Page 34 of 10 Signs You Need to Grovel

“We can play charades,” E says and sips his wine. “Try to guess what help you need.”

“I’m on Ricky’s team,” Delilah says quickly.

“Excuse me?” E does a crap job of looking indignant. His eyes are all moony for Delilah.

She pats his stomach. “You suck at charades, babe.”

“I’m excellent at charades. Aren’t I?” He looks to Ricky and Aaron for validation. The two men alternate between studying their nails and the walls.

“Traitors,” E mutters.

I rub my sternum, overwhelmed by the good-natured teasing. Sadie and I used to have nights like this, getting together with friends, separating during the night, always seeking each other out with flirty looks and private smiles. My football buddy Kyle Jackson and I joked around like E and Ricky. Once college started, I drifted from him and my high school friends. Met new people. Had fun with them. Drank beers together. Watched sports. Good times, most of them. But in the aftermath of WITSEC, I didn’t miss any of my crew all that much. I was either too self-absorbed to form deeper connections or, more likely, too happy with Sadie, investing my emotional energy in her.

As I watch E, I’m so damn proud of what my brother has rebuilt for himself. Taking life by the horns, not giving up when things got hard. Six years younger and a hell of a lot stronger.

Guess I better start learning from him.

“I need help,” I repeat, zeroing in on Ricky and Aaron. Who better to help me find a sense of style and purpose under all this hair than two gay men? They make shows about this stuff. I remove my hat, place it on the counter, and say, “I need a makeover.”

No one moves. Delilah bites her lip. E barely covers a muffled snort.

Ricky and Aaron exchange an is-this-really-happening look.

“Just to be clear,” Ricky says, “you think because we’re gay, we can go all Queer Eye for the Straight Guy on you and transform you into a dashing prince?”

“Maybe?” I hedge, but I already know how idiotic I sound. On top of losing my sense of style, I’ve become a moron who latches on to the stereotypes of a TV show out of desperation.

E’s full on laughing now. Delilah’s muttering at him to stop. Ricky rubs his face and shakes his head.

Aaron gestures at his own styled hair and striped shirt. “I mean, I understand why you’d ask me. I do give good style. But him?” He plucks at Ricky’s threadbare T-shirt. It’s way nicer than mine. “This man only goes shopping when I secretly toss his ripped, ten-year-old clothes.”

“Actually.” Ricky perks up on his seat. “Don’t let my outfit fool you. I am excellent at styling and makeovers. It’s my favorite pastime. Someone pass me scissors and a razor.” He claps his hands and rubs them together a tad too eagerly.

“Yep.” E presses his lips flat, but there’s no hiding the twitching. “He really is quite good.”

Delilah doesn’t add her two cents to their jabs, but her face looks ready to burst from suppressed laughter.

“He’ll make you the belle of the ball,” Aaron says.

Unable to maintain character, he coughs, then cracks up, covering his face as he loses it. The rest follow, snickering and making half-choked sounds.

I cross my arms. “Look. I get it. I’m sorry. All gay men obviously aren’t into style and makeovers and grooming.” Candy Cane whines. “Not dog grooming. I mean people grooming. Or both.” Jesus. I’m talking myself into a sinkhole. “No clue why I said any of that. I’m just nervous and really need some help.”

Ricky approaches me and places his hand on my shoulder. “You said that because media often feeds stereotypes compartmentalizing gay men as flamboyant, style obsessed, and over-the-top outgoing. Your job as a human is to educate yourself and understand that just like straight men, who stretch the gamut from quiet to loud to confident to insecure to stylish to this”—he points at himself—“we’re not defined by our sexuality.” He gives me a light punch and resumes his seat.

I hang my head, properly chastised. “Dude, I’m really sorry.”

“Already moved on,” he says affably. “While I don’t suggest you let me near your hair, I do have some beard oil that’s great if you plan on keeping the face fuzz.”

“Should I?” I ask tentatively, touching my beard, unsure when I became this guy. An insecure, bumbling idiot.

Delilah shakes her head. “I say off with the beard. Your jaw’s too good to hide it.”

“It is a good jawline,” Ricky agrees.

“Yeah, okay. A shave.” I grab the mess that is my hair. “What about this?”

“Oh, I know.” E studies me with an impish gleam. “I vote for one of those hipster Viking cuts with shaved sections and braided parts. Then you can get your scalp tattooed.”