Bromosexual

My heart is that crumpled up fleece blanket I laid over him.

Stop being a pussy, some inward voice calls out. Man up, change the dirty sheets, and get over it.

“Man up,” I mumble dejectedly. “What does that even mean? Discard my very real and honest emotions, and instead appeal to some testosterone-driven aggression to suppress them? Is that what ‘manning up’ really is? Denial?”

Leave it to me—Mr. Psychology—to analyze my feelings until they fit neatly into a chapter of one of my college textbooks.

When I’ve stripped my bed and taken all of the sheets to the washing machine in my garage, I’m intoxicated all over again by his smell. And I don’t mean the beer and bar stench.

Stefan has always had a certain smell about him. It’s a clean one, and I can pick it out even after a ball game when it’s mixed with the musk, dirt, and sweat soaked into his gear. I never turned it into any sort of erotic thing, but I felt a strong sense of “home” when Stefan’s scent invaded my nostrils. I know that makes me sound like some kind of puppy or wolf-on-the-scent or something, but whenever I’m around him, I feel like I belong.

And it hasn’t changed. He smells the same.

I toss the detergent in, twist the dial, then mash a thumb into the button. The machine roars to life.

Goodbye, scent.

To battle my unexpected sense of lonesomeness, I put on the TV for background noise, open all my blinds to let in the sun, then whip out my laptop from my bag and sit at the brightly-lit kitchen counter to catch up on some work.

Not four minutes after my laptop boots up, my cell phone starts ringing on the counter next to me.

My heart jumps into my throat in an instant. It’s Stefan, I think right away. He kept my number all these years. He wants to ask me out to dinner. He forgot something and needs to drop by my house.

I don’t even check the name. I just bring the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“Hi!” comes a voice—Dana’s voice. “I … got your number from the staff contact sheet. Hope you don’t mind. I just wanted to check up on things after last night.”

I prop my elbows up on the counter and stare unseeing at the TV with a lazy smile. It’s thoughtful of her to call, really, despite badly wanting to hear from a certain someone else. “It’s all good.”

“Did you get him home safely?”

Even took him to my bed. I clear my throat and answer evasively. “Yep. He’s home. Everything’s fine now.”

“Can I ask a question?”

I freeze. We had just gone from getting a drink for the first time last night to her calling me on the phone to snoop. My stomach is thrown into the rinse cycle all over again, worried that she’ll ask me out again. Shouldn’t I just cut her off and say I’m gay? What’s the big deal? Couldn’t I say something about barking up the wrong tree?

If her frisky demeanor was any sign, she’ll make a move the next time we’re alone in a bar again.

“It’s been bothering me ever since last night,” she presses on. “I just have to get it out. I need to know.”

Oh. Maybe I’m wrong. She’s going to ask if I’m gay.

Or she’s about to ask if I’m attracted to her. She’ll ask if she’s my type. She’ll ask me when I’m available again.

Fuck. She’ll want to take me out tonight. Saturday night. Who doesn’t go out on a Saturday night? I don’t.

“So can I?” she prompts me, an impatient edge in her voice.

I take a deep breath. “Sure. Of course. Shoot.”

Then she asks it: “Was that Stefan Baker?”

I freeze up again. Not what I was expecting. “Uh, what do you mean?”

“The Stefan Baker? The baseball player who graduated from Morris? The one who went on to play for the ‘Riders? Put me out of my misery and just tell me it is. Please. Begging you.”

I scratch a spot on my arm. Should I say it was him? Stefan didn’t quite paint the most lovely picture of himself last night. I feel a sudden responsibility to protect his image, like I’m his unofficial, default-elected PR person in this tiny pocket of time.

“All I want to know is,” she adds quietly, “whether you, the new, meek little school counselor, are hiding a secret friendship with this town’s most famous celebrity. Please. Tell me it’s him. Lie to me, even.”

“Well …” I start, clench shut my eyes, then go on, “I wouldn’t say he’s the town’s most famous celebrity. I mean, you have that Winston guy who went off to do major movies in Hollywood. Though he went to a different high school. And then there’s—”

“So it was Stefan Baker??”

Fuck. I gave it away. “Y-Yeah.”