“But what about dating? I’ve never even had a boyfriend. How am I going to navigate all that?”
Dean shrugged it off. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal?” I knew there were bigger, more important issues than me getting a boyfriend, but sometimes it felt like it was the only thing on my mind. Ever since I’d come out, I’d been dreaming of my first perfect date and my first perfect kiss and my first perfect . . . everything else. It felt like a big deal to me, and I didn’t understand how Dean could be so blasé about it. “I suppose it’s because you’ve gone on lots of dates.”
“No.”
“No girlfriends or boyfriends or anything?”
“Nope.”
“And you’re not worried you’re going to miss the opportunity to find that perfect special someone who’s out there waiting for you and without whom you’ll wind up alone and lonely for the rest of your life, living with a bunch of shelter dogs and eating cake frosting right out of the container?”
Dean chuckled and rolled his eyes, which for him was the equivalent of boisterous laughter. “I’m really not. And you shouldn’t be either. I mean, first of all, you’re assuming that everyone in the world wants to fall in love and that sex is the end-all-be-all of the teenage experience. It’s not.”
I let out an exasperated sigh. “I know. But I wasn’t assuming it about everyone.”
“Just me.”
“Wait, let me guess. Sex isn’t your thing?” I threw it out there as a joke because I had assumed Dean was as obsessed with guns, girls, and glory as the majority of voters expected the seventeen-year-old son of the Republican candidate for president to be.
Dean cocked his head to the side and pursed his lips, pausing a moment before answering. “It’s not not my thing. Truthfully, I don’t know.”
The admission caught me off guard, and I had a million questions. Was I the only person who knew? Was I the first person he’d ever admitted that to? What, exactly, had he even actually admitted to? Why had he told me? Was it because he knew I was gay? I didn’t ask those or any of the million other questions I had. Instead, I said, “Okay?” which Dean seemed to interpret as confusion.
“Asexuality is a spectrum, right?” he said. “I’m somewhere on that spectrum, though I’m not sure where yet. There could be someone out there I might want to have sex with, but I’m honestly not in a hurry to find them.”
This was blowing my mind. Hearing Dean Arnault admit he was on the asexual spectrum had totally made me forget that we were having this conversation because we were trapped in a room due to a potential threat to one or all of our parents’ lives. Nothing about Dean had made me think for a second that he was like me, and the more I thought about it, the more I wondered what else we might have in common.
“So if there was someone,” I said, unable to keep myself from prying, “do you know what they might be like?”
There was that twitch of the lip, that barely there smile. “Not yet. But I believe I’ll know them if I find them.”
Dean’s answer was frustrating but also honest, and I couldn’t fault him for it. “Aren’t you afraid I might tell someone?”
The easy expression Dean was wearing slipped, and he flared his nostrils. “Are you planning to tell someone?”
“No! I just—”
“Because if you tell anyone, I’ll simply deny it. I’ll say you made it up, and no one will believe you.” Dean looked like he was on the verge of a nuclear meltdown. His face went pale and he looked a bit sick. I don’t know if he’d meant to tell me his secret, if it’d slipped out due to the stress of worrying about our parents, or if he’d just needed to tell someone and I was the first person he thought he could remotely trust with the information, but I didn’t want him thinking I was going to run off and blab to everyone about him.
“I’m not gonna tell,” I said. “I wouldn’t do that to you or anyone. Not ever.”
“Promise?” Dean asked.
“On my parents’ lives.” At that moment, I couldn’t have made a more serious pledge.
Dean’s smile didn’t return, but he looked a little less freaked out. “Thank you.”
Dean
BEING TRAPPED IN the greenroom with the son of my mother’s chief political rival while not being able to talk to my parents or discover anything about what was going on was terrifying. Neither Dre nor I could get a signal or connect to Wi-Fi, and it felt like we were completely cut off from the world. I was sure my parents would contact me if they could, which was what was worrying me. Something was either blocking cell signals or preventing my parents from using their phones. I hoped it was the former and prayed it wasn’t the latter.
I was doing my best to project an exterior of calm because that’s what my mother would have expected me to do. She would have told me to lead by example, and I was trying, but it wasn’t easy. My fear felt too big for my body, and I wanted to scream it out, but doing so wouldn’t have helped my parents, and it would have probably upset Dre even more.
“Are you scared?” Dre asked.
“I used to have nightmares about situations like this when I was younger,” I said. “I’d seen protesters outside one of my mother’s rallies when she was running for governor, and there were these people screaming and yelling. I don’t even remember what they were saying, but I remember the hate in their eyes. It was the first time I realized people actually hated my mother and might want to hurt her, and I couldn’t stop being scared for her.” I cleared my throat.
Dre was watching me curiously. When he didn’t reply immediately, I assumed I’d spooked him by revealing too much. But then he said, “I meant about coming out. Are you scared about what would happen if you came out?”
I felt foolish and lowered my eyes.
“For the record,” Dre said. “I’m scared for my parents too.”
If I hadn’t been locked in that room, I would have made an excuse to leave and fled from the conversation. I was feeling vulnerable and embarrassed for telling Dre that story. But since I couldn’t leave, I did what any self-respecting southerner would have done. I pretended it had never happened.
“I don’t know if I’m scared about coming out,” I said. “You’re the first person I’ve told, and it wasn’t so terrible.”
“I’m the first person you’ve told?” Dre stood again and raked his hands through his hair. “This is huge, Dean! I mean, I’m honored, but there should be cake or something.”
“Cake?”
“Yes! I think everyone’s coming out should involve cake.” He stopped pacing and turned to me, wearing this endearingly goofy smile. “Don’t you think people would be less anxious about having to do it if they knew there’d be cake at the end?”
“I don’t need a cake, and it’s not a big deal. I came to terms with being different a while ago, and I figured I’d tell people when necessary.” I spread my hands. “Honestly, I’ve never understood why people feel the need to come out. The only people who really need to know your sexual orientation are your potential sexual or romantic partners.”