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He still won’t look at me. “Do what without me?”
“Be brave. Be confident. Be sure of myself. There is something about your unique brand of fearlessness that resonates inside of me. It was scary, yes, maybe a little bit unnerving, the idea that anything is possible … but that’s what I feel when we’re together. I’m strong.”
West glowers as he stares at the wall. “Go on.”
I lift an eyebrow. “What?”
“Keep flattering me. Spill compliments all over me. It’s giving me a boner.”
I roll my eyes. “West. I’m being serious. You make me see the other side of life I’ve been … too afraid of. I need you. I need … us.”
He keeps staring off. So I reach out and take his hand—and that grabs not only his attention, but also his gaze, which is now fixed upon our hands with surprise.
But he doesn’t pull away. He just stares, breathless.
Well, of course he’s breathless. The dude’s dead. “I am taking Byron out to dinner, then coming back here to hang out.” I sigh. “Let’s do the thing again, our stupid séance-thing. Just one last time. Please. Help me.”
“Fine. I’ll do it.” He eyes me. “On one condition.”
11
Another First Chance
Byron and I stand in front of Papa Peppies Pizzeria.
Yeah. That was the compromise.
I’m fucking famished.
Great. So glad. Eat your heart out, West.
I turn to Byron. “Are you sure this is okay? I was just thinking maybe we could use a more relaxed—”
“It’s perfect!” Byron eyes me. “I was actually kinda afraid you’d take me to some stuffy restaurant. I wasn’t going to object or anything, but … I’m really glad you picked somewhere more lively and relaxed. I could use some kick-back time lately, to be honest.”
I stare at Byron, stunned. “Really?”
“Yeah, really! You ready to go in?”
See, Griff? I know guys. And you’re welcome.
I smile. “Yeah, I’m ready. And fucking famished.”
Good boy.
The dinner couldn’t go more perfectly. West keeps his agreement and manages my fear and anxiety—as he vicariously (and kind of also literally) enjoys every bite of pizza I consume. Meanwhile, I’m left at the wheel to be completely myself with Byron.
And that turns out to be enough. I crack Byron up with my dorky jokes. Byron has a hundred things to say about costume design, stitching, and crazy stuff that happened to him at last year’s Comic-Con, including when he was mistaken for one of the Avengers. Somehow, I just know that this night is exactly how it’s supposed to be, that there’s nothing about myself I need to hide or be ashamed of, and that Byron—in many cute and endearing ways—is actually just as nervous as I am.
Though his shirt might be considerably tighter than mine. And his jeans, which fit exquisitely to his tight ass and toned thighs, are something else. Not to mention his bad-ass high-tops he’s got on, which make him look like a superhero of style.
Every time Byron laughs, it’s like music.
When he gazes into my eyes as I tell a story, I feel as if the whole world stops.
I know West feels it, too. It is a special feeling that is universal, when you look into the eyes of someone who makes your heart race, and you can see in their eyes that your adoration is reciprocated. It is a feeling that transcends gender and identity. And as I feel it take hold of my gut, this happy feeling, I know West can feel it just as strongly, as if it was Nina sitting here sharing pizza with me instead of Byron.
Nina … You remembered her name.
Yeah, well, I pay attention now and then.
This pizza is the bomb, bro.
I know.
When we leave Papa Peppies Pizzeria, I make the rather bold decision to take hold of Byron’s hand. The tiny act surprises him, but then his face reddens happily, he smiles, and there the two of us go: walking down the street holding hands and making our leisurely way back to my place on 13th Street.
“So many decorations are still up,” Byron notes.
I smile. “Like Halloween never ended.”
“Sometimes the seasons sort of bleed together. Not sure if it’s the area or the people, but everyone seems to really be into supernatural stuff around this part of town. Like, really into it.” He points at a building across the street. “See? That’s the fourth psychic we’ve passed.”
“I’ve never had my palm read. I wonder what they would say about me.”
Byron turns my hand over and inspects it with faux criticality. “Hmm. You have a nice, long life line …”
“Oh, you’re a professional palm reader now?”
“Yep, yep. Don’t interrupt greatness. A’hem.” He adopts a deep and dramatic voice. I try not to laugh. “I see that your sexiness line is very creviced and long.”
“That’s a thing?”
“It is now.” He runs a finger down the center of my palm, then meets my eyes. “Not sure what to make of your love line,” he murmurs, dropping the funny voice.
