2. Gareth
Chapter two
Gareth
Ihang up the phone and swallow thickly, before the door to the conference room I'd stolen opens and a handful of people walk in. I point lamely at the phone in my hand in apology.
"Sorry, needed some privacy. I'll get out of your hair," I say in a rush to leave.
I slip past them and head down the sterile hallway of my branch.
I nod to a handful of guys I work with before slipping into my office and shutting the door behind me.
It's frowned upon to have our doors closed in this company, but I need a damn minute.
I flop into my office chair and wipe my sweaty palms on my slacks. I take a deep breath in and then out again. It had been an impulsive three AM decision to fill out that form. I'd found his website when I searched for discreet male escorts and couldn't believe he'd become a sex worker.
He'd always been so comfortable in his sexuality, even as a scrawny teenager, and I'd always envied him for that.
Part of the AA program I'm in talks about admitting your wrongs to yourself, another person, and a higher power.
I'm not sure, yet, if I believe in God, per se, but I have come to terms early in this program that there's something out there higher than me.
There has to be.
I talked in our last AA meeting about how terribly I used to bully Trey.
It was part of the program where you list out the wrong things you've done in life and work to make amends.
Logically, I know that shame is a large part of why we drink, so addressing what causes shame and working to fix our past wrongs is an important part of this process.
I'd foolishly thought that if I were to hire him, we'd be able to talk, and maybe I'd get that kiss I so desperately wanted in high school.
I close my eyes and remember that day vividly, sitting with the shame, acknowledging it, and letting it go.
We were in the library during our junior year, and I thought I'd been catching him staring at me a few times. Each time I did, my pulse raced and my hands grew itchy. I wanted him to look, even though I knew nothing could ever happen between us.
Eighteen years ago
God, Trey is gorgeous.
I'm sitting at the table in the library facing the entrance, with a textbook about Australia that I'm pretending to read and take notes on. The hand holding my pen hovers over the notebook, but all I'm seeing is Trey, sitting at another table kitty-corner to me.
He's got one foot propped up on the chair and his chin resting on his bent knee, reading a novel.
He's probably the smartest kid in our school.
His dark hair is impossibly thick and curls around his ears in that too-cool-can't-care kind of way.
His skin is the color of chocolate, full of highlights and lowlights depending on how the light hits the contour of his muscles.
He's thinner than me and gives off theater-kid vibes, but for some reason, I can't take my eyes off him.
He's clean-shaven, and I wonder if he can't grow a beard at all. I rub my thin mustache self-consciously.
I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts. Why am I staring at him, thinking about the color of his skin or his facial hair?
I get up, grab the book I had, and walk back to the section of the library I got it from. I tilt my head, reading the titles of the other textbooks, wondering if I'm going to get any work done or if I should just give up for today. My attention span is anywhere but here.
My body lurches to the left as someone runs into me with an "oomph". I spin and grab the person by the arms to make sure they're okay, or to make sure they didn't do it on purpose, but it's him. He looks up at me, blinking, like he didn't expect me here.
But why would he be in this section of the library?
This is the World Geography section, not fiction like he was reading a minute ago.
His hands come to cup my elbows, and I'm frozen.
Did he see me come back here and follow me?
Why? What does he want from me? Did he want to talk?
Did he want more? He's holding my arms. I'm holding his.
Dark chocolate brown eyes — that I notice contain flecks of gold from this close — dart from my left eye, to my right, and then down to my mouth.
That's, like, the signal, right? That someone wants to kiss you?
The triangle thing. I've heard the other guys on the football team talk about it.
How, like, that's how you know if a girl wants to kiss you.
My pulse is thundering through my veins harder than during a game. My eyes drop to his lips. They're impossibly plump and soft-looking. A lot of nerds have chapped lips. Or chew on them obsessively as some sort of nervous tic.
But Trey doesn't. God. I wonder what it would be like to kiss his lips. Would they feel like a girl's? Because they're so soft?
Adrenaline pumping through my veins, I close my eyes and drop my face, ready to press my lips to his and find out what it would feel like.
But he jerks back. I open my eyes. Trey just looks confused. But he definitely did not want to kiss me.
Oh, fuck. Oh, shit. My eyes widen in fear. I almost just kissed a guy. And that guy rejected me. And I'm straight. Like, totally, completely straight. I like women. Big tits. Big ass. Their hair?
He's going to tell everyone. Everyone will know. My entire football team will harass me if they know. They can't know.
I push him. Hard. "Ew!" I shout, brushing past him to get back into the open area of the library and cause as big of a scene as possible. I dramatically wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. "Ew, you faggot! Trey just tried to kiss me!"
My stomach sours instantly, as shame and rage and hurt barrel through me faster than I know how to handle. I can't be attracted to a guy. I just can't. I'm the quarterback of the football team. I'm going to go play in college. Maybe the NFL. I'm not gay.
Laughter and whispers come from a group of girls nearby, and Connor, my receiver, picks up the banner. "Ew, Trey. You going to try to kiss me, too?"
More laughter. Trey comes out from the bookshelves without making eye contact, grabs his bag from the table, and walks out of the library.
God, I was terrible to him. I remind myself to have some grace.
That I was just a kid, with big emotions I didn't know how to handle.
My dad was the local Sheriff and would absolutely not have approved of his son being a "faggot" - his words, not mine.
Except I'd used exactly the same language as my dad.
Not that it's an excuse. It was still a choice I made, and I now have to deal with the consequences.
The consequence being that the only guy I was ever attracted to hates me.