SULLIVAN #3
While I’ve never kissed a girl or been with a girl, I’ve definitely wondered whether I’m missing out. No one in particular comes to mind, but I can chalk that up to a hundred things. My obsessions. My obligations. Adrian. Again.
I have to work harder for my next breath, and I guess Knight notices. “Sorry,” he mumbles, removing his leg from mine and crossing his long legs in front of him. My first instinct is to grab hold of his jeans and drag his thigh back to where it was.
Not being sure about my sexuality means exactly that. I’m not sure. It’s one of those things I’m hoping to sort out sooner rather than later. I can’t get away from Adrian—not yet—but while I’m a few states away from him, I can certainly try to figure myself out on my own.
When there’s a lull in the conversation, someone asks, “Should we get more wood or head home?”
It’s a resounding more wood.
I actually do want to check the time now because classes start tomorrow. Surely some of these people have early ones. I don’t, but what about football practice?
Surprisingly, it’s only midnight. Since I have my phone out and plenty of battery life, I stand up. “I can go look.” I need to take a piss anyway.
“That flashlight sucks,” Knight says, when I turn on the phone light. “I’ll go with you.”
We’re not the only two getting up to gather wood, but we might be the only two who wander off into the woods in the same direction. I tell him I need a moment to myself.
“Don’t go far,” he says.
I find a tree to pee behind in case his flashlight sweeps my way. It takes a solid minute to take care of my business. I’m used to alcohol, but I’ve had a lot of soda tonight, too.
When I meet up with Knight again, he’s kicked a few larger fallen branches into a pile. He drops the beam of his light to the ground as I walk up to him.
“Sorry about that back there.”
I dare a step closer, into his personal space. “Why?”
He lowers his voice. “I, um…wow. How do I say this?”
I’m curious about how he’s going to say it, too.
“I’m not like the other guys, I guess.”
“Because you don’t have a girlfriend and weren’t all that interested in the Playboy centerfold calendar?”
He doesn’t say it out loud, but he nods.
“Is it a secret?”
Another nod. “It has to be.”
I scowl at that. “Why?”
“Because of football. Because I can’t fuck this up.”
“You know…we’re well into the twenty-first century…”
“Missouri still has sodomy laws,” he informs me.
“Oh.”
“I’m just saying there’s some places even now that it’s not okay.”
“Including football?”
“Especially football.”
“Sorry,” I tell him because what else can I say?
That sucks. Whatever I discover about my own sexuality, my life is leading me to LA or New York.
Ideally I’ll be in the entertainment industry—creating scores and making music.
Eventually, it won’t matter who I want to be with.
It never occurred to me that some people might not have that kind of choice.
Or I guess they do have a choice—the choice just sucks.
“No, I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ve been up your ass all night, and it’s probably making you uncomfortable.”
I shake my head. “Not because—look. My reasons for being uncomfortable don’t have anything to do with you or the fact that you’re a guy. We all have our own shit, right?”
“Apparently.”
We’ve been listening to eighteen-year-old men spill their guts for over an hour around a fire. No one came into their college experience untainted by life.
“Are you straight?” he comes out and asks.
“I don’t know,” I tell him.
My answer makes him blink several times in quick succession. “Oh.”
“Was that what you wanted to know?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“I wish I could give you a better answer,” I say. “I’m still figuring things out.”
“Yeah, all right.”
“Is there like…something about me that made you think—”
“No.” He shakes his head firmly. “No, nothing like that. I just…you’re gorgeous.” He takes a long shaky breath. “I just said that.”
Despite the chill, I’m suddenly, very, very warm. “You think?”
“I don’t know how anyone wouldn’t. You’re like—extremely good looking. I can’t be the first person to ever point it out.”
He’s only the second one, but he’s incredibly believable when he says it.
Like it might not objectively be true, but he sure thinks it is.
I think I’m beyond bizarre looking, maybe striking, but certainly not everyone’s type.
I’ve been made fun of for my eyes and nose all my life.
Not always in a malicious way, but sometimes.
Enough to make me wonder if I’m hideous.
It’s in the eye of the beholder, apparently.
Instead of saying anything, I reach for his hand.
“You don’t have to,” he says.
“Have to what?” I take hold of it, testing its weight, its warmth. Feeling the callouses on the pads beneath his fingers with a stroke of my thumb.
His next breath is sharp, and I look him in the eyes. “Are you shy?”
He glances back toward the tunnel, but we’re alone. Trees are everywhere. “Sometimes,” he says quietly.
He might not have any questions about who he is and who he’s allowed to be, but I have plenty, and maybe he’s got some answers. “Can I kiss you?”