Heteroflexible

Bobby nudges me with his arm. “Hey, Jimmy.”

I glance at him. “Yeah?”

“What if I hit it off with this guy tomorrow? Maybe, like, we could go on a double date sometime.”

I don’t follow. “Double date with … who?”

“Me and this guy. You and Camille.”

My stomach drops a bit at the mention of her name.

Or maybe it’s those cryptic words she left me with when she last spoke to me in my bedroom. Those words about not caring what I am. That story she told me so casually and coyly about her and a German girl getting it on. The way she just stared at me so knowingly, her eyes piercing and prying into all my secrets.

It left me feeling so damned uneasy.

“Or not,” Bobby adds, taking a look at my very sudden change in facial expression.

I laugh it off. “I dunno. Camille’s a bit … strange.”

“Really? Strange?”

“Yeah. I mean, I don’t know. I feel like Europe kind of changed her a bit.”

“Changed her? How?”

“I don’t know. It just did.”

“Well, that doesn’t say anything.”

I sigh. “You gonna make me spell it out? Camille’s not really the same gal she was when we all grew up in Spruce together. She practically lost all her Texan drawl.”

“But maybe you two could—”

“Hey, I told you, I’m staying single this summer, remember? No girls means no drama.” I sink into his bed with a shift of my body, inadvertently shoving my side against his some more.

Bobby doesn’t seem to mind, because he doesn’t flinch away.

Maybe he even sinks a bit against my side, too, like a pillow.

“No girls, no drama,” recites Bobby, then nods knowingly, leaning his weight more into me. “Yeah, I remember that talk.”

“The only important thing you and I need to worry about,” I tell him, leaning my head towards his, “is what you’re gonna wear tomorrow for your date. And how.”

Even without looking at his face, I can feel his attitude.

“Don’t get smart with me,” I throw at him. “I know how you get when you’re about to go on a date. All crazy and nervous and fretting. We’ll have none of that.”

Bobby scoffs. “I didn’t say nothin’!”

“I felt your thoughts. We’ve got that psychic connection, you and I. Or telepathic or whatever. You’re judging me hard for being fashion conscious, same as you did at the hotel. You’ll thank me one day for having a sense of these things.”

Bobby snorts, but he doesn’t respond.

A moment goes by with the TV murmuring incoherently at us. In the noise of whatever show we’re not watching, I feel another bolt of pride inside me at being here on this bed with my best bud. I don’t know what it is, but I feel absolutely complete when I’m with Bobby Parker. I’m sure some psychologist somewhere would say it isn’t healthy for me to feel totally lost and incomplete without my best friend at my side, but I’d tell that man or woman I don’t care one bit; I feel perfectly at home right now on this bed, and that’s all that matters to me.

Finally, Bobby shrugs and says, “Alright, maybe I judged you a little bit.”

“Judgment or not, you’re gonna have style tomorrow, bro,” I insist proudly. “And whether your date’s a dud or a total catch, you’ll make him cry and bite his fist at how much of a stud you are.”

I feel his head turn my way. “You’re a good friend, Jimmy.”

“And don’t you forget it,” I spit back at him.

13

BOBBY

Jimmy’s ma’s car rumbles awkwardly, casting all these weird vibrations through its small body all the way out to Fairview.

Even the car is nervous about this date.

“Don’t be nervous,” Jimmy tells me for the fourteenth damn time since we left the Spruce city limits. “You’re way studlier than whatever guy awaits you at the restaurant, I can already tell.”

I snort. “How can you possibly know? Neither of us have seen a pic of him, and we’re still ten minutes away from Nadine’s.”

We were right, by the way.

Mrs. Strong herself set up the date at her own restaurant.

The bill is going to be covered too, I’ve been told.

How romantic. Insert eye roll. And a sigh.

And an extra plate of buttered lobster tails, please and thank you.

“I just know these things, man,” Jimmy insists. “I mean, I’m not tryin’ to sabotage your date before it’s even started …”

“Sure you’re not.”

“… but my mama doesn’t have some stash of single gay men hidden in her address book. So what you’re gettin’ with this date you’re about to meet is … probably some lady’s older brother’s gay nephew who’s single and desperate.”

“Some lady’s brother’s nephew …?” I work it out. “So it’s the lady’s own son? Why didn’t you just say the lady’s son?”

“It was a hypothetical, I got confused. Jeez, stop bein’ so smart with me! You get what I’m trying to say here.”