Follows a characteristic, predictable pattern of behavior.
Might as well replace it with the name Seth Grant.
Emma sucks in a long breath, and I jerk my hand back from her touch. Her catching me off guard is totally on me. Every relationship, every time, when it hits that two- to three-month mark, it’s like my girlfriends can’t escape fast enough.
I’m already exhausted at the thought of having to start over again with someone new.
“You really didn’t see this coming?”
I scoff before I can stop myself. “Well, you didn’t exactly keep me updated.”
“Are you kidding?” Her level tone makes the whole situation that much more messed up.
“Does it sound like I’m joking?”
She purses her lips, doing that thing where she waits for me to stop being unreasonable. And yeah, it’s probably a red flag that I know exactly what that look means.
The fight leaves me, and I sag in my chair. “What the hell is wrong with me?”
“Are you actually asking, or is that a rhetorical question?”
It was rhetorical because I’m not a masochist, but … ugh. Maybe I actually need to know. “My feelings are saying rhetorical, but the scientist in me is curious.”
“Feelings are your first problem.”
“What?”
“You’re needy, Seth.”
My chest gives a pathetic little throb. Emma and I might have only been together two months, but hearing that still hurts. Probably because it’s not the first time I’ve heard it.
Emma, Sarah, Gabby … Hell, even my best friend told me a year ago that he moved schools to get away from me. If that doesn’t build up your confidence, I don’t know what will.
Logically I know when they say needy, what they really mean is someone who texts every day and wants to spend a lot of time together, but every time I’ve heard it, it’s like they’re telling me I’m stalker levels of creepy and I should be put on a predator watch list somewhere. Oh God, am I that creepy? I can’t be … right? It’s not like I message to keep tabs on them or anything. I genuinely want to spend time with them.
“You wanted to know,” she reminds me.
“What exactly do you mean by needy?” Please don’t say creepy. Please don’t say creepy.
Emma looks at me like I’ve grown another eye. “I’m busy with a massive research project, and I swear it’s like every day I get a hundred text messages from you. You always want to hang out, or talk—”
“To my girlfriend? I’m a monster!”
“But when we’re together”—she drops her voice—“you rarely want to have sex.”
I swear my cheeks get so hot I might pass out. “Sex isn’t everything.”
“No, but it’s something. I mean, what guy doesn’t want to fuck?”
Shame builds hot in my stomach as she tells me what I’ve told myself a hundred times. I swallow past the lump in my throat and meet her eyes.
Emma’s expression softens. “Hey …” Urg. Sympathy. “Sorry, that was a bit far. I just don’t get it. I mean … are you sure you’re not gay?”
What! “What?”
“Well … your brother is bi, your best friend is gay, and a whole lot of your friends identify as LGBTQ in some way or another.”
“And?”
“And it’s a fact that queer people tend to gravitate toward each other even before they figure themselves out. It’s like built-in self-preservation mode. You make each other feel safe. I’m sure there are studies you can look up.”
“I’m. Not. Gay,” I manage to grit out between my teeth. I don’t know whether I’m more pissed off about that, or her calling me needy. Because while I don’t give a shit who’s gay, I’m sick of people assuming I am. Past girlfriends who I haven’t been sexually attracted to—like Emma—random people I meet, and even my parents have all made assumptions about my sexuality.
And it’s hard. It’s really hard to define who I am when there doesn’t seem to be one singular label that fits me.
I’ve been researching. A lot. I’ve been doing it ever since my brother came out to my parents, and instead of focusing their energy on Foster, they turned to me because they were under the impression I was the gay twin.
Just because I don’t sleep around and most of my girlfriends have been more like friends than lovers, that doesn’t mean I’m automatically attracted to guys.
Most times I don’t think I’m attracted to anyone.
But occasionally, like every now and then, I’ll meet someone and we’ll get along great. We’ll start as friends, and then eventually there’s a spark.
I have to work for the spark when it seems no one else does.
The empty feeling of brokenness sits heavily on my chest, and I lean forward in my seat, wanting to unleash the label I’ve been toying with in my head but still don’t know for sure if it’s accurate or not.
“I …” The words get stuck. “I think I’m demi.”