Heteroflexible

Boy, if I had a nickel.

Then I’d have exactly one nickel.

I mean, what a hilarious thing for a straight dude to promise his gay friend. I wonder if there’s another pair of guys anywhere on this whole damned planet who shook hands in a bedroom and made that same promise.

“You’re smiling.”

I ditch my thoughts and the sight of the sunlit patio to turn to my mama, who’s staring at me searchingly.

After a second, I shrug. “Didn’t notice.”

“What’re you smiling about, hon? Did you get a chance finally to spend some time with Camille?”

My eyes detach at the mention of her name. I haven’t given her a speck of thought in days, strange enough.

“No.”

“Then what is it?” she prods, setting down her pen to give me her full attention. “Is it something funny Bobby did? You boys went off somewhere last weekend.”

“It’s nothin’, Mama.”

“Hmm.” After studying me for a bit longer, she finally gives up her prying—a lot sooner than she normally would. “Alright. I’ll set up a nice dinner next time you get Bobby over here, whenever that is. Just let me know.” She reaches out and gives my cheek a quick peck, then returns her attention to her notebook.

I watch her fret for a while over a note she’s jotting down and wonder if she knows that I heard about the Cold Spoon. I suddenly want to bring it up and ask her about it, but just as quickly the impulse is gone; the last thing I need is to ruin her mood when it looks like she’s inspired for the first time in over a week.

I wander around outside for a while, my phone glued to my pocket as I sweat through my tank top. I take a seat at the edge of the woods leading to my brother’s house under the shade of a tree and just let the warm summer air waft over my face, lazily tossing around a few bangs of hair my hat isn’t claiming.

I check my phone again.

Nothing.

That’s all it’s been for days now: nearly nothing. I try to catch him after work, and he has plans to stay and learn some other thing. Or he’s gotta race home for dinner. Or his papa needs him for something.

If I was smart, I’d notice he was avoiding me.

But I’m not smart. I’m insisting to myself that he really is so busy with his new job, and maybe he’s taken me down a notch or two on his priority list.

I turn my head at the sound of a flock of birds bursting from a nearby thicket, then watch them ascend into the sky as I consider why it bothers me so much when Bobby doesn’t put me first.

Is what he said true? Am I obsessed with being the first and last thing in Bobby’s life?

What am I without him?

Maybe this is his way of forcing me to find out.

I scratch at something imaginary on my arm, then flick away a bug that’s not even there with a grimace.

I’m so fucking restless, I’m imagining insects.

The next minute, I’m back at the main house making use of the gym equipment that’s set up in the garage. After just two sets of squats, I realize how dehydrated I am and end up going back to the kitchen to chug down three glasses of cold water. My mama has relocated to the back patio now, sipping a glass of sweet tea while wagging her pen between her fingers. I stare at her through the back window while chugging my last glass of water.

Maybe I should go out and get a job, too.

Bobby did it. Why can’t I?

I’m back in the garage, but this time, I’m practicing my moves on a stretch of hardwood flooring in front of the body-length mirrors. In just seventeen and a half minutes, I’m sweating through my tank top and gym shorts and smelling ripe.

I check my phone one more time.

Stop always checking your phone one more time. He’s at work.

I make my phone play some tunes and set it on the weight bench nearest to me before I go and get even more sweaty with my dancing. The music pops and snaps, and I pop and snap my arms along with it, my feet twisting on each hard downbeat.

With every pop, kick, and thrust, my face tightens more.

I’m determined to do something.

I just don’t know what that something is.

I mean, seriously, what the fuck? How does showing your best fucking friend affection make him not want to hang out with you anymore? Why is he so scared and bothered and emotional over a little cuddling and a kiss? Shouldn’t he be over the gay moon? Isn’t a deep and meaningful kiss from a decent-looking fellow something he dreams about?

I dance harder, feeling more pissed off the longer I think.