Heteroflexible

I turn away with a sigh. “Just a long day, I guess.”

“Long day, is it?” He chuckles to himself. “I’m sure you could have at least sent one dang text back instead of leaving me in the dust all day. You know how restless I get.”

Seriously, with this boy. “Uh, sorry, maybe you’ve never actually had a job,” I retort, “but you’re not supposed to have your phone out while you’re on the clock, and—”

“I’m just messin’ with you. Still, you look constipated. Should probably check that out. Maybe eat some Raisin Bran, I dunno.”

I close my eyes, my face flushing.

Now’s definitely not the time.

The house is filled with the aroma of braised beef, potatoes, and buttered corn. My pa shows up only minutes after we do, and the four of us are deep into our dishes of food in no time. My ma asks a hundred and a half questions about my day at the theater while Jimmy smacks obnoxiously on his food and grunts, “Mmm-mmm, so good,” every ten seconds.

When my parents are in the living room, I retire to my room with Jimmy. He’s squished into a turquoise beanbag chair by the window while I’m on my bed, my back against the headboard and my arms folded tightly over my chest. I changed into a pair of red shorts and a loose t-shirt. Jimmy’s playing some game on his phone, its noises rattling my ears and drowning out whatever’s on the TV (that I’m totally not paying attention to anyway).

Still, I let out a sigh and blurt, “Can you be any louder?”

Jimmy grunts, his eyes not peeling away from his phone for even a second. “Just one more level.”

I force myself to swallow. Hey, Jimmy, about the other night … My heart picks up pace. My mouth runs dry. Hey, Jimmy, I want to talk about the night in the hotel when we … when you … when the two of us … My lungs force a deep breath into them and out of them.

Jimmy throws his phone suddenly with an angry huff. “Damn game cheats.” He scowls and crosses his arms like a petulant kid. “Fuckin’ unfair.”

“Jimmy.”

He lifts his eyes to me, still scowling.

I stare at him across the room, then take a quick breath. Just say it. Just say it, you idiot.

“What?” he says impatiently.

“Jimmy. Can we …” Why is this so hard? “Can we talk?”

His eyes harden at once. There wasn’t a tense bone or muscle in his whole body, and in an instant—and without him seeming to move a muscle—I see him tense right up.

He swallows. It seems to be an effort. “Talk ‘bout what?”

“You know what.”

His eyes scrunch up, as if waiting for me to just let it out.

Is that sweat under my arms already? Am I sweating? “About the other night,” I elaborate. At the sight of his still-scrunched-up face, I just say it: “The kiss.”

Jimmy swallows again, then shrugs. “What about it?”

He’s not going to make this easy. “Why did you do it? Didn’t it make you … uncomfortable?”

“No.”

“Like, at all?”

“I said no.”

“You’re saying it didn’t freak you out, to kiss another guy?”

Jimmy leans forward in the beanbag chair. “That’s what I’m sayin’, isn’t it? How many more ways do I have to say it?”

“Why did you do it?”

“I already told you why. I told you the moment I did it, and probably ten-hundred times afterwards. I wanted to be your man that night because we found fuck-all at that dumb club.”

I could strangle him. “Jimmy, you … kissed me.”

“I know that.” His voice grows harder. He spreads his hands. “What’s your point?”

“My point?” I’m off the bed suddenly. “My point is, did you ever consider how that’d make me feel?”

“Yeah. It should’ve made you feel good.”

I slap my own forehead and shut my eyes. “Jimmy …” I growl.

“That was the fucking point, dude. To make you feel good.”

“Do you not see how that might … totally fuck with my head?” I say, trying (and failing) to keep my voice even. “To have my best friend kiss me like that? And then hold me all night long?”

“Well … I …” He draws quiet.

I open my eyes and look down at him. He’s staring somewhere at my knees, perplexed, his hands still spread as if in a showing of innocence and disbelief. I can feel my pulse in my fingertips and my toes, and my stomach feels like it wants to squeeze out every bit of my ma’s dinner.

With Jimmy continuing to not say anything, I just sit myself down on the edge of my bed and stare at the TV, frustrated and at a loss for any more words myself.

“I’m gay,” I finally let out.

Jimmy’s face scrunches up when he looks up at me.

“I know you know that,” I go on. “I mean, everyone knows. But I’m not sure you really … get what it means.” I eye him. “To be attracted to other guys. And to have someone like you as my best friend—as a gay guy’s best friend.”