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“Since Homecoming, at least,” Donte said. “Maybe earlier. The party…”
He watched me with sharp dark eyes. He was smarter than the other two boneheads, and I cursed myself for being so careless.
“Yep, Homecoming.” Chance said. “When our King ditched the Queen in front of the whole school. I still can’t get over that shit.”
Mikey nodded. “Epic.”
“For the last fucking time, nothing happened at Homecoming,” I said. “I just wasn’t up to it.”
It would’ve been easy to lie and say my mom hadn’t been feeling well, but I wasn’t going to be a complete scumbag and use her to cover my cowardice.
“You sure you’re not hiding some piece on the side?”
“Christ sake.” I grit my teeth. “There’s no one.”
My stomach felt as if I’d swallowed a stone. My friends’ insinuations were like buckets of cold water, reminding me of what was real life and what were only timeouts.
“Maybe you’ve got blue balls,” Mikey said in a serious tone. “It’s a real medical thing.” His smile turned oily. “That’s what I tell my dates, anyway.”
“And it works?” Chance asked.
“Hell, yes, it works,” Mikey said. “I tell’em all sorts of shit when they’re in my Jeep. I mean, if they’ve gone that far, they’re obviously ready to give up the goods. Most girls just need some incentive.”
Chance looked like he was mentally taking notes. I felt sick.
“You’re a fucking animal, Grimaldi,” Donte said.
Mikey looked to me. “You could’ve had that sweet Violet McNamara. Talk about a cherry ready to be—”
“Fuck off,” I said loudly, earning another death glare from the mom. I lowered my voice. “Don’t talk about Violet like that. She’s cool.”
“Then why’d you bail on her?” His eyes widened as a thought occurred to him. “You tap that ass and it was no good?”
“Dude,” Donte said with a short, embarrassed laugh.
“Or are you tapping her now?” Chance asked. “Is she the mystery chick?”
My skin heated and I struggled to keep my tone even. “There is no mystery. I’ve been concentrating on my college apps. Dad’s riding my ass about putting in for early acceptance.”
Chance snorted. “Like the Big Ten aren’t begging for you, Whitmore.”
“They are,” I said, slipping on my King of the World mask. “We want to see who begs hardest.”
Christ, I was sick of my own bullshit, but the others laughed. Mercifully, the conversation moved on to the playoffs and who was going to the Super Bowl that year while I picked at the remnants of my food.
I imagined the looks on my friends’ faces if I told them it was Holden Parish who was making me hard under the table. How they’d laugh at me. At him. How they’d think I was joking. And when they learned I wasn’t—how they’d been sharing a locker room with me for years—they’d pick me apart like a pack of dogs. We had gay kids on campus, of course, but football was an entirely different game and it was too late for me to suddenly change the rules.
It’s impossible.
My gaze swung out to the restaurant. It was packed, every table filled with moms, dads, kids. I tried to imagine my life ten years from now. Working with Dad at the shop, restoring cars and taking my own family to dinner here. I tried to imagine what that family looked like and couldn’t do it. No wife, but no husband either. Just a blank space.
Because that life will never happen.
Whatever scenario I envisioned, the result was the same. Like a math problem, there was only one answer, exact and unchanging.
Impossible.
“Who you going to ask?”
