“They’re your favorite too?” he asks, not knowing who it is yet.
“I know basically every lyric to every song, and they have over ten albums.”
“So that’s a fuck yes,” Oscar laughs. “Play it, Highland.”
I put on “Higher Ground” by Red Hot Chili Peppers, originally sung by Stevie Wonder, and I immediately start singing the lyrics and bobbing my head to the beat.
Oscar surprisingly joins me. He knows the chorus, and with an arm out the window, I tap my hand to the hood of the car.
We sing to each other, and I thought I had a good voice, one that melts like butter on a hot day. But Oscar sings the fuck out of this song. His voice is deeper and richer and smoother, belonging in the air like a current of wind.
And his hand slips back into mine. We coast and sing, and I let his affection and the melodies calm the outside noise that fights its way in.
Don’t let it in.
“Did I say or do something to where you thought you couldn’t tell me?” Jesse wonders, his face shadowed in the dark over FaceTime. I can barely tell he’s in bed, head on a pillow.
Oscar just left to pick up take-out and give me some time to call my family. So I cup my phone, sitting on a kitchen barstool with a towel around my waist. Thanks to a hot shower, I no longer smell like strawberries and cream.
“It wasn’t you; it was me, Jess,” I explain. “I’ve been confused, and I wasn’t ready to tell anyone until now.” Quickly, I add, “And before you ask, I’m still attracted to women. I feel like gender and sex aren’t really factors in who I’m romantically or sexually attracted to at all.”
“Okay, okay.” Jesse lets this sink in, his grin erupting. “I mean, as far as people go, you really landed an ace in the set. Oscar is sick. At least, from what I know while I’ve been on this project with you. He boxes, protects celebrities, speaks multiple languages, cracks funny jokes—ah wait, question.” Jesse sits up for this one, and I relax forward, happy my brother is cool with the news. “So are you giving or receiving, Kuya?”
My face feels hot. This is all so new. Including this question from my brother. “I’ll let you know when I’ve figured it out. Only if you don’t mind me asking you the same questions.”
Jesse smiles. “That’s totally fair. I have a more important question. The most important question.”
I stiffen. Don’t know where this one’s going.
“Does he surf?”
My lip quirks. “Not that I know of.”
“When are you going to teach him? We should go to the beach tomorrow. Jesus, Kuya, does he even know the difference between a paddleboard and a longboard?” He goes off on a tangent and I listen with a laugh. I only stop Jesse when he begins to plan a surfing trip to New Jersey tomorrow morning.
“Postpone that, wild child. We have jobs.”
He sighs. “Shit, the dreaded J.O.B.” He grows quieter, then asks, “So how long have you and Oscar been dating?”
Officially? Today. Though, I’ve been skirting around my feelings for years.
I end up telling him, “Not that long. It’s new.”
“I like new.” His encouragement means a lot, and I express that, then tell him he has the apartment to himself tonight. Now he’s really amped on me dating Oscar because he has more room.
“No parties,” I decree.
“Who would I invite, Kuya? My only friends in Philly are my surfboard and laptop.”
“I thought you exchanged numbers with Winona after the Fun Run?”
“I thought so too, but she gave me the number to some Wildlife Conservation fund.” He lies back down, not expressing much defeat in that rejection.
We talk more about shoots for the Born into Fame docuseries before we say our goodbyes. “Talk later, Kuya,” he says before the screen goes black.
Now for the harder call.
I phone my dad, and FaceTime pops up. Bottles of red wine in wooden slots fill the screen. My parent’s wine cellar. “Dad, flip to front-facing camera.”
“Dammit, sorry.” He swears casually often. Once the camera flips, I’m staring at a sun-tanned face that could grace classic western movies. But he can’t act for shit. He warned me too, and still, I asked him for help on an amateur film project about skateboarding.
He sounded like a robot.
And he almost broke his ass on cement after trying to ollie.
I love him a lot.
“I was just grabbing a 1934 Merlot.” Creases line his forehead. Only a few grays in his brown hair—he was young when I was born. “So…? You’re okay with the press? You’re safe there?”
I nod. “Yeah. Is Mama around too?” I’d rather talk to them both at the same time.
“She went to bed, but I’ll let her know what’s going on. She’s very proud, you know. She wants to meet him.” He inspects the label of the Merlot.