Page 20 of Catching Kyle

Isniffmyarmpitone more time just to make sure it doesn’t stink. It’s not like I’m trying to impress Michael or anything, but the first time I saw him I had just gotten back from the gym. I want to put on a good impression. I shut my mirror cabinet in the bathroom just as the doorbell rings, and I get that light feeling in my stomach that I usually only get before a big game.

“It’s just Michael,” I say to myself as I make my way to the front door. “Or Peter Cummins, the super-hot pornstar.” I feel my face go flush, and I have to pause and take a deep breath.

It’s either this or go to the book club myself. Do I really want to go meet a bunch of women and get that dark feeling in my head again? No, this is much preferable. But I still don’t know how I’m gonna find a girl if I keep it up this way.

Enough thinking. I can’t keep Michael waiting.

By the time I reach the front door, I feel like I do just before kickoff. What the hell is wrong with me? It’s just Michael. I open the door and try to still my racing heart by putting on a neutral face. He’s wearing a well-fitting long-sleeved T-shirt with jeans that hug his legs quite well.

“Come on in,” I say, my accent stronger than usual. I’m trying to look at anything but him.

“Here,” he says, stepping inside. He hands me a book. “The novel for next week.” The cover has a black woman with an afro on it.

“Kennedy Ryan,” I say, reading the bottom of the cover.

“She’s a romance powerhouse,” Michael says. “Such good stuff. I’m excited to read her new book.”

Powerhouse.I scoff to myself. Since when is anyone in the romance genre a ‘powerhouse’?

“I’ve never said this before,” he says, stepping into my foyer. “But your house is gorgeous.”

My face reddens, and I scratch the back of my neck. I didn’t build the damn house, so why am I getting all flustered? “Thanks,” I say quickly.

We make our way into my living room.

“Uh, have a seat,” I say, gesturing awkwardly to my couch. “Can I get you something to drink? A beer or anything?”

“Oh, I don’t really drink,” he says, sitting down. “Only occasionally.” He holds himself tight, like he’s afraid he’ll spill himself all over my couch.

“Me neither,” I admit to my own surprise. There’s something about Michael that makes me want to be honest. Even though he hasn’t been honest with me in telling what hereallydoes for work. I just wish he felt more comfortable here. Unlike my dad, I don’t hate gay people. They’re people just like everyone else. I hope he doesn’t think I hold some secret prejudice or something. I’d like him to feel safe.

“You don’t?” He asks with a cocked eyebrow. He spreads himself out on the couch a little bit, but he stays inside his cushion. “Don’t you sponsor like three different beers?”

“Yeah,” I say, shrugging defensively. “Goes with my whole brand of being like a manly man or whatever.” I scratch an itch on my chest, then feel my back light up. Did Michael bring in a load of pollen in here with him? Why am I so goddamn itchy?

“Interesting,” he says, intrigued. “Water is fine.”

Interesting, I think to myself as walk to the kitchen to get us both some water. Was my answer not convincing enough for him? I could have sworn I saw him smirk when I said that. Does he not see me as a manly man?

When I get back to the living room, Michael isn’t in his spot. Instead, he’s standing by a nearby bookshelf, assessing its contents.

“That one has all fantasy classics,” I say, setting down our waters on the coffee table. “Published before 1980, that is.”

“Huh,” Michael says, as if he’s more amused than impressed. He sits back down and picks up his copy ofMontana Sky. “So what did you think of the book?”

I sit with my legs spread wide, melting back into the couch. The Southern hospitality in me is trying to convince Michael that he can relax here, that he doesn’t need to be wound so tight.

“It was good,” I say.

“Just good?” He asks.

I shrug. “It was—how do they say it?—cuuute,” I say, drawing out the syllable.

Michael chuckles, and my chest gets all warm.

“Just cute?” He asks, looking at me with a furrowed brow. He’s got a smile on, too, and I realize that there are few times when I’ve really seen him smile like that. I like it.

“I mean, yeah,” I say leaning forward. I realize I’ve been pulling on my beard for a good minute, which is something I only do when I’m thinking. Or nervous. “You get these women on a farm and then these cowboy type men come in and court them. All very predictable, but very cute as they would say.”