I’m not sure it’s all my fault, though. I asked for space to think, and I haven’t been given any. Instead, every second of every day, I’ve felt Ruben staring at me, like I’m supposed to tell him the split-second I figure my shit out, and our entire friendship hinges on my answer. The guilt is suffocating, the pressure enormous. I know he’s hurt and I made it worse, but he hasn’t exactly given me what I asked for, and the end result is I still don’t know what I want.
Every time I start leaning toward the thought that maybe I kind of like him, that maybe the kiss was real, it gets confusing, because what if I only want to think I like him because it means I can say what he wants to hear? So I can be someone other than a shit guy who mistreated him? So I don’t have to risk losing him forever?
And then I swing the other way and decide to tell him I used him to experiment, figured out it meant nothing, and genuinely apologize, but that doesn’t feel right, either. Because even if my thoughts are a mess, I know that there’s no way that kiss meant nothing.
And that would mean I’m what? Bi?
The word makes me feel queasy. Like, it’s too close for comfort, breathing down my neck.
I bump into Angel, pulling me back to reality.
“Watch where you’re going, Zach Attack.”
I groan. I made the mistake of telling Angel one time that every single soccer coach I’ve ever had has called me that, which I despised, and now he loves to use it. I do what I did with my soccer coaches: try to ignore it.
Luckily, there are a lot of distractions. At the moment the four of us are on a guided tour of the Vatican, with Erin, Keegan, and some Tungsten guards. We got here at four a.m., to be a part of an early-bird tour, to make sure it’s quiet enough that we don’t get swarmed by fans. They’ve still found out we’re here and are crowding outside, hoping to see us. Without the guards, they would’ve stormed the place. It’d be just like the airport. They’d fight their way to me, screaming and pushing until they get to touch me. I shiver.
Up ahead, walking slowly, is Ruben. I wonder what he’s thinking about. I doubt it’s me. There’s no way his thoughts are as consumed by me as mine are by him.
I know we should talk to try to close this rift. But the thought of doing that makes my head spin. In a lot of ways, as much as avoiding him has been torture, it’s also felt safe, because thinking about this stuff is one thing. Having to say it? That’s terrifying.
Jon is walking next to me. His arms are crossed and he has an uncharacteristic slouch going on. Without any makeup, I can see the darkness under his eyes. Angel is on his phone, and even Keegan and Pauline barely seem to care about where we are. We’re walking down the gallery of maps, and even though I have a lot of opinions on the impact that religion has had on the world, I have to admit, this place is impressive. Every inch of it is covered in art. It has to be one of the most incredible places I’ve ever seen.
It’s all so pretty, but it doesn’t matter. Not compared to Ruben. Maybe now is a good time to tell him what I’m working through. Maybe it shouldn’t be planned. Maybe I should just tell him my thoughts are messy and I’m confused and that’s just where I’m at right now. It’ll be better than nothing.
He’s in front of me, staring up at a map. I can’t make any more excuses. It’s time. Now or never.
I stop beside him. I feel frozen, and my throat clenches up. “Hey.”
“Hello.”
There’s a dry sound in his voice, and an eyebrow twitches. I probably deserve that.
I’m worried he can see right through me, that he knows I’m here to talk about the kiss, and he’s not happy about it, so I swerve away from my plan.
“This is cool, right?” I say, pointing at the map.
“Oh, yeah. Very cool.”
Make it normal. Make it normal. “I like art.”
Oh for fuck’s sake. I glance around, looking for a window I can hurl myself headfirst out of.
“O … kay?”
“I just mean I like this art. It’s like, cool art, you know? I don’t like some paintings. Like Picasso or whatever.”
“You don’t like Picasso?”
“I mean, no, they’re all squiggly and weird. But this art … it’s good art. I like it.” I seriously want to die.
“Do you?” His voice is light and airy. A little too innocent. “Some of these are very phallic. Didn’t think you were into that.”
My cheeks burn like I’ve been thrust inside an oven. “Um, yeah, phallic art isn’t really my thing. But anyway. Um.”
“You okay, Zach?”
“I don’t even know anymore.”
Ruben smooths down the front of his coat, then turns away, picking up his pace to catch up with Jon.
I stand back, and watch him go, unable to move. He used to be the guy I was closest to, and now he can’t stand me. It’s my fault, too. If I just knew what I wanted, then I could fix this.
We go inside the Sistine Chapel, and it’s amazing, sure. But I can’t even really appreciate it, because everything with Ruben is wrong. I wish I could take the kiss back. Why did I have to go and mess everything up like this? Why couldn’t I have just shut it down? I’ve done it before. It would’ve been as easy as deleting his picture, as crushing a thought I don’t like.
I slow my step, as a spark of realization pricks in the back of my mind.
Shut it down. Crush the thought.
Is the truth that I don’t get strong crushes on guys the way I get on girls? Or is the truth that whenever those crushes start to poke their heads up I squash them, and ignore them?
I think of Lee. I think of Eirik. I think of Ruben, and his photo.
Delete. Delete. Delete.
I put miles between myself and Lee and Eirik after I started noticing them in that way. It seemed like the smartest thing to do. I’d avoid them and brush them off until the feelings passed.
I feel a familiar sense of overwhelming terror. There’s an explanation here, and maybe … no, it can’t be that. You’d know. You’d know.
But what if I do know?
What if it just scares the crap out of me?
Could I have been repressing myself all this time? What if my whole life I’ve been avoiding this, because if I think about it too much, then I’ll have to accept that it’s a thing. And it will make everything harder.