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“You’re easy to talk to,” he muses, still stalling.
That’s not a compliment I’ve ever received before. “Why?”
He gestures vaguely with his chin. I’m expectingbecause you’re distant, because you clearly don’t give a shit, but instead he says, “You’re a very calming person.”
I’m saved from searching for a response when he finally explodes. “I’m scared I might be bi. Sexual,” he clarifies, like someone might assume he meant bilingual.
Picking up my book, I search for the page number I seem to have forgotten for the first time in my life. “Good job. Do you feel better now?”
“If you’re bi but you only ever sleep with girls, does that make you straight after all?” he rambles miserably. “And how are you supposed to find out if you like having sex with guys if there’s no way to try it out?”
I prod his thigh with the book. “Look at me.” When his eyes search out mine, I lower my voice. “Do I strike you as an expert on wanting to have sex with men?”
He seems to have adopted my approach to difficult questions, because he presses his lips together carefully.
“Here’s a free tip: don’t play games like this with strangers you know nothing about. It’s not safe, among a vast number of other reasons.”
The fragile courage in his eyes crumbles and he buries his face in his arms. I remember these feelings, being young and convinced that coming out will ruin everything you’ve ever loved. “I’m so fucking sorry. I just thought that if I found someone who knew what he was doing, who could show me what it’s like… That would make it stop.” Even the tips of his ears are red. “Look, can you just shut that little divider screen and forget I exist?”
Fuck it.
I’m in between homes, in between cases, in between lives. Nothing that happens here matters. I bite the inside of my cheek, watching him melt down. He picked a bad day to try this with me. Or the perfect day, if he really wants what he thinks he wants.
“It won’t make it stop.”
He peers up at me from behind his elbow, shame turning to curiosity, then sits up. “It definitely will.”
“You call me an expert and then you don’t listen to what I have to say?”
“You’re wrong, but I can pretend you’re right if you want. Just to make the rest of the flight less awkward.” One of his eyebrows quirks challengingly.
So he’s a stubborn, know-it-all little shit.
That makes two of us.
He’s all fight. I can see it in his face, every movement of his body. I haven’t had a good fight in a very long time.
“If you’re so sure, how about you get up and check out the forward lavatory?” I count down from three in my head, waiting for him to understand. When I get to one, his jaw drops.
“Oh. Oh, shit.” Questions fill his eyes, the fear that he has misunderstood me, and the bigger fear that he hasn’t. Leaving him to make his choice, I turn my attention to the in-flight map. After a couple of minutes, he unclips his seatbelt, pulls on his ball cap, and stands up, almost tripping on the strap of my bag.
I mentally apologize to John Adams and tuck him away for later. It’s going to take a lot of edifying quotes to make up for this fucking mess.
