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I know Brice is just being his sarcastic self, but there was nothing rude about being blatantly ogled by a man for the first time in my life. I felt alive. It was like his eyes on me woke up a thousand blood vessels I’ve never used before.
BRICE: Did he say anything?
ME: No.
A bubble of panic makes its way up my throat as I stare at my reply. Should he have said something? Is there a bathroom code? I am the worst gay in history.
BRICE: Muffin, I hate to burst your bubble, but if he didn’t say anything or make eye contact, it was likely just some schlong envy or a case of that one percent of every straight man’s brain that wonders about cock.
Wait.
Eye contact.
There was so much eye contact. I know there was. I’m not imagining it. That eye contact with Pete was the second longest minute of my life.
Air floods back into my lungs with renewed hope. My finger flies over the keys on my phone.
ME: Eye contact established.
The way Pete’s almond gaze looked at me like he was engraving my face in his memory once and for all might just be the most important moment of my existence thus far. For the first time in my life, I was noticeable. To someone. As a gay man. By another gay man. Because after he stared at me for that small eternity with his lips parted like he was as devoured by attraction as I was, he glanced at my mouth.
I don’t know much, but straight men don’t stare at other men’s cocks and then stare at their mouths. I seriously wanted to shout then and there, “Thank you. Thank you for being gay, Pete Carver! I knew you wouldn’t let me down!”
Brice has been so supportive ever since we first connected in that chat forum last year, but, once I told him my disaster plan, he went all mama bear, playing devil’s advocate. I appreciate it. I do. I certainly wouldn’t want to make a fool of myself by divulging my intentions to a straight guy. And I know I’m excited about finally finding a prospect, but I really don’t think wishful thinking is clouding my judgment. I know what I saw. Smugly, I add a quick follow-up to my last message.
ME: So. Much. Eye contact.
BRICE: Damn, Muff. You may have stumbled across a sleeper. What happened next?
ME: He washed his hands and left.
BRICE: Well, hygiene is important.
Now he’s being obtuse. I usually enjoy his sense of humor, but at the moment, all it’s doing is frustrating me. I need confirmation.
ME: Well? What do you think?
BRICE: I don’t know, since I wasn’t there, but it could go either way, honestly.
I stare at the reply like it’s a failed college exam score. I think I expected to bask in an ‘I-told-you-so’ moment after all the times Brice teased me for going on about Pete’s Pride pot. How can he think Pete’s behavior today could go ‘either way’?
Chewing my lip, I nudge my food around with my fork. I suddenly feel heavier, although I’ve barely eaten a bite.
Pete can’t be straight. Not the way he meticulously and calmly washed his hands after our moment. If he was straight, he would have rushed out of there right after the cock-gawking to end all cock-gawking.
Brice is right about one thing, though. He wasn’t there. Maybe even for my lack of know all, I’m the only one who can make an accurate judgment about this predicament. I resisted my instincts for years, telling me I wasn’t straight or bisexual. Maybe it’s time I start listening to them.
Closing my eyes, I suck in a deep breath and clear my mind. Reliving those minutes in the restroom, all that undivided attention on my body, my instincts can only come to one conclusion. Pete Carver is attracted to men. Those parted lips, that labored breathing—they’re forever imprinted in my brain. He liked looking at me as much as I liked him looking. I’m embarrassed to admit that to myself, but I liked it. I shouldn’t be embarrassed to admit it, and that’s my problem. Maybe if I wasn’t so shy or ingrained by the fear of rejection from my family, I could have found the courage to say something.
“Are you having a stroke or meditating?” Randy drawls.
“Huh?” I glance up when no one answers him and find all eyes on me. “Sorry. I was…daydreaming.”
“Don’t be doing that crap at the office,” Dad warns. “I don’t want people thinking my kids are touched in the head.”
“No, of course not.”
God forbid anyone think John Fairway fathered a child that wasn’t physically or mentally perfect, according to his standards. If he knew where my thoughts were right now, I’d not be just demoted to the end of the table but right on out the door—or worse. How has Pete flown under his radar all these years? He’s been at Fairway Foods for like a decade.
