I stared at the message, reading it over and over. Was he mentioning the steak to make sure it was really me? That I didn’t have someone else controlling my social media accounts? And safe…was he telling me my sunglasses were safe but really meant to say I was? It might have been a stretch, but his wording led me to wonder. To hope.
Another few minutes passed before I could reply. My hands were still trembling, and my heart was trying to punch through my chest. Fuck, I hated how weak I felt. Eventually, I typed: I said it then and I’ll say it again, I like my steak to be dead when I eat it. It’s me. I’m letting you know it’s me. Christ, why was I doing this? Why was I messaging with him rather than pretending he didn’t exist? Is this a hostage situation? My sunglasses?
LOL. No, but listen. I’d really like to get these glasses to you, but I want to make sure everything is legit. These are pricey, and I don’t want to send them to just anyone. Is there a way we can video chat or something? I swear I’m not a stalker or crazy fan.
My pulse skyrocketed, and I tossed the phone again.
My leg was bouncing up and down, electric pulses shooting through it. I couldn’t keep it still. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” I whispered.
I wanted to block him. Forget he existed. Go on with my life where it felt safe, where no one would figure out my secret. I didn’t want to be the first gay, active, professional football player. I just wanted to play. Hell, I didn’t even know if I could ever let myself actually be gay. It was like this abstract piece of my identity, one I knew was there but couldn’t make out. I’d been hiding it, denying it to myself for so long, I didn’t know any other way.
But it was also…fuck, it was also killing me. I wanted someone to know, like maybe that would make it so it wasn’t so distorted inside me, so I wasn’t alone.
I shoved my phone under my pillow, as if that would change anything, as if it were some great hiding place from the pretend reporters skulking around my house.
My feet automatically carried me to my home gym. Some of Elias’s equipment was in the corner. We liked to work out together sometimes. I ignored it, went to the treadmill, and ran until sweat burned my eyes and my muscles felt like they were disintegrating, and then I ran some more. When my heart nearly burst, I cooled down and went back to my room. Showered. Changed. Sat on my bed. Grabbed my phone. Looked at the message.
Nothing had changed. It was still there, only now there was one more.
I didn’t mean to push. If you don’t want the sunglasses back, just don’t reply. No harm, no foul. You’ll never hear from me again (though I can’t imagine why anyone would want it that way). I was smiling. Goddamn it, this cocky, conceited man made me smile. I was around confident guys every day of my life. I played football, for fuck’s sake, but none of them made me smile the way he did. If you want, let me know how we can chat face-to-face so you can get your glasses back.
I sat there staring at my phone for an eternity. When Elias got home, I shoved it under my pillow again, went out to the living room for a few minutes, and told my brother I wasn’t feeling well. He’d been at Mom’s, he said, and I nodded, told him I loved him and was going to bed early, then locked myself in my room again.
I sat on my bed in the dark.
Looked at Weston’s page. He was from California.
At three in the morning, I turned on the bedside lamp, picked up my phone again, and clicked on the message. I finally replied.
I messaged only so I could make sure he didn’t think I was gay, I told myself.
It was a lie.
Chapter Six
Weston
I had never watched my social media accounts like I did that night. Hours had passed, and I didn’t expect Anson to message. I’d pushed too hard, something I’d been known to do, but Christ, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Maybe I was off base and he was straight. Maybe he just wasn’t out publicly, but his friends and family knew. Hell, maybe he had a boyfriend. But if not, if he didn’t have anyone, I didn’t want Anson to think he was alone. I knew that pain all too well.
But I also didn’t feel comfortable being open with him until I could see his face. What if it was an agent or PR person who ran his account? Even if he had responded properly to the steak comment.
It was a few minutes after midnight when the message came through.
What’s your number?
I scrambled into an upright position from where I’d been leaning back in my desk chair at home. Jesus, this was quite possibly the stupidest thing I had ever done, and I’d done a whole lot of dumb shit. Dumb shit was usually fun, even though it got me into trouble, which I should be steering clear of. There wasn’t a chance in hell I was steering clear of Anson, though.
I gave Anson my number…and waited.
Almost thirty minutes later, my phone buzzed with a video call from Georgia. I accepted it, and there he was, my bashful bar boy, sitting on an armchair in a corner. I couldn’t tell what room he was in—bedroom, living room, or what. His eyes were red-ringed, with bags under them, his hair a mess, fear making his pupils dilate. Fuck. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have messaged. I just wanted you to—”
“Did you know the whole time?” he interrupted me. “When you sat down, did you know who I was?”
“No. I didn’t lie about anything. I was in town for work. I’ll admit I was interested, which was why I sat close to you, but I didn’t know who you were. My buddy had tickets to the game the next day and dragged me with him. I was on my phone when I heard the announcer say Anson. Like I said, it’s a unique name. I looked up, and there you were.”
“Fuck,” he cursed softly. I imagined he was regretting giving me his name. “I’m not…what you think…what you asked me. That’s really the only reason I’m calling.”
Damned if a piece of my heart didn’t break off right then and there. Fuck society. Fuck people who made others want to deny who they were. “Okay.”
“I’m serious.” He frowned. “I would have said it that night, but I was so fucking shocked that you would think…that of me.”
He had said it…kind of, but I didn’t reply that way. “That’s fine. You can be straight all you want, but don’t make it sound like there’s something wrong with being queer. I am very, very gay if you couldn’t tell, and there’s not a damn thing wrong with that.”
Anson flinched, regret clear in his eyes and the downturned corners of his mouth. “I know. I didn’t mean there was. I just wanted you to know I’m not.”
“Okay,” I said again. “If you were—and I know you’re not—I wanted to make sure you knew that I would never tell a soul. I don’t out people. Ever. Like I said, I probably shouldn’t have messaged at all, but I just…wanted you to know I’m here if you ever want to talk. Also, I wanted to stress the fact that you really do have shitty taste in how you eat steak, and I’ve decided I’m keeping your sunglasses.”
I picked them up off the desk and put them on. Anson smiled. His eyes darted away, and his cheeks pinkened. Good. I wanted to make him smile. I liked that better than the fear.