“That’s not what—”
“Here’s some info: this is a relationship. Just because you’re too scared to call it—”
“I’m not scared, I just—”
“Stop. I’ve heard it a million times.”
I stopped.
I waited.
Owen sighed. He reached up and adjusted his cap, even though it was still perfectly seated on his perfect hair. Everything about Owen was perfect. It still felt surreal that I was the one standing there, arguing about relationships with him.
“I’m sorry,” I said, reaching over and taking his hand. “Can we talk about this later? When we’re not at work?”
“Fine,” he agreed.
I turned and moved toward the staff room again, already a few minutes late clocking in.
“But, Gideon,” Owen said as I pushed open the door. “Aliens? Seriously?”
I shrugged wryly and kept moving.
I’d tell Owen about the aliens, or lack thereof. I trusted him that much, at least. I was less enthusiastic about the relationship talk. Discussing my feelings was far more daunting than explaining aliens in my backyard.
Interlude
Owen Campbell
So yes, all right. Owen Campbell and I were dating. Or at least we were doing something very similar to dating. Something almost exactly like dating, except we never called it that. And also, we kept it a secret.
If most people knew about the secretive nature of my and Owen’s relationship, they’d assume it was at his urging. That’s because Owen’s what many people would call “a catch.” I’m not sure you need me to directly state this, but I am not a catch.
Yet I was the one keeping our relationship discreet, not Owen, and there were two reasons for it:
1. I found it uncomfortable to discuss sappy, emotional matters.
2. I didn’t appreciate feeling forced into anything.
In a town the size of Lansburg, there weren’t many dating options for anyone, let alone someone who wasn’t heterosexual. Owen and I were the only two openly gay males at our school.
And what do you suppose happened when there were only two gay males within a small population?
Everyone tried to force us together.
Long before I spoke a word to him, I had friends, siblings, parents, even a teacher once say, “Why don’t you and Owen Campbell date?”
As if a person being gay was the only requirement for me to like him. As if it didn’t matter whether I was attracted to him, didn’t matter if he was an asshole, or if our personalities didn’t mesh.
I was attracted to Owen. He wasn’t an asshole. And somehow, despite our differences, our personalities did mesh.
But that was beside the point.
For years, I resented Owen and scowled at the mere mention of his name. I constantly told people I’d rather spend my life alone than date someone I didn’t like simply because he was my only option.
Imagine my distress when Owen and I started working together at Super Scoop and I found out I actually did like him.
I couldn’t bear how smug everyone would be if they found out. There were few things I hated more than hearing “I told you so.” I refused to give anyone the satisfaction.
Unfortunately, Owen didn’t see it my way.
“You’re more worried about what people will say than about us,” he’d told me.
“I’m not worried. I just don’t like being told what to do.”
“Then we’ll keep this a secret so…what? So you can hold on to your pride? Are you really that stubborn?”
Obviously, yes.
“Remember what you told me about basketball?” I’d asked Owen. “Everyone’s always saying you should play basketball just because you’re tall. But you don’t even like basketball, and you’re sick of hearing it.”
“Yeah…” Owen said. “Because I don’t like basketball.”
While, admittedly, Owen made sense, I continued to insist the relationship be kept quiet. Cass knew, of course, and many other people suspected, but for the most part it remained between only Owen and me, which was how I liked it.
But Owen’s patience was wearing thin, and I knew a choice waited in my near future.
And okay, fine, fine. Maybe there was another, more personal reason I didn’t want to be open about the relationship…
But that falls into the realm of “discussing sappy, emotional matters,” which, as I said, I really prefer to avoid.
Event: Aliens Arrive (Cont.)
I got so wrapped up in the relationship part of my and Owen’s conversation, it took me a while to return to the concerning fact that he’d heard Ishmael’s alien story.
“There’s a blog post,” he said when I asked about it. “It’s going around.”
“It’s ten in the morning. How much could it have gotten around?”
He was right, though. As my shift at Super Scoop went on, I received three texts and one email from acquaintances asking about the article. I couldn’t imagine how many people were contacting Ishmael. He was probably having a grand time. He was probably scheduling appearances.
Cass came into Super Scoop around lunchtime. Owen was taking his thirty-minute break, and I was alone at the counter.
“So, you’re running with this alien thing?” Cass asked eagerly, while contemplating the different ice cream flavors.
“I’m not running with anything. I’m waiting for the situation to die down.” I took a bite of an unappetizing myTality™ Energizer bar Mother had forced on me.
“But, I mean, wowsers. Think of how amazing this could be,” Cass said. “How theatrical.”
Speaking of theatrics, Cass was wearing cowboy boots and an embroidered western shirt.
“Theatrics are best left for drama club,” I said.
“That reminds me,” Cass replied, “would you rehearse with me tonight?”
I hesitated. “Do I have to?”
“Well, no, you don’t have to. But it’s would be nice,” she said.
“It’s just that every time I help you rehearse, you yell at me for not doing it well enough.”
“Only because you use that weird robot voice.”
“That’s just my voice, Cass.”
Cass nodded, allowing that I was probably right.