Oh. Oh, fuck. Me. “Thanks,” I said cheerfully, even though I was ready to scream and punch a wall. I probably wouldn’t have, because I was a wuss when it came to pain, but I was thinking about it. “That’s so nice to hear.”
He faltered slightly. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yes,” I said as evenly as possible. “And I swear to god, if you ask me that one more time, I’m going to call Coldplay and tell them you hate them.”
His gaze narrowed. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Watch me, Olsen.”
He shook his head. “Trouble. I should have known you were going to be trouble.” He pulled himself away from the door frame. “Finish up in here and then come out front with us. Marina wants to have a meeting and talk about Pride Month and what it means for all of us.”
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll be right out.”
He nodded. He looked like he was going to say something else, but then he smiled and left me standing there, staring after him.
(And no, I wasn’t watching his ass.)
(Much.)
Chapter 7: Cheesy Tots and Accidental Double Dates
IT WAS a Saturday toward the end of June when I realized, much to my dismay, that I was completely and utterly lame.
I didn’t quite understand what was going on at first. There I was, sitting in my bedroom, fucking around on my computer. It was early afternoon, and I was trying to update this stupid community website I’d been part of for a few years now. It was a Wiki site and had started out as something of a lark, but I had stuck with it for some reason.
Some of my articles had gotten quite a few comments from someone called TiberiusIsMysterious. He alternated between saying how ridiculously pointless the entire article (
and the website in general) was and randomly saying thank you for helping him learn how to be normal, even though he was going to ignore everything he learned and that I should be ashamed for putting such drivel on the internet.
“What the fuck,” I muttered to myself. “Pick a point. Christ, you sound exhausting.”
The house was quiet. Sandy was out with Darren, going, as he put it, antiquing. Since I doubted Sandy or Darren owned anything made before 2010, I assumed that meant that Sandy was riding Darren’s face in an alley somewhere. Later, they were supposed to go see a movie Sandy’s cousin was in, some weird art-house thing about a human sunflower making out with gay humanoid lions. They had invited me along, but that sounded terrible, so I declined.
I’d texted Paul to see if he and Vince wanted to go get lunch, but had gotten a response saying that Vince was forcing him to go to a biker convention. When I’d called him immediately to ask what in the holy hell he was talking about, Paul morosely told me that biker meant bicycle, and that everyone there would be healthy and talking about how gluten is the devil. “Do you know how many things have gluten?” Paul demanded. “So many delicious things!”
Ty hadn’t responded to my text. I assumed because he was busy being overdramatic about Bear and Otter having babies.
Nana did respond, but only to tell me that she was busy. When I asked what she was doing, she said that if she told me, she’d have to kill me.
I believed her.
It was about this time that I realized I had just texted Paul’s grandmother to see if she wanted to hang out, and that I was irrevocably lame.
“Why don’t I have more friends?” I muttered, scrolling through my contact list. That answer came easy: it was because most people were dumb and didn’t appreciate my finer qualities.
I came across Jeremy’s name, hesitated, but then continued on.
Nothing. No one.
I was so alone.
Naturally, as a young queer does when they’re bored, I opened Grindr to see if getting laid was an option.
That was a mistake.
The first profile I came across was one I recognized. Brian, he of the one-night stand with Sandy and consumer of more bacon than should have been humanly possible. I’d seen him around every now and then at Jack It, looking no worse for wear after he’d been auctioned off to the Dairy Queens, an actual biker gang in Tucson. I’d heard rumors he’d been part of a very wet and exuberant gang bang, but it looked like he was once again on the prowl. I didn’t have much to do with the Dairy Queens. They were part of Tucson’s leather community and spent most of their time at the queer leather bar, the aptly (and horrifyingly) named Build-a-Bear Sweat Shop. I’d never been inside, but Charlie said it wasn’t as bad as it sounded. That wasn’t the ringing endorsement he thought it was.
I swiped over Brian’s profile (which proclaimed him to be DOWN WITH MOST THINGS) to the next. The second profile was another frat boy taking a selfie in front of a mirror in a messy bedroom with his U of A cap on backward. And that was all he was wearing. Thankfully, he was covering his junk with his free hand. Either he had tiny junk or big hands.