Wrangled

Chad Landry is gay.

And no one in that room knows except me.

Somehow, staring into his eyes feels different now than it did before. Vastly different. Maybe, despite everything that happened between us, it actually wouldn’t be so hard to open up to Chad.

Maybe the ladies were right. This isn’t the same guy I knew.

“Ten years is a long time,” I point out while nodding slowly, “to hang on to a secret like that.”

Chad nods wordlessly, his lips pressed together.

After a moment, I lean against the lockers, feeling their cold metal against my back. “And a person—any person—really changes a lot in ten years.”

“A lot,” he croaks.

“I’ve changed, too.” I cross my arms and stare at the other lockers across the hall from me. “The truth is, Chad … this whole world is full of bullies. Sometimes, the worst ones are among us.”

He furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”

“When I finally had my first day at fashion school, it was the best and worst day of my life. I was surrounded by gay people. Bi people. Queer people. Trans people. My people.” I sigh with delight as I relive that day. “I remember standing in my shoebox dorm with the pitiful bag of crap I dragged there from Spruce next to my feet, and I thought: Now my life can really begin. I’m home. I’m going to be something here.” My eyes cast to the ground. “Then reality set in that same night, and when I met my fashion school peers, I learned how very, very ugly and competitive and vicious the world is. I learned that even gays can be bullies … to each other.”

His hand slips from the wall and ends up on my shoulder. A soft kneading begins.

Despite the kind intention, his hand does nothing to soothe me. Instead, I feel my whole body stiffen, every muscle, from my back to my arms to my shoulders to my neck.

And maybe a tiny bit of my cock.

“I’m sorry, man,” he grunts—all gruff and deep and kind.

I keep my eyes on the tiled floor where the memory is. “Don’t know why I’m telling you all this. Maybe I just need to hear it out loud. Maybe sometimes I’ve been the bully,” I say, thinking of Billy and the way I’ve treated him. “I look at how nice and welcoming and open everyone seems to be here in Spruce now … and I have to wonder, ten years ago, was it really everyone in this town who made me feel like the outcast? … or was it that I pushed everyone away and made myself the outcast?”

“Don’t start beatin’ yourself up.” His big, assertive hand gives my shoulder a deep-tissue squeeze. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be hatin’ on myself here.”

“Yeah, well … maybe I’m trying to take a little bit of my own responsibility in this situation. I mean, there are real bullies in the world. There are evil people who will do anything just to tear down someone else and watch them cry—and take pleasure in it. Most of the bullies out there, they aren’t the ones you find in the hallways of high schools. They’re your boss. Or your design partner. Or your coworker. Or your best f-friend.”

I close my eyes, irritated by my slight unintended stammering of that last word.

Chad, annoyingly observant as ever, picks right up on it. “Oh, shit. That sounds like something you need to get off of your chest. Your best friend is givin’ you trouble? Who the hell is he? Or she?”

“Not someone I want to talk about right now,” I confess, then lift my eyes off the floor, casting away the memories.

When I turn to face Chad, he keeps his hand planted on my shoulder for some reason, his grip firm, his palm as warm as an oven. It’s like I’m the iron railing of a staircase he’s terrified of climbing; if he lets go, he could face his fears and fall.

“It must’ve taken a lot of courage,” I make myself tell him.

Chad doesn’t follow, his eyes lost somewhere. “What?”

“To tell me what you told me. To bring me out here and tell me your deepest secret.” I nod appreciatively at him. “That was a very courageous move.”

“Thanks,” he says quickly, out of breath, then drops his eyes to my lips in worried thought.

I frown, noting how nervous he’s become. Now it’s Chad who looks like he hasn’t blinked in ten minutes. “Uh … Chad?”

“Y-Yeah?”

“I think maybe it’s starting to hit you.”

“Hit me? What?”

He’s so stuck in his head suddenly. “That you’ve told me. That it’s off your chest, your secret. I think you’re … experiencing a bit of a delayed shock.”

“Oh.” His eyes stay on my lips as he bites his own, his breath turning quick and uneven.

“Chad, look at me.”