“So then why is he miserable and you’re fine?” Marcus crossed his arms over his chest, not buying it. “Clearly he gave more of a fuc—”
“Okay, first of all?” Jasmine interrupted. “It’s not Noah’s responsibility to babysit your friend’s delicate feelings. So he’s sad? Good. It means he cared about Noah. But that doesn’t mean Noah should get himself into a situation that won’t go anywhere good just so your little friend can be spared. Please.”
“Yeah, well, maybe Noah should have—” Marcus broke off, scowling. “Well . . . Well, whatever. Fuck it. I’m not involved anymore.”
“Good. It’s not your business anyway, you drama queen. This isn’t like you and your ex who dumped you because she thought you’d cheat. This is about a perma hidden relationship. Not even being able to leave the house together. Not even being able to kiss outside because some creepy pap could be lurking!”
“Okay, I get it,” Marcus said. “Fuck, Jasmine. You go on forever.”
“I thought you liked it that way,” she said sweetly.
Marcus flipped Jasmine off, and she smirked. Maybe this was their version of foreplay. It reminded me of my banter with Gavin, and I was so jealous I regretted not being left alone.
“Look,” I started. “I get that you’re defensive, but I didn’t want to fall deeper down the rabbit hole of in-love-with-a-famous-closeted-athlete.”
“So if you were in love, tell me how you told my boy you’d keep in touch but then iced him out.”
“I haven’t iced him out,” I said, sharper this time. “He asked if he could text me and never did. I thought he was done.”
Jasmine rolled her eyes and sank back onto the couch. “Big-ass babies.”
I wrapped myself in my afghan again. “If you want to know the truth, I have no idea what to do in this situation. Stay, go, call him or cut the cord . . . Whatever we do, it seems like we’re setting ourselves up for failure.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Marcus said. “But I can tell you that he misses you. It wouldn’t hurt to drop the fool a line or two. Just saying.”
I usually hated when people said “just saying” because they thought it gave them an excuse to say whatever the hell they wanted. In this case, though, Marcus had a point. For all that Gavin was tough and prickly and liked to seem impervious to the world around him, there was so much more to him. And after we’d gotten close, it hadn’t taken him long to show those other sides. Was it narcissistic to wonder if he’d wall off those other versions of Gavin Brawley because of what had happened between us? I didn’t want to believe I had that much of an impact on his life. Except, part of me did. Part of me hoped I meant as much to him as he did to me. And that he couldn’t just get over it and dial up a new fitness model to fill my space.
I wanted to matter.
As if sensing I’d lapsed into a deep brood, Marcus and Jasmine turned on the sound to the parade. They spent the next few minutes criticizing just about every aspect of it, and I took the chance to slip my phone out of my pocket.
The last text message I’d exchanged with Gavin had been on the weekend between Thanksgiving and my return to his estate on the following Monday. He’d asked if I was okay, and I’d simply said “yes.” Now that exchange bugged me. I wondered how he’d perceived it, and my actions, and it was that lack of knowing that prompted me to start typing. The message got too long to be a text so I prayed that Gavin was staying on top of his email and sent it along.
Hey Gavin. Merry Christmas. I hope you and Simeon are doing something more fun than I am. Funnily enough, I’m sitting here with Marcus and Jasmine. Weird how this all worked out, isn’t it? I’m sitting here watching them and how obviously smitten they are (don’t make fun of my word choice), and I’m so fucking jealous. Because if I was a different gender, that could be us. We can’t have what they have because the world is awful and people are hateful. It’s really hard to let that slide.
Anyway, this is getting long so I’ll just say this: please don’t undo everything you’ve done in the past four months. If you look at the blogs and watch the news, the tone people use when they say your name has changed. It’s no longer like they’re talking about a bully who got a lucky break he didn’t deserve. Now they talk about you like someone who’s actually trying to make a change in terms of how he interacts with fans, and who cares about his image. And that’s fucking awesome. Doubly awesome because you didn’t hype the school donation, and they found out on their own. They knew that came from your big soft heart.
The mania around Gavin Brawley is still going strong, and everyone still wants to see DatBrawleySmile. Including me. Don’t fuck it up now. And don’t go back to ignoring your appointments and bills! You don’t need anyone taking care of you, Gavin. You made it all of this time without football, and you didn’t think you could. It’s time to start trusting yourself.
Love,
Noah
Chapter Eighteen
Gavin
The new year started with an explosion of bullshit.
Both Max and the frat daddy who’d threatened to out Simeon teamed up and went to the media with their tales. Two weeks until my house arrest ended, and the Super Bowl, and some shitty tabloid called The Mirror called me with a heads-up that they were running the story.
“What the fuck we gonna do?” Simeon paced my living room, towering over me as I remained slouched on the sofa, and brushing past Mel and Joe with every step. “Man, we’re so screwed. I hate myself. I swear to God, I hate myself.”
Frowning, I grabbed at the back of his shirt to try to stop him charging around the room. He didn’t even pause.
“I shoulda never messed with guys. Woulda been easier to pretend I’m into girls. Or fuck,” he said, ripping his hands through his hair. “Or stay celibate and make up girlfriends like Manti Te’o.”
“Simeon,” Mel said sharply.
“How hard can it be to get it up for a woman? Women are beautiful. Maybe I should have tried.”
When Mel grabbed his arm and hauled him to a stop, Simeon finally stopped pacing. He looked from her to me with wild eyes. The same guy who stayed calm and kept his smile even after a furious blitz by men twice his size was unraveling. Sweat dampened his auburn hair, and his hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists.
“Simeon,” Mel said again, calmer this time. “We’re not going to entertain ideas about self-inflicted conversion therapy.”
“Then what do we do?” he demanded.
“We have two options.” Joe stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Mel. “We could try to bury the story or . . .”