“Yeah…Isaac is straight. But I just mean in general, why are you so sure that the guys you like are straight?”
I bite on my straw as I think. I’ve never really thought about it. It’s strange to be having this conversation with Bryson Keller. He waits for me to answer, and finally, with an exhale, I do.
“I think it’s what society has made me believe. Everyone says straight is the norm. Look at our school. The number of out kids can be counted on one hand. I’m pretty sure there are other closeted people like me and maybe even a few who haven’t figured out their sexuality yet.” I chew at my lip. “Maybe assuming everyone around me is straight is a defense mechanism.”
“Sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have asked?” Bryson sighs. “It’s just so shitty.”
“Yeah, it is. But I’m glad I outed myself to someone like you.” I laugh but it’s hollow. “This could have ended badly for me.”
He meets my gaze. “I won’t tell, but on the off chance that anyone does find out about you being gay and gives you crap about it, call me.”
“My personal bodyguard?”
“A friend,” Bryson says with a wink. His phone rings again and he moves to answer it. “You need me to pick up something?” He pauses. “Okay. Got it. I’ll be there soon.”
While Bryson talks on the phone, I finish off my mochaccino and study the boy before me. He’s different than I thought, but not in a bad way.
Bryson hangs up the phone. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be. Do we need to go?”
Bryson nods. “That okay?”
“Sure. I don’t want to miss dinner, either.”
We leave the café, with my thoughts preoccupied by Bryson. In the car, one of the Graces’ ballads thrums as I give directions to my house. I live about fifteen minutes from the café, but it takes us longer because of afternoon traffic. It feels oddly strange to have Bryson taking me home…but thrilling, too.
We come to a stop outside the two-story house that I have called home since I was three years old. The house is off-white brick with French windows and a dark wood door that I helped Dad stain. Ivy covers the side of the house, and from where we’re parked we can just see the balcony that’s off my parents’ bedroom. There’s a two-car garage, and above it hangs a basketball hoop that Dad and I use from time to time. We used to live in an apartment, but then Mom got pregnant with Yazz and my parents decided to take a leap of faith and invest in a fixer-upper. Over the years the house has grown and changed just as I have. It’s not as large as the homes of some of the other kids at school, but it’s special because we put the time into making it ours.
I turn to Bryson and say, “Let’s do it. Let’s date for the week.”
Bryson’s eyes widen before he offers me a small smile. “Are you sure?”
I’m a nervous wreck, and I’m positive my face matches our tie once more. But I’ve already taken the first step. I might as well continue walking. I nod, more for myself than for him.
“As long as we can keep it a secret, why not? This is only a game. Why should my being gay keep me from playing, too?”
Bryson smiles. It’s tight-lipped and nervous. It’s cuter than should be legal. “Well then, I, Bryson Keller, pledge to be your perfect boyfriend for the next four days.”
With a matching smile of my own, I climb out of his Jeep. I start to collect my things.
“Leave your blazer so I can drop it off at the dry cleaner’s.”
“It’s fine.”
“It would make me feel better,” Bryson says. “The only reason your blazer got messed up is because of me and this dare. So let me take care of it, please?”
Bryson leans forward and I think that he’s reaching for my hand. I jerk back. Bryson stills. He’s leaning over to the passenger side and his hand hangs there as I belatedly realize he’s waiting for me to give him the blazer. I pass it over, berating myself for being so awkward.
Bryson folds my blazer so that it sits neatly on the passenger seat. He unlocks his phone before holding it out to me. “Save your number so I can text you. We can plan more about how you want this week to go.”
Even though I was serious when I asked him out this morning, I didn’t think we would ever get to this point. Because of his phone’s cracked screen, it takes me two tries to hit the final seven of my phone number. Satisfied, I hand the phone back to him.
“Sweet.” He places his phone down. “I’ll text you later.”
I watch as he drives off. I stand there until his taillights become nothing more than a memory. It all catches up to me then. Like a wave crashing into the shore. Even though it’s fake, I’m dating someone—a boy.
Holy shit, I have a boyfriend.
And it’s none other than Bryson Keller.
6
The first thing that greets me as I walk into our house is the smell of something burning.
“Mom, I’m home,” I shout from the entrance hall.
“I’m in the kitchen, Kai,” my mother calls back.
“Why?” I head toward what I know will be a disaster zone.
My mother is not a good cook. She’s skilled at a great many other things, like singing in the church choir, making sure we survive holidays with the extended family, and guessing who the killer is before the end of a movie or book. Cooking is not one of them.
“Thank God you found us, Kai,” Yazz says. “I tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen.”
Every few weeks Mom gets it into her head that she wants to cook us a family meal. And every few weeks this familiar scene takes place. Truth be told, I blame all the cooking shows that she spends her time consuming. The television has been lying to people for too long. Just because you watch something does not mean you can actually do it. I seriously think that all shows should come with the warning of Do not try this at home, not just WWE.
“What’s Mom burning?” I stage-whisper to Yazz as I lean against the large island in the center of the kitchen. There’s a comic book open before her. She’s been obsessed lately, which makes sense, though, given how much she loves to draw.
“It’s meant to be a casserole. At least that’s what Nana’s recipe calls it,” Yazz whispers back. “But I don’t actually know what this is.”
Pots and pans litter the granite countertops. Mom’s armed with a very large knife, and chunks of potatoes lie massacred before her. Her bob is pushed back with a headband. Mom’s wearing the WORLD’S BEST CHEF apron that Dad, Yazz, and I got her as a joke one day. In retrospect I think she missed the humor of the gift and sees it more as encouragement. We will never make such a mistake again.