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When I realize how wide I’m grinning, I suck my bottom lip into my mouth to rein myself in.

Soon, Tommy reaches his hand under my waistband to knead my soft dick back to a half-chub. “Who did you go to dinner with?”

“No one. It doesn’t matter.”

Tommy goes silent, his hand stilling on my cock. The jealousy radiates off him stronger than his pheromones.

I sigh, dick going limp again. Even though it feels like a lie, I say, “My family.”

“Your parents?”

“Sorta kinda.” I don’t want to lie, but it’s hard not to when the truth is so muddy and depressing. To make up for it, I tell Tommy something I know is true. “I missed you.”

“Really?” He smiles down at me. “I missed you too.”

“I could tell how much you missed me from that pic you sent.”

Tommy chuckles. “It’s kinda weird, huh? Hooking up when we’re both clean and not drenched in sweat…”

“I wasn’t gonna let your first time sucking my dick be when I smell like ass.”

His laughs harder. “Oh, no. Do I smell like ass when you go down on me?”

“Nah. You always smell baby fresh.”

“Weird-o.”

I smirk up at him, and I swear he’s blushing. I probably am a weird-o. It would only make sense, but being a weird-o is better than being a deviant, right? So long as Tommy’s okay with the way I am, I can be okay with it too. Maybe.

15

Tommy

Ma texts me halfway through my shift at the deli to bring home a package of thin-sliced turkey for Mav’s lunches and a pound of ground beef for dinner tonight. She says Erica is planning on fixing her signature taco salad. She’s been feeling better lately, slowly but surely, and now she’s well enough to cook.

With soccer season right around the corner and things with Rowan as confusing as ever, the fact that Erica’s chemo is finally working has me thinking life is about to take a lucky turn. Not only will I get my sister back in full force, but I’ll power my way onto first string, and I’ll somehow convince Rowan to quit keeping me at arm’s length. Sometimes I wonder if the two are connected, like Rowan’s trust will come as a reward when I accomplish what all we’ve been working toward since April.

I still don’t know for sure if Rowan is gay or not, or what he wants from me in the long run. Still don’t even know where he lives or the names of his roommates. I don’t know the names of his parents either, or how his relationship is with them. It took until a week ago to figure out what his major is. Communications, ironically. Says it’s for when he goes pro and has to sell himself as a charming, picture-perfect sports diplomat.

“Yo, Mike!” I call to my boss as I sift through the freshly packaged pats of beef. “We got anything leaner in the back?!”

Normally I wouldn’t care, but when I’m not getting burgers and milkshakes with Rowan, I’ve been trying to eat lean.

Coming out the back office, my stocky, grey-haired boss grunts toward the overflow fridge and says he just stuck some 90% lean in there.

While I’m looking through, the doorbell chimes behind me, and Mike asks whoever it is the usual, “What can I do ya for?”

That’s as much as I hear before my mind fills with my inner voice, mulling over the look of each packaged pound of beef. I’m not picky, just indecisive. Maybe that’s why I haven’t pressed Rowan too much for commitment. I’m not sure I want commitment either.

What would that even look like? Rowan…my boyfriend? The thought gives me giddy goosebumps all over my body, but it also churns an anxious sickness in my gut, becauseboyfriendsis as real as it gets.Boyfriendsisn’t simply out of the shadows and having sex somewhere other than our cars and the gym showers. It’s a promise.

The next time I’m a boyfriend, it won’t be like when I was Lese’s boyfriend. The next time I tell someone I’m in it, I’m going to be fuckingin it. Can I be in it with Rowan? Better question…can Rowan be in it with me?

“Can I see some ID?” Mike asks the customer as I finally settle on the best looking beef. I move on to the sandwich meat display.

“Uh, okay.” The customer sounds confused. I glance over my shoulder and see they aren’t buying any alcohol. Just a couple pounds of something wrapped in paper.

When I come back around the counter to ring myself up on the open register, the customer is passing Mike her ID.Or…his? A brief glance at the customer doesn’t tell me one way or the other what their gender is, and it’s no skin off my back either way. I’ve always hated usingma’amandsiranyway. I only do it when I think I have to, but I’m more than happy to leave gendered monikers by the wayside.