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Being in my car tonight is a little different. No ocean in view. City noises surround me as Philly twinkles in the early night. Honking. Shouting as people smoke outside bars and gather with friends. And my phone is a mess of texts from people I haven’t even spoken to in years.
Hey, man! Long time no chat, just saw the news! You’re really with Charlie’s bodyguard?
Congrats on the new beau! Is it true???
I had no clue you’re into guys. Good for you, dude.
Didn’t know you were gay. Why didn’t you tell me?
And then my little brother…
KUYA! Wtf?!? – Utoy
He’s tried to FaceTime and call fourteen times, and I already texted: I promise I’ll call. Just give me a sec. Love you.
With sticky milkshake coating my skin, my tank suctioning awkwardly to my chest, I shift tensely in the passenger seat and keep scrolling through social media. Who is Jack Highland? has been trending, along with #homerwrecker and #OslieSurvives
I replay a video on mute of my kiss with Oscar outside the cheesesteak restaurant. Our strong hands are on each other’s face, our builds fused together, our grip tightening in urgent yearning, and our lips beckon the other one closer—a powerful breath floods me.
That feeling is why I decided to catapult my life in the air with no idea where it’ll land. That feeling with him would be too devastating to lose.
He’s what I cling to as everything else spirals. My parents—God, my parents are calling me for the fifth time, and I let it ring out and text: I’ll call later. Everything’s okay.
My phone pings.
Is this a publicity stunt? – Dad
Ouch.
I rock back with a heavy breath.
“You alright?” Oscar asks, glancing at me for the umpteenth time. His clutch strengthens on the steering wheel. Like if I asked him to go anywhere, he’d whip the car and reroute in a millisecond.
“My dad just asked if the kiss was a publicity stunt.” I unsnap my seatbelt. Too uncomfortable, I pull the milkshake-soaked tank off my body. “I can’t fault him for going there—even though, I’d like to believe he’d think better of me. That I’m not the kind of person who’d pretend to be into dudes as a PR ploy. But he’s not in my head. We all have different perspectives.”
“My perspective isn’t as accommodating as yours, bro.” His glare blazes the road, then the rearview mirror. “That’s shitty of your dad to text you that. He could’ve led with anything else.”
“He’s not that bad,” I say, but I smile at how Oscar is defending me. Wadding up the dirtied tank, I throw the thing in the backseat where my longboard rests and reply to my dad.
I text: not a stunt. I’m dating Oscar. I’ll call you & mama later.
Oscar switches lanes. “I’ll try not to judge too harshly until I meet him.”
Meeting the parents. I buckle my seatbelt.
Will they like Oscar? He’s a Yale grad, but he’s a bodyguard. Predictably, my dad will ask me, what’s his goal in life? What is he striving towards?
I’m not sure “protecting a celebrity” is going to cut it.
My dad served in the Navy. He could’ve gone into a private security sector later on, but he chose a more lucrative career. High risk, high reward.
Oscar’s job is high risk, no reward. I respect that, but I can’t foresee whether they will.
Stressed out, I roll my linebacker-like shoulders, stretch my arms up and then extend one over Oscar’s headrest.
“Is your body sore?” Oscar asks, considering I’ve been hoisting heavy equipment.
“I’m stressed out, man,” I confess.
I catch myself off guard whenever I say man. I said “dude” a lot more when I lived in California, and it reminds me I’ve been in Philly since I was eighteen.
Fuck…almost ten years.
Where has time gone?
Chasing a dream. Searching for higher ground. That thought reminds me of a song, of music, and I almost fiddle with the radio.
Oscar’s concern is on me. “Meu raio de sol, let me give you some positive affirmations.”
What’d he call me in Portuguese? My lips rise and I look him over. “Isn’t positive affirmation-giving my job?”
“I don’t just dig for compliments, Long Beach. I know how to give them.”
I smile more. He’s boosted me up far higher than anyone ever has. “That’s true.” I keep my arm over the headrest.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
He catches my eyes for a beat. “Your phone might be on diarrhea-mode right now, but it’s fleeting. And this stressful moment in time will pass.”
I like that one.
Inhale. Exhale.
I breathe out and try not to look at my phone that’s definitely taking steaming piles of shit.
“How was that?” Oscar wonders.
“You’re a solid A+ in my book.”
“Appreciate the praise.” Oscar slides me a serious look. “But I really meant, how are you now?”
I nod a couple times. “Adjusting better.”
I’m dreading the moment where we arrive at my apartment. Not because I have to see Jesse, but because I’ll be saying goodbye to Oscar. He’s my central core of comfort right now, and to leave that behind sounds agonizing.
