Page 55 of These Secret Years

“But there’s pressure,” I note.

“Sure, but only in my own head.”

“Why’s your head so mean?”

“Not mean,” he corrects me. “Demanding.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“And I assume you’ve always been like this?”

“As long as I can remember.”

“What do you think about people like me?” I ask.

He glances up and stares a moment. “People like you—in what way?”

“People who ask other people to take their algebra class for them?”

“That’s not really the first thing that springs to mind when I think about you.”

I tuck that into my back pocket to bring up later. “In general. The lazy part that refuses to learn algebra.”

“I mean, I get it doesn’t come easy to everyone. I don’t judge if that’s what you’re asking.”

“What would you judge someone for?” I ask.

“Being unkind, I guess. Being hateful.”

“What do you think about someone who takes advantage of another person for their own gain?” Or pleasure.

“Is that who you think you are?”

I answer with a lofty sarcasm. “I am but a possibility. And that’s one of them. But I’m not only talking about myself.” I’m thinking of Adrian and what he’s done to me. How twisted up and confused he’s made me about myself. About my body and my self-worth. About losing control of myself and trying to scrape it back by any means necessary.

Knight puts his fork down, wiping his mouth before dropping the paper towel on the plate. He served himself a plateful, and he’s barely eaten half. I’m no longer hungry either, and that’s probably due to the alcohol. It’s time to stop drinking. Switch to water.

“Do you judge me?” he asks.

“Why would I judge you?”

He sighs. “Can you just answer the question?”

I thought I had. “No, I don’t judge you. You’re great. You’re in a tough situation where you have to choose which life you want, and your options are all incredibly different. Whether I end up wanting to fuck men or women doesn’t change anything for me, and that’s the only thing I could even think to judge you for—whether or not you decide to be authentic in public, but what does that matter? What right does anyone have to know you and what you want or need?”

Knight stares at me, a shadow of shame on his face.

“They have no right whatsoever,” I tell him, answering my own question.

“It’s getting harder to lie,” he whispers.

“Why do you think that is?”

The way he looks at me now, with some probing energy and what I’m almost positive is lust or something like it—it makes me want him. And not in some casual, playful way where I warm his cock while he takes another unit quiz, which was the idea I had after one screwdriver, but in the way that involves the condoms and lube I brought with me because I was afraid this might happen.

That I would grow to like and want him more than I cared about the fact that I have a girlfriend, and while he’d cooked, practically purring from my touch and my nearness—I convinced myself he’d want this, too.