I was in awe of him in some ways. There were out guys all over Atlanta, and the country, and in every profession, but I’d never personally known anyone who was out, not that I really knew Weston. Only, it felt like I did.
Other feelings simmered beneath the surface too, things I wanted to hide or deny, that I wished weren’t true. I was jealous, so fucking jealous that he got to live his life, that he got to live his dream and his truth. I was envious of the other men too because I wanted him. There was no denying it. I almost hated him for it.
Over the next week, I spent way too much time reading about him. He’d gone to Stanford, graduated at the top of his class, and had then gone on to law school. Weston was smart, like my brother. He was the youngest senator in the country, though there had been younger in the past. It was embarrassing, but I’d never paid as much attention to politics as I should. I learned senators served six-year terms, and this was Weston’s first term. He had about two and a half years to go. That was a long time. Not that it had jack shit to do with me.
It had been almost a week, and we hadn’t texted or video chatted again. I’d almost sent a few messages but didn’t know what the fuck I would even say. I figured he would message, but he hadn’t, and yeah, I didn’t like that at all. I wanted him to reach out, the fucker.
The team was in Florida, and we’d won our third game of the season. The locker room was loud, our coach having just finished congratulating us on the game. I reached into the locker I’d been assigned and went straight for my phone. Mom and Elias always messaged me after a game. They would have gone to church together that morning, then watched it. Their texts were there, but I skipped them when I saw Stalker—the name I’d given Weston in my phone—among the messages. I held the phone close while I opened the message, as if he would send me something that gave me away. No one would know Stalker was a man if they saw the message, but that didn’t calm my nerves.
Stalker: Good game.
Me: I thought you didn’t watch sports?
Stalker: Eh, usually I only watch if Jeremy forces me, but I heard Atlanta had a cute tight end. Also, holy shit, those fucking football pants.
I pressed the phone against my chest, eyes scanning the locker room, heart in my throat. Of course, no one was paying attention to me. I was losing my shit for nothing.
Stalker: I’m sorry. Flirting is natural for me.
My fingers lingered over the screen for a moment before I realized I was being an idiot. If this was Darren or anyone else, I’d talk shit, so I replied similarly.
Me: You heard wrong. I’m fucking gorgeous.
Stalker: I won’t argue with you there.
“What the fuck, man? You’re smiling at your goddamned phone like it’s a Super Bowl ring or some shit. Who are you talking to?” Darren asked.
I fumbled my cell and nearly dropped it, my face hot. “Your mama,” I replied like I was twelve.
“She always did like you.” Darren shrugged, and I laughed as I powered my phone all the way off and put it back in my locker.
“You’re gross.”
“You’re the one who said it,” Darren countered.
“You weren’t supposed to go along with it.”
We showered and got dressed. From there the team went straight to the airport. We were flying back to Georgia the same day since it wasn’t a long flight. I turned my phone on, replied to Mom and Elias, but skipped sending another message to Weston. Not only did I want to avoid getting caught texting him, but I once again had no idea what to say. I’d flirted with people—women—before. I’d had to, so I could keep the charade going, but I’d never meant it. Flirting had never been real, and now that it was, I wasn’t sure what to think.
Flirting with Weston was dangerous.
I wasn’t a fool. I knew Weston didn’t believe I was straight, but we could pretend. I could pretend.
It was late when I got home, when I crawled into bed and finally let myself look at Weston’s message. He’d sent another.
Stalker: Will you be alone tonight? If so, we should video chat again.
I should say no. There wasn’t a part of me that didn’t know I should, but the truth was, I didn’t fucking want to.
I grabbed my earbuds from the nightstand. If Elias came into my room—not that he had any reason to—I didn’t want him to hear Weston speaking. I popped my headphones in, then replied: Yeah. I’m home now…and alone.