John approaches. Behind the tears, Tyler argues with himself:
Don't cry. Girls cry and you're not a fuckin girl. You're a man, you're a lion. Star fuckin quarterback and all-state wrestling first placer two years running. You suck dick, and that's to absorb more Man. You're a lion, and a damn good one. Sarah couldn't see that...her fault.
That's how you justify this. Her fault. It was all her, even until the very end. She could never see it, and you could. You saw it all and you took the apple from the tree. But it's not sinning in your head, now is it, Tyler? No. Because it feels good. And all you've ever wanted is to feel truly good.
Sarah finds out the wrestling team had their fuckin way with me and that I've been banging John and she splits. Typical.
Maybe I should have known. Seen it coming, or something.
Of course, Tyler. You're a guy who likes another guy. Every part of another guy. And it came back to bite you.
But...you're not...upset. Maybe Sarah...maybe this all was inevitable.
He is damn good, after all. And that's why you do it, Tyler. You fuck John because it feels good; you kiss Sarah and pretend to care because you feel wanted. John is a happy medium. He doesn't ask for your allegiance; he knows its there. Unspoken, as it should be. And you know his is there for you. You're a perfect match. Now...you know it to be true.
So wipe the tears away, bucko. Because he's coming, and he looks as cute as ever in that oxford, buttoned only halfway up his chest, and when it flaps in the wind you can see the boys--twin nipples standing out and saluting you. As cute as ever in those chino shorts with his cute and thin and toned little legs and leather flip flops slapping against the pavement.
Yes. That's it exactly. He's cute, you're having sex with him--you may just have car sex right here and now--and that's that. Get over it, unzip your pants and let him take you. Because he wants to have you. Because you want to have him.
So admit that, and you're free. Free of lying and rumors and drama. Free to do what you feel like, for once in your goddamn life. Free to be gay.
Yes. That's it exactly.
The passenger's door opens and John slides into the seat. He's almost too big for the seat, so his legs are angled sharply--like a giant in a clown-car. The chinos slide down his thighs a few inches, revealing the skin the tanning bed didn't get. Yes, he's cute. He's damn sexy. That curly hair just screams at you, doesn't it?
"I'm sorry," he says, sounding serious.
"It's...its okay," you say. You're half faking, but that's okay. You can manage. "Bound to happen."
John nods once and looks out the window.
"Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"She, uh...broke it off. Was it because of me?"
One of your eyebrows peaks. No, Johnny-Gee, she found my stack of Swank. Oops, that's not only untrue, it's also mean. To John. To this little Adonis sitting not a foot from you.
"Yes," you say, and it's sub-whistle in volume.
"I'm sorry," he repeats, surprisingly sadder than before. "Is there...is there anything I can do?"
And you feel it. First in your head, with those eyebrows angling again. Fire. It travels down your arms and your hands form into fists. It travels into your gut and your abs tighten. It goes into your legs and they tense up irritably. And then it happens.
You punch him.
The best and closest friend you've made for yourself over the course of a week--and you sock him in the face. Probably shatter his cheekbone and ruin those gorgeous features in a moment of Bad Form.
You catch yourself, but only after his head's already slammed against the window and your hand's already quivering in your lap--shocked from what it's just done.
"I...I'm...wow." Yeah, you're speechless, Tyler. Welcome to Fuckupland. You want to apologize, sure, but do you Really Mean It? Lots of people Really Mean It. Are you one of em?
Nah. Your anger at Johnny-Gee there is a righteous kind. He's responsible for the Sarah fiasco. Had he not been so selfish and laid down those damn signals, you could have been happy with your lady. But the signals were laid and you followed them like some starving dog. Started with a blowjob, went to spending the night together and then full-blown fucking--both of you in time getting to play the bottom and have the other's cock playing king of the hill with your ass.
You fuck him to feel good. You fucked Sarah to feel wanted. That's how you justify it. He did it. He was the one who--
"Dammit," you say. "It was me."
"What?" he asks, rubbing the pain out of his chin.
He was the one who sucked your cock, Tyler. All along it was you. You just had to play scientist and go commando at the wrestling match. Christ, Tyler, your parents were there, they probably saw your cock on display for the whole world. For John.
Yeah, you sat there on that sink and let him take it all, because you wanted to feel good. The thrill of beating that...inferior specimen led to the thrill of John's lips wrapped around your cock.
It was you. The whole time.
You feel yourself lean over and kiss him. One of those long and deep ones, where your tongue slides around in his mouth and tries to apologize on its own.
And it works. He meets your kiss and puts his hands against your face, caressing your cheeks and your stubble. And the world slides away for a while. As long as you have him, and he has you...it's all right.
It's both of you. The storm's just passing, Tyler. The best is yet to come. Because that's what this is: a new chance at love. Sarah is gone.
But John is right here waiting for you. He always has been.
You pull away momentarily and through teary eyes of your own, you say everything that needs to be said.
"I'm sorry, John, I'm so sorry. I love you. I love you so much."
"I know," he says. "I love you too."