Page 28

Nate

Marcos seems to only run hot or cold, there is no in-between.

Some days it feels like he’s trying to ghost me, while others—like today—he acts like we’re dating.

It’s not usually my style, but I’m starting to think we need to have an actual discussion about what the fuck we are doing.

Every time we’re together, I become more and more certain that I want this.

I want to see where things go with him, and I want him to be just as invested as I am.

Either that, or he needs to tell me to fuck off.

“So,” I start, the moment we click our seat belts into place. I turn to him, trying to face him as much as the vehicle will allow.

“So,” he echoes, glancing up in his rearview mirror before putting a hand on the back of my seat and reversing the car out of the parking space. I become temporarily distracted by what this does to his bicep.

“Uhm—oh, right, so I was wondering what we are doing. ”

“Going back to my place.”

“No, not right now. Like…more broad. What are we doing? Are we…together?”

He glances over at me, but it’s so quick I barely catch a glimpse of brown before his eyes are back on the road. His fingers wrapped around the steering wheel are just as distracting as his bicep was. He’s got pretty hands—long-fingered and slim, with smooth brown skin unbroken by scars.

He doesn’t respond right away, clearly thinking through what he wants to say. It doesn’t make me feel great about my chances of getting an answer I want.

“I wouldn’t mind hearing what you have to say about it,” he says quietly. I can’t help but laugh.

“I want you!” Have I not been fucking obvious about that?

“Really, though? Like…you want to date a guy?” Marcos takes a hand off the wheel to wave it around, a frown tugging the side of his mouth I can see downward. “In public?”

“Why does everyone assume I’m going to be pissed off about people thinking I’m gay?” I ask, annoyed. “Micky, too. Of course I want to date you in public , Jesus.”

“I wasn’t…” A pause. “Sorry. You’re right.”

“I like what we’ve been doing—hooking up and texting; occasionally hanging out. Usually, that’s all I want. But, Marcos, I really fucking like you. I don’t know how it happened or why, but it did and I don’t want to play this off as just a fling.”

“Okay. Yeah,” he agrees, although he sounds like he’s trying to hype himself up.

He takes a deep inhale, chest inflating dramatically.

“But you have to think about how it’s going to be when you’re dating a man.

You’re going to constantly have to explain your sexuality to people, particularly since you’ve only dated women in the past. And what about your family? ”

I frown, because while I’ve had plenty of thoughts about wanting to lock Marcos down, none of those thoughts have included others. I shouldn’t have to explain why I’m with someone, no matter what gender they are. Nobody should have to do that.

“I’ll tell my family,” I promise, because I will. My personality isn’t one that thrives in hiding.

“And there’s also the problem with…me.”

“There aren’t any problems with you,” I retort, offended. He breathes a soft laugh, but his face remains stony and closed off.

“There is though, Nate. I wasn’t kidding when I told you last year that I don’t like being touched a lot. That hasn’t changed.”

“Okay. You might have to explain that to me a little bit more,” I admit.

I don’t understand it at all. I’m a tactile guy—I touch, hug, and generally just run my hands all over my friends.

Hell, I’ve been known to kiss them on the cheek.

Not liking being touched is an incredibly foreign concept to me. I thrive off of being touched.

“I wish I could,” he mutters testily, rolling his shoulders like he’s trying to shake off the discomfort.

“Can you try?” I request softly, and watch as his grip on the steering wheel tightens before loosening once more. He nods.

“It’s not… I’ve never been a big hugger or anything. It wasn’t a huge thing, although I was definitely a kid who liked their personal space. But these past couple years have been really fucking hard, and things got out of control and…”

He stops talking for a few seconds, and it’s painfully obvious that he’s trying to tell me something without actually telling me. He tries again.

“My doctor says it’s stress and anxiety and…

and PTSD. I just have a really hard time with skin-on-skin contact.

I can’t even think about it sometimes without getting fucking dizzy.

It’s…it’s ridiculous. And it’s not exactly a comfortable thing to deal with when trying to start a relationship.

It’s a lot for me, and it would be a lot for you. ”

Frowning, I look down at my legs and pick at a loose thread on my jeans. I have to choke down the desire to ask him why . He’s telling me what he can, right now, and it’s not my place to push for more.

“That sounds like hell,” I tell him honestly. I feel bad, thinking of all the times he’s held my hand or kissed me, and now knowing how stressed out he probably was about it.

“No, it’s—I mean, yeah, it sucks. But it could be worse. It could be a lot worse,” he mutters, once more talking about something I’m not privy to. “So, yeah. You’d do better to find someone less fucked up than me.”

He punctuates this sentence by putting the car in park and unclicking his seat belt.

I look around, surprised that we’re already at his place.

Before he can leave the car, I reach for him and put a hand on his leg to keep him in place.

This I hope is a safe space to touch after what he’s just told me, as I’m not making direct contact with his skin.

“Marcos.” He looks at me, mouth firm and expression stony.

“Touching people is something I do without thinking, which means I’m going to mess up.

I’m probably going to make you uncomfortable sometimes, which is the last thing I want to do.

But I’m going to do my best to follow your lead, and only touch you when you ask for it, okay? ”

He shakes his head mutely, jaw tight .

“It’s not fair to you,” he mumbles.

“You let me worry about what is or isn’t fair for me,” I counter. He turns to face me more fully, determination blazing in his eyes.

“It’s really that easy for you?” he demands. “Telling people you’re dating a guy? Having the sort of relationship with someone who might need to be fully clothed before he’ll fucking spoon you? I don’t know that I’ll ever get better, Nate. What if I’m like this forever ?”

Unconsciously, I circle my thumb on his leg. This conversation is in no way going the way I’d planned.

“I hope you are like this forever. I like you this way,” I reply with quiet conviction.

“Nate,” he says, exasperated.

“I feel like I’ve been pretty clear about what I want. You’ve done your due diligence, so now I have all the information, and guess what? I still want you. I still like you.”

Marcos turns to stare sightlessly out the windshield, so I bite my tongue and hold back from saying more.

After a few minutes of silence, he drops his hand down to rest on top of mine and I know I’ve won.

I’m not prone to low moods, so this bit of contact alone is enough to put a smile back on my face. Marcos glances over.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay?” I repeat. He nods. “Good, because I was starting to feel like a stalker. This is my first experience with fixation, and I wasn’t expecting it to feel quite so creepy.”

Snorting, he pushes open his door and slides out of the car. When I follow and meet him on the other side, we walk shoulder to shoulder up to his door.

“You were being pretty creepy,” he admits.

“Well, you did this to me.” Following him inside, I put my shoes by the door and head toward his bedroom. He laughs softly behind me, a short, happy sound, as though he likes that I remember which room is his. As if I could ever forget where his bedroom is located.

“I need to shower,” he tells me, trailing me into his room and pulling off his socks. His room is in the same sort of partial disarray that it was last time, straddling the line between messy and clean. The accounting homework is gone from his desk.

“Okay. Want me to join you?” I ask, mostly kidding but also a little bit serious. He shakes his head immediately.

“No. I’ll be quick, though.”

Not letting myself feel disappointed by that, I take a seat on his bed. “I’ll wait here.”

Humming a little to myself, I pull out my phone when I hear the shower turn on.

There’s a text from Micky, which reminds me that I haven’t checked in with him today.

He’s so alone here, I always try and reach out to him as often as possible.

I’d feel like absolute shit if I found out he was lonely or unhappy, and I could have done something about it.

Micky

Hey Nate, how was the baseball game?

Nate

It was fun! You’ve got to come with me sometime. You could meet Marcos!!

My boyfriend.

Micky

Ah I see congratulations are in order.

Nate

The secret to getting a man to go out with you is low level stalking.

Micky

Incidentally, that is also the secret to getting a felony.

Nate

Ha!

I’m at his place right now.

I’m pretty happy.

Micky

I’m glad. You’re the best so you deserve only the best in return.

Nate

Aw Mick. You get that from a romance novel?

How red is your face right now?

Micky

It’s easy to say that over text. I think I’d die if I said that to someone’s face though.

The shower shuts off, and I glance up at Marcos’ bathroom door. He left it cracked open to let out the steam, so I can see a sliver of white towel and brown skin. Trying not to creep, I stare resolutely at my phone and send another message to Micky.

Nate

I’ve got to go, Micky Mouse. My boy is out of the shower.

Micky

You’re not freaking out at all, are you?

Nate

Very minor freakout before.

Solid now.

What’s there to worry about when you’ve got a sexy baseball player as your boyfriend, am I right?

Micky