Heteroflexible

The forever thing … “Bobby. The world’s full of special guys.”

“Yeah, yeah. And here I am at a table with Malcolm Tucci.”

“Nah, you’re at a table with Jimmy Strong right now,” I tell him, leaning forward, “and I’m tellin’ you, you’re not gonna go the rest of your life being alone. That isn’t your fate. You’re a special guy, too. Remember that.” I reach across the table and take his hand in mine, squeezing it. “You deserve the forever thing.”

Bobby looks down at our clasped hands.

My thumb rubs over the top of his soothingly. “C’mon, Bobs. I want you to have it. Just … not with this idiot.”

“Just …” Bobby shuts his eyes again, then opens them onto me with a hardness. “Just go back to your table and let me pretend for a little bit longer, alright?”

My stomach twists again. “Bobby …”

He jerks his hand away from mine and crosses his arms tightly across his chest, staring at his half-eaten dinner with frustration.

I can’t stand to see that hurt in his eyes. “C’mon, man. Don’t be like this. All you gotta do—”

“Just go.”

“—is drop that dumb napkin.”

“I don’t want to surrender. Go.” He nods toward my table. “Go before Malcolm comes back and this already awkward nightmare becomes a goddamned ménage à trois of horrors.”

I lean back. I guess there’s no more words to say when Bobby has made up his mind—especially when he’s on the verge of tears, and it has anything at all to do with me.

With a heavy heart, I rise from the table.

Then I stop.

Just before turning to go, I tell him, “I don’t ever want to hurt you, Bobby. I’ve always had you in my heart, right here, right in here, unconditionally, and …”

My own words are starting to lose themselves. My heart races. I want to hold Bobby. I want to touch him and break our dumb deal and kiss him just to make that light burst in his eyes again.

That isn’t a weird desire, is it?

To want to make my best friend feel better?

“You deserve …” I sigh. “You deserve to have the perfect guy, the forever thing, the everything. Bobby Parker, you deserve it more than anyone I know or will ever know.”

He peers searchingly into my eyes. Something touches them—an emotion, or a bit of pain, or a bit of wonder.

I give him a touch of a smile, which is probably more of a wince of apology, before I leave him at that table, just like he requested of me. I cut back across the aisles to my own seat—and I mercifully don’t hump any old ladies this time.

I hope Bobby really can handle it from here on out, because that’s the last time I’ll interfere tonight.

When I plop back down at my table, I notice that my ankle is throbbing. It gets worse whenever my heart beats faster.

And it’s sure beating fast right now.

I must’ve left just in time, because when I dare to sneak a tiny glance Bobby’s way, I find that jerk-wad Malcolm already returned from the kitchen, seated, and the pair of them chatting on.

There’s no way I’ll finish my delicious steak now.

Nor my savory, perfectly-seasoned potatoes.

What a waste of a meal I’m not even allowed to pay for.

Ten long minutes crawl by as I poke at my steak, mourning an appetite that’s utterly fucking lost. Then twenty minutes, as I keep sneaking glances at Bobby’s table and watching him interact with that smarmy McSmarm.

I rest my chin on the table like a pouty child, glaring at my tall glass of water. I watch as a single bead of condensation crawls, crawls, crawls down the side like a tiny glass beetle.

Comically, the tables of couples that were between me and Bobby have all left, and there’s this annoyingly perfect line of sight now between us. I let my eyes wander back to his table, and for a second I think I see them holding hands, but it turns out to be Bobby holding his fork in a weird way, with his balled up cloth napkin right next to his hand on the table.

I snort. Better not be holding my Bobby’s hand, I think bitterly, or I’ll make sure it’s the last hand you ever hold, Tucci-boy.

Then Bobby shifts his arm, bumping the napkin.

It drops to the floor.

I lift my head like an alerted dog, wide-eyed, staring.

Bobby scratches at his nose, then smiles politely at something Malcolm says.

My eyes dart down to the napkin, then back up to Bobby. Back and forth, back and forth.

Was that the signal? Or a total actual accident?

Do I go? Do I stay? Do I act? Do I wait?

I’ll wait, I decide. If it was the signal, Bobby will look my way. I know it. He’ll look my way and wonder why I haven’t come yet.