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“New Mexico?” he asks, standing directly in front of me.
It blocks others’ view of us, making the conversation both easier to hide, and a little more personal than I’d like.
“The clubhouse.”
He raises an eyebrow at my answer, that expressive part of him one of the things I would focus on when we were younger. I force myself to look away, eyes locked on his chest rather than his mouth. I know he hates me watching his lips, and maybe that’s exactly what I should be doing. It would guarantee that he’d end this interaction sooner.
“You don’t have to hide. Everyone knows you’re gay. If you think he’s hot, just go talk to him.”
I grind my molars. Leave it to a straight man to be ignorant to the many unspoken rules in the queer community.
I’m even more annoyed that he seems more concerned with my sexuality than anyone else, when years ago, before the night we never talk about, he was the one who supported me fully.
“What do you want?” I ask instead.
“I already told you. Just playing nice for everyone around.”
“You did, and now you can leave,” I mutter as I pull out my phone.
He stands around for a few long minutes, as I scroll through email and other innocuous apps, before giving me a quick nod and walking away. I grin a little with the irritated hitch in his steps as he joins Aro and Spade on the other side of the room.
I feel an unwarranted sense of pettiness as I open the gay hookup app on my phone. The man couldn’t care less about the men I see, so long as he doesn’t have to witness it himself.
I’m swiping left and right, wondering if a trip to Albuquerque later this week would be worth it when a notification from the app chimes.
My eyes immediately scan the room, the sound very distinct and specific to this one app, but no one seems the wiser… that is until I look over at Boomer. His eyes dart down to the phone in my hands before looking up at me. I give him a saucy little wink, and immediately feel like an asshole when he stands and suddenly leaves the room.
That poor fucker.
The day continues, filled with boredom, but I manage to mingle and chat with others, doing my part of living the fabricated persona of being Landon’s best friend. I’m certain we aren’t fooling anyone. We spend more time apart than together at these things, and there isn’t one damned fool in the room. I guess I should just be grateful that no one approaches, asking questions.
How do you tell someone you hate your former best friend because he isn’t gay?
And in the same breath argue that you don’t really hate him, that the distance you created years ago in an effort to heal a broken heart somehow morphed into contempt.
I growl under my breath, realizing that contempt is just a shiny word for hatred.
Hating Landon for not being gay is equivalent to someone hating me because I am.
Hello hypocrisy. Pull up a chair.
“Tonight?”
Turning and running away would probably be the best choice when I hear the flirtatious tone in Landon’s voice, but of course that would be too mature for little old me.
“We could get a room? I want to spend my time with you. It’s been almost a year.”
Without even having to ask, I know he’s talking to Keira Hargrove. She’s the one he always goes back to. I wouldn’t bat an eye if they ended up together in a forever kind of way. I have no clue what she has that keeps him coming back, but I’m also not in any position to ask. His relationship with the woman started after the distance grew between us, and even when we were hanging out in high school after that night for the sake of avoiding hard conversations with our parents, the topic of her was on the same list the kiss was on.
I force myself to walk away, leaning more toward the idea of searching that list of depression symptoms.
“This has gone on long enough. Don’t you think?”
“What’s that?” I ask Sophia.
Playing stupid is my only option right now.
“This fight with Landon,” she clarifies.
“There’s no fight.”
She narrows her eyes at me.
“What’s that look for?” I keep my phone in my hands, needing it for tactile purposes to keep from fidgeting under her scrutiny.
“I’m trying to decide whether you’re calling me a fool.”
“I’d never do that, Mom.”
Those pretty eyes of hers narrow even further. “Don’t give me that Mom bullshit.”
I force a playful quiver into my bottom lip.
“Don’t do that shit either.”
“Such language,” I hiss, eyes widening. “What would my father say?”
“He’d roll his eyes and tell me dirty language is meant for the bedroom.”
I cringe back, lips curling up in distaste. “I’m well aware you’re closer to my age than his, but he’s still my dad. Don’t say things like that to me.”
