. This is all so much, and the urge to flee shoots through my muscles.
The second he turns off the recording equipment, I jump out of my seat, grabbing my jacket and purse and taking a step toward the door.
“Wait.” Cooper jerks to standing, knees hitting the edge of the table, microphone wobbling. The command, the whisper of desperation in his voice, locks me in place. He pushes his glasses up his nose, clears his throat a few times, then coughs.
“Ew, are you sick?” I ask, twisting my face into a look of dismay.
Cooper blinks for a moment, then shakes his head, laughing shakily. “No. Not with a cold, at least.” He lets out a long breath, dragging a hand through his hair, the waves springing back against the smoothing gesture. “Will you get coffee with me?”
He asks in such a rush, I process it on a delay, but my shoulders stiffen in a defensive posture like he just asked me to gargle with cyanide. “You’re in charge of making the dates,” I say, forcing my voice to be as churlish as possible. “If you want the next one to be coffee, that’s up to you.”
Cooper shakes his head again. “Not as one of the dates.” He holds up his hands, ready to block my protest. “I know. I know. You would never willingly spend time with me outside of this arrangement, you’ve made that very clear.
But please, just this once, can you give me an hour over coffee where we pretend to be friends? ”
His gaze is so intense, I have to look away, eyes sweeping around the room.
I can’t keep them occupied for long, my attention obstinately set on returning to him.
His lean frame and hands shoved in his pockets, the slight curl of his shoulders toward his ears, the tips of which have turned bright pink.
I know I need to turn him down, come up with a quick excuse or a flat-out no.
Too many egregious, confusing emotions are grappling for purchase in my stomach, and I need to remember that he’s profiting from this, making strides in his career while I scramble to get away from hot dogs and non sense.
My heart beats up into my throat, and I feel jittery—exposed—like I was the one who was just brutally, beautifully honest and not Cooper.
I can’t even imagine how raw he must feel.
It’s only when his eyes light up, face breaking into a smile equal parts victory and disbelief that I realize I’m nodding. I clear my throat, but my voice still comes out scratchy, “I can pretend to be your friend for an hour. Just this once.”
Somehow, his elation grows. “You won’t regret it,” he says, grabbing his coat and shepherding me toward the door.
I let out a rusty laugh, and I hope it sounds disbelieving instead of nervous.
Because the way something soft shifts in my chest—a warmth radiating from the center and growing hotter along the back of my neck, like tendrils of energy are needily reaching out arms for Cooper—I already know this is something I’ll regret.