Wrangled

“Yep, Los Angeles, weather’s perfect,” I say lamely to another.

“Keeping pretty busy, you can say,” I go on tiredly.

Even as they continue to cross-examine me, my eyes glide right through them like an x-ray to the person who really has my attention: Chad. He’s near the bleachers with his buddies, and he has a foot up on the bottom bleacher with an elbow propped up on his knee as he chats away with them. It’s like he’s ready for a photographer to snap his pic—an unintended model boy pose.

And goodness, if I could take a photograph of that and hang it …

“No, not seeing anyone,” I answer one of them distractedly.

“Yes, it’s true, very expensive to live in LA,” I say to another.

“What? Oh, uh … no, I’m not vegan or Buddhist,” I reply, and the ladies laugh and tease each other.

And with my eyes floating over to Chad between each of my answers, I have to wonder what he’s been up to this past decade.

He looks so happy. He looks so confident.

He looks so at-home here among his friends.

Is this the real reason I’m here? Did I just want to check up on Chad and pray that I find him miserable, out of shape, and totally gross? Is he the real reason for coming here that I’ve suppressed, buried under a fat heap of denial? Am I really so petty?

Letting myself realize that fact hurts.

It hurts worse than the dumb, stupid ache I feel in my heart right now, staring at Chad through the crowd—the realization that I might’ve traveled all the way here to Spruce just to check in on my former high school tormentor, just to get a look at him, just to remind myself of something.

“No, my parents don’t live here anymore,” I say to one of the ladies, my gaze lingering on Chad. “Yes, they moved to Louisiana. I guess there was nothing keeping them here after I left. Maybe I—”

Chad glances over his shoulder and eyes me instantly.

I flick my eyes away from him at once.

“Maybe you … what?” prompts one of the women—someone I had a class with who I barely remember named Mindy. If I recall correctly, she was buddies with Billy and worked with him as a server at his dad’s burger joint, Biggie’s Bites.

I turn back to her, completely distracted by the moment of searing eye contact I just had with Chad. “I … W-What was I …? Oh, right. Uh … I was going to say, maybe I would’ve liked them to be here. So I would’ve had …” I can even feel his stare still on me. “… had someone to stay with, instead of having to hole up at Spur Inn.”

“Oh, I love Spur Inn! Virginia is the head receptionist there,” says Mindy, then snorts. “She and I have a weird relationship. First I hated her because of this dumb drama junior year, and then we bonded over going after the same loser—Steven Baker, what a jack-hole. He moved away a few years ago.”

I remember Steven, too. What a strange, aloof guy. He was two years younger than us, I think. He never made a big deal out of my being gay. He always asked what I thought of his attire because my opinion was somehow elevated above anyone else’s, or asked if I would date him if he was “a fag”, or even going as far as to ask me which girl in his class he should bang. Once when we were alone in a bathroom in front of neighboring urinals, he asked if I wanted to give him head, which I quickly (okay; hesitantly) declined. To this day, I still don’t know if he was being serious.

“Ugh, I had the stupidest crush on him … before I realized he was dating three girls at the same time.” Mindy sighs. “I’m glad I came to my senses and ended up with a guy like Joel, who only slightly infuriates me now and then. Or maybe I’m with him ‘cause Billy is gay and taken. Wait, did I say that out loud again?”

“You did,” says her friend, who giggles and offers her another cup of punch. “But keep talking. I prefer neurotic post-baby Mindy over neurotic pre-baby Mindy. Don’t you have two cryin’ twins at home that need watchin’ over? Mmm, I pity your babysitter.”

Mindy shoots her a look.

I try to enjoy their company with another distracted laugh, but I don’t think I’ll be capable of any kind of focus with a certain boot-and-cowboy-hat-clad man in the room.

I can’t look at him again, no matter how badly I want another sip of him.

I’ve barely been here ten minutes and already I’m an addict.

Should I look anyway? Should I see if he’s still looking at me?

No. I can’t risk it.