MONDAY MORNING is my first day back at school postouting. To hide the huge gnarly hickey Chris gave me, I wear one of his old polo shirts and pop the collar, like some of the assholes at school who do it as part of their preppy look. I also bring my cans to school, even though you’re not supposed to wear them in the hallways. I need to drown out the static coming my way. Mostly it’s dudes asking me what’s in my mouth and girls giggling when they think I’m not paying attention. A few guys call me a fag, but it’s pretty halfhearted. No one tries to kick my ass or says anything as nasty as what’s online. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing.
Right before lunch I’m at my locker, just trying to keep my head down, when someone taps me on the shoulder. I glance over and Ryanne’s holding up her phone. If it was anyone else, I’d ignore them, but I have a soft spot for Ryanne, who always goes out of her way to say hi to me when we pass by in the hallways. I slide my cans around my neck and say what’s up.
“I have something I want to show you,” she says with a smile on her face.
“I’ve already seen it.” The answer to What’s in Wooten’s mouth, it’s cock.
She shakes her head. “It’s my cousin’s car. He’s moving to New York, and he wants to sell it quickly.” She hands me her phone, and I scroll through the pictures where her cousin posted it on Craigslist. It’s a gunmetal gray Honda Accord sedan, six years old. From the photos, it appears to be in pretty good shape.
“Sixty thousand miles,” I muse. “Not bad.”
“The first owner hardly ever drove it, and Hondas last forever. It looks small, but my cousin’s a tall guy like you. Says he bought it because of the headroom.”
I’m definitely interested. I tell Ryanne I’m going for my driver’s test that afternoon, and I’ll text her to let her know how it goes. She offers me a ride to go see it later in the week.
“Good luck,” she says brightly. “I’ll let my cousin know you’re interested.”
At lunch, Tomás has a Hacky Sack, and I stand around with him and Corbin and a few other guys and bat the ball around. No one says a word about the incident, and I don’t think it’s because Chris is there. I think they’re all a little tongue-tied with me, not wanting to embarrass me any more, which I appreciate. Dave’s not around, and he hasn’t come to his locker either. I’m tempted to ask about him, but my sister informed me that morning the big question has evolved from What’s in Wooten’s mouth to Who’s in Wooten’s mouth, and I don’t want to give the gossip mill any more grist.
At the end of school, there’s a note stuffed in my locker, folded like a paper football with Theo written on the outside of it. I don’t know Dave’s handwriting, but I figure it’s probably from him. I blocked him from my phone and deleted his number, and I haven’t responded to any of his previous appeals. I tuck the note in my pocket. Maybe I’ll light it on fire later.
The DMV still takes forever, but at least Chris is there to keep me company. We sit in a corner of the waiting room, away from everyone else, because Chris has questions of a delicate nature. It’s strange, because I’ve always been the one going to Chris for advice. For now, it seems our roles are reversed. It’s kind of refreshing.
“What’d your mom say about it?” he asks me about coming out.
“She was cool, but I figured she would be.”
“And your dad?”
“I haven’t told him yet.”
“Are you going to?”
“Not if I don’t have to.” Yeah, I’m a wiener, but every time I imagine it, it ends in disaster. In fact, I’d rather imagine an actual disaster than think about coming out to my dad. Maybe I should upload my dad to the Sims and come out to him there to see how it all plays out.
“How are you going to manage that?” Chris asks.
“I went six months this summer not seeing him. Plus, he’s about to have another kid, so that should keep him busy for a while.”
“You think he’ll be mad?”
“Yeah.” I don’t need to explain it to Chris. He knows our relationship is walking a tightrope as it is. I can see me being gay as the thing that makes my dad want to cut all ties. I guess I’ve been living in this weird limbo for so long, hoping beyond hope that my dad and I will find some sort of common ground. But me coming out seems like it might be the last straw. “I’m pretty terrified,” I admit to Chris.
“It might be better to know one way or another,” Chris says, “instead of worrying about it. Maybe he’ll be more accepting than you think.”
Chris, ever the optimist, one of the reasons I love him.
“Maybe.”
“I’m not too worried about my mom and Jay, but my dad….” Chris shakes his head. “He’s like a mountain man, all rugged and shit.”
“You’re rugged,” I tell him. “Just look at all the ass you’ve kicked over the years.” Chris is a manly man already. I figured that would make it easier—to have your manhood already proven—but maybe, in a way, it makes it harder. Like, I know my dad has wondered in the past if I was gay—that’s probably why he always pushed me so hard in soccer. But Chris? That’s going to be a huge bomb he drops on his parents.
“My mom will want me to tell him right away,” Chris says.
“Is it up to her?”
“No, but she won’t want me to keep it from him. I just hate doing it over the phone. Not being able to see his face or how he’s reacting to it.”
“I bet your parents would fly you out.”
“Yeah. It just sucks that it even has to be done at all, you know?”
I didn’t want to come out. I was quite content to keep my business to myself. If Dave hadn’t outed me, I probably wouldn’t have said anything to anyone, not even my mom. I’m torn about it. In one way, it’s good to not have to hide it, but in another way, it’s like I’m naked in front of people all the time. Like gay is my whole personality. I’m not smart or funny or an awesome skateboarder, I’m just gay, gay, gay.
“You don’t have to come out to them, Chris. You might not even be gay. Maybe you’re bi.”
“Maybe,” he says like he’s having doubts. “But what about us? Do we just start making out in front of them?”
That sounds like a bad idea too. “No, I mean, let them wonder. Plus, if you tell them, there go our sleepovers.”
Chris laughs at that, which is good. I don’t want him to lose his sense of humor in all this.
“Seriously, though, I’ll keep this a secret if that’s what you want,” I tell him.
“That’s shitty. Why would you let me get away with that?”
Because I love you.
“I just would,” I say.
“I don’t want to keep it a secret, Theo. Especially not with all these randos giving you their number every time I turn around.”
“They are not,” I argue. Although I have been hit on a couple more times since Justin. It’s probably the strangest thing about being out. I’d never approach a girl—or a guy—just because I saw a picture of them going around online, but maybe some guys would. “Guys are dogs,” I tell Chris.
“Yeah, they are. Hey, I don’t want you messing around with anyone but me, okay?” I glance over to find him staring at me intently, giving me the full-body meltdown. The look that has me saying, yes, yes, yes.
“You want to go steady with me, Boss?” I nudge him with my elbow, and he grabs for it.
“I want that shit on lockdown.”
I smile. It’s the cherry on my chocolate fudge sundae. “Done.”
Chris smiles, then glances across the waiting room and eyes up the vending machine. He seriously can’t go two waking hours without eating. “How are you so cool about all this?” he asks.
Something has changed since coming out to Chris. There were so many thoughts and emotions I was keeping from him, little things and big things, that now it’s like a dam has broken and I can tell him anything on my mind, no matter how embarrassing or personal.
“As Lieutenant Knox would say, I’ve been in the shit.”
“Fucking Sean.” Chris shakes his head. He’s still bitter Sean got me wasted on the beach, even though I asked for it. And Sean did make me feel a hell of a lot better about the incident. My problems seem pretty small compared to his.
“You know none of this has anything to do with how I feel about you, right?” Chris says.
“It kind of does. You’re willing to be this whole new person for me.”
“Not new. Just… out in the open.”
I take a moment to reflect on the gravity of what we’re doing. Straight couples don’t have to go through near as much bullshit to be together. Make great proclamations about their sexuality or worry about which of their family members are going to disown them, or in my case, cut off my mythical trust fund. West Side Story, my ass—what bliss.
“Hey, guess who else is gay?” I say to Chris.
“Who?”
“Uncle Theo.”
“Cocksucker Uncle Theo?”
“Yup.”
“Wow.”
“I know. He totally has a crush on one of the nurses at the home.”
“Really? Is that how you found out he was gay?”
“Yeah, and he more or less told me after I came out to him. It’s this whole secret society, Chris.”
“Apparently.”
“The cool club.”
“That might be overselling it.”
I chuckle. “Maybe so.”
The lady behind the counter calls me up then, and Chris tosses me his keys. “Good luck, Killer.”
I pull Chris’s car around back, and an older guy gets in and introduces himself. We go through the three-point turn and parking between the orange cones. Then we go out to the road, and he tells me to stop, and I do so without making it too abrupt. I make a few turns with signals and handle some traffic lights. I merge and adhere to right-of-way and do everything I think I’m supposed to. When the car is safely parked back at the DMV, I ask the guy how I did.
“You did great,” he says with more enthusiasm than anyone working inside has shown me. “Remember, no drinking, no drugs, and no texting.”
“Yes, sir.”
Driver’s test: slayed.
The smile on my face is huge when they take my picture. I come back out to Chris, show him my new license with the plastic still warm from the machine, and ask him if he thinks my smile is too eager.
“What?” he says like I’m crazy.
“Does it look like I’m trying too hard?”
“To do what?”
“I don’t know. Do I look stupid?”
“No, Theo, you look happy.” Then, in front of everyone in the DMV, he hooks his arm around my neck and plants a big fat kiss on my cheek.
No one at the DMV is impressed. Except, of course, for me.
And I get to drive us home.
WE TAKE the long way home, along the intercoastal with the windows down and the wind in our hair. I’m driving legally at last. The moment I’ve been dreaming about for so long is finally realized and even better because Chris is here with me. My boyfriend. I say it in my head a few times. It sounds so strange, but I love it.
Chris is smiling and humming to himself. I ask him what he’s thinking about, and he glances over like I caught him up to no good.
“Nothing.” He shakes his head like he’s embarrassed.
“Tell me.”
“I’ve been thinking about all these little things between us, times when I thought maybe you were into me, but I was actually too afraid to go for it.”
I smile. Sounds familiar. “Like, when?”
“When I first got back from Cali and I was showing you my board. I was totally going to kiss you in the shed, but I wussed out.”
A lustful heat rises up in me at the memory of it. Boy, that would have cleared up some things.
“Sebastian, obviously,” he continues, “and then, that night you slept over when we were cuddling. All I wanted was to make out with you, but it felt wrong because you were all sad and depressed about your dad. I promised myself the next day I’d make a move.”
“So why didn’t you?”
He shakes his head. “I was warming up to it during our basketball game when Dave pulled up.”
“That’s when I told him I was done.”
“I figured.”
“The only reason I ever started hooking up with him was to get over you.”
Chris frowns. “I wish you hadn’t told me that. I really hate that guy.”
“He’s not all bad.”
“He’s a fucking asshole, Theo. Look what he did to you. And I hate that he got to you first.”
I shake my head. Chris is an only child who’s never had to share his toys unless he wanted to. Same with his parents’ affection. His jealous streak comes out in moments like these where he practically says mine, mine, mine.
“I hated watching Kelli Keyhoe slobber all over you my entire freshman year.”
He sighs. “Yeah, my bad.” He runs his hand over the dashboard and inspects his fingers. Chris’s car is filthy. Maybe because his mom’s kind of a neat freak, he totally lets his car go. Talk about roaches. I’m never falling asleep in here.
“So, what’d you guys do when you were together?” Chris asks, going out of his way to sound casual about it, like he’s asking for the morning surf report.
“Me and Dave?” I ask, playing dumb.
“Yeah, who else?”
“I got pretty good at FIFA.”
I expect him to laugh at that, smile at least, but instead his frown deepens. “Fine, don’t tell me,” Chris says with a pout. I give him a look.
“Don’t make that face.” His mouth shouldn’t hold so much sway over me.
“What? I tell you everything.”
That’s true; even when I’d rather him not tell me, he does.
“Hand jobs. Blowjobs. That’s about it.”
“Was it good?”
I clear my throat. This is what they call a trick question. “It wasn’t… bad.”
“Did you want to have sex with him?”
My face heats up. There are really no limits to what Chris will ask me.
“Butt sex?”
He chuckles a bit. Nothing gets Chris going like a little crude humor. “Yeah, Theo, butt sex.” He really accentuates the word butt.
I lick my lips, unable to wipe the giddy smile off my face I get whenever the topic of sex comes up between us. Feels like I’m sucking on helium. “Not really.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. We didn’t have a super strong connection. We only knew each other for like, a month.”
Chris is quiet for a moment, and then, “Do you want to have butt sex with me?”
I laugh, a nervous little giggle, and steal a glance. Chris looks pretty serious about it. It’s difficult to have this conversation and still pay attention to the road. “Um, yeah,” I say when I’ve recovered.
“Really?”
“Why do you sound so surprised?”
“I don’t know. A couple months ago, you’d never even kissed a girl, and now you’re like this sex-crazed horndog.”
I shake my head at how quickly the tables are turned. Suddenly I’m the horny one, not him. “You’re the one who brought it up, Chris. I can’t help my hormones. And you’re still the only person I’ve ever kissed.”
“Yeah?” He sounds pleased with that.
“Yeah.”
“Cool.”
We drift off into silence. Chris stares out the window, and I concentrate on my driving. But the cat’s out of the bag, only in this case, it’s butt sex. He never told me how he feels about it. Chris got me to show my cards without revealing his own hand. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him, but I’m afraid he’ll say no. Or he’ll feel like he has to say yes and I won’t be able to tell the difference. Does he think I’m a slut because I want to have sex with him? Maybe he’d rather wait, but now there’s this pressure to act. We can wait if that’s what he wants. I just want him to be my first, whenever the time comes. I know him better than anyone else, and most importantly, I trust him.
When we get back to our houses, Chris tells me to come up because his parents won’t be home for a couple of hours and he wants to make out with me. He says it so directly that I stutter and blush and get really tongue-tied. I would never in a million years say something like that, even to him. I guess that’s why we work.
“Is Paloma home?” I ask him as we’re walking up his driveway. Her hours are pretty irregular. On the weekends when they travel, she house-sits and doesn’t work at all during the week. I’ve never had a housekeeper before, so I don’t know what’s normal, but ever since Chris became old enough that he didn’t need someone to watch him or drive him places, Paloma pretty much sets her own schedule and does whatever she thinks will help out the most. I think Chris’s parents feel bad about being gone so much, and they like having Paloma around to keep Chris company.
In response to my question, Chris shrugs. “If she is, I’ll shut my door.”
I follow him inside. We say hi to Paloma and tell her the food she’s cooking smells delicious. Chris asks her what’s for dinner, and she gives him the rundown of the roast chicken and sides in somewhat excessive detail. It’s this whole exchange between them. I can practically see Chris salivating over it. Paloma loves the way he eats, as does my own mother. Chris asks if she’s going to make “the flaky biscuits,” and they have this whole back-and-forth about which specific biscuit he means. I can tell they’re both loving it, Chris because he gets to go into further detail about food, and Paloma because she loves the way he appreciates her cooking. She has all kinds of pet names for him—Christiano (the Spanish version of his name), Rubito (blondie), and my favorite, Gordito (little fatty). Finally they reach a consensus on which biscuits will be prepared for tonight’s feast, and by now I’m about to beg for a seat at the table because my mouth’s watering as well.
On our way upstairs, I tease Chris about his food fetish.
“I could listen to Paloma talk about food all day long,” he says.
“You have no idea how spoiled you are, Gordito.”
He grins. “I have some idea.”
In his room, he shuts the door and turns on some music—this weird electronica I’ve dubbed “Club Mario Kart.” Maybe he wants it to sound like we’re playing video games. I don’t have time to be nervous because he heads straight for me like a shark, bumps me with his chest until I’m backed up to the edge of his bed. Once there, he peels back the collar of my shirt to inspect his handiwork.
“I still can’t believe I did that,” he says, but he seems a little excited by it. I’ve looked at the mark several times since he gave it to me, even poked at it to feel the bruise. Evidence of his mouth on my skin.
With his finger, he traces up my neck, along my jaw, stopping to turn my chin toward him. He stares at me with a look I’ve come to recognize—dewy eyes, parted lips, heavy breathing. I like the way lust looks on Chris, especially knowing it’s for me.
“The first time I saw you,” he says as he nuzzles his nose against mine.
“Yeah?” I curl my fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck and lean down to kiss just below his ear, breathing in his beach-salt skin, tangy with sweat. I take deep breaths, letting his scent wash over me, thrilled and amazed that this is happening and I’m allowed to do this. I’m making out with my boyfriend. The rest of the world could be crumbling outside our window, but in this room at this moment, life is fucking fantastic.
“I thought you were super cute,” he says. His voice is thick and husky, both of us speaking in half sentences, drowsy with the desire. “I liked your pretty eyes. And your smile. And the funny way you talked. All the weird things you said.”
“Like Doom Blade is the answer to a Tarmogoyf?”
Chris chuckles. “You were so sweet and geeky with your Magic cards. You taught me a whole new language.”
“Yeah, it’s called Dweeb.”
“I like dweebs. You follow your own beat and do your own thing. That’s sexy.”
I smile, and he kisses the corner of my mouth, grips my hips, and draws them forward until our groins bump together. “You’re sexy,” I tell him. I want him all the time.
“What did you think of me when we first met?” he asks, glancing up at me, his eyes hooded with desire.
“I thought you were scary.” I hook my thumbs in the waistband of his shorts, my hands cupping his muscular ass. When Chris is fired up, he blazes brighter than the sun. I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of his anger, that’s for sure. “And then I wanted to be just like you. You were good at everything—surfing, basketball, making friends, cracking jokes.” This is weird to think, but I probably developed my sense of humor based on what Chris thought was funny. There is no greater pleasure for me than in making him laugh.
“Even back then, before it was anything, I wanted to be around you all the time,” he says dreamily as I kiss his neck.
“Me too.”
“I missed you this summer. Did you miss me?”
“Yes,” I whisper. Yes and yes and yes….
“Then why didn’t you call me?” He sounds hurt by it.
“I was trying to get over you.”
“But you couldn’t.”
I shake my head. Lord, how I tried. He grips the nape of my neck with one hand and draws my mouth to his, kissing me softly at first, deepening as our tongues find each other, a slow and sensual dance. I let him lead. Wherever Chris goes, I’ll follow.
My hands crawl up under his shirt, and he pulls it over his shoulders in one deft move. He tugs at mine, and I lift my arms for him to disrobe me.
“This isn’t fair,” I tell him as my fingers travel over the grooves in his abs, making their way down to his hipbones, all those hard lines on smooth skin. I sit down on the edge of his bed, eye level with his dips, kissing one exquisitely sculpted groove and then the other.
“All yours,” he says, thrusting his pelvis forward and turning me on even more. I go to reach for the button on his pants, and he pushes my shoulders until I’m flat on my back on his bed, climbs on top of me, and splays both hands across my chest to hold me down. As if I would go anywhere. “Is it weird I want to lick all of this?” he asks.
“I’m not edible,” I remind him, using my arms to shield my chest from the intensity of his gaze.
He pulls my hands away and anchors them to the bed. “Don’t be shy,” he whispers into my ear. “Not with me.” He kisses my throat, drags his lips across my chest to suck on one nipple and then the other, flicking the tip of it with his tongue. I squirm and he holds my wrists more firmly. He draws his nose down the center of my chest to my happy trail, stopping just at the waistband of my briefs, tugging a little at the elastic with his teeth. I shiver because it tickles and gets me all twisted up inside, wanting more and more and more.
“You like that?” he asks.
“I like everything.”
Chris sits up so he’s straddling my thighs, gyrates a little, revving me up. He turns me on with the slightest touch. I love his body—its texture, shape, and smell, the way he moves with confidence in who he is and what he wants.
He grips my upper arms with both hands, tells me to flex, then squeezes my biceps.
“Are we going to arm wrestle?” I tease.
“I’m doing all the things I could never do before,” he says so matter-of-factly. “Now, sit up.” I oblige, taking the opportunity to scale my hands down his smooth back, squeezing the tight bands of muscle at its base, kissing his neck and shoulders, every little freckle that’s tormented me over the years.
“Your skin’s so nice,” I murmur, warm like honey and tastes like spice. “You taste so good.”
Chris juts his hips forward so his hard-on strains against my own. I’d like to go down on him, but he seems to want to keep our touching above the belt, so we make out like that for a while, him on top of me, me on top of him, scissored side by side. Chris likes to get a little rough, grappling me into submission. He still has the ability to pin me every time, but here’s the secret: I let him. Chris’s door doesn’t have a lock, so even though it’s closed, there’s a slight danger of getting caught, which makes it that much sexier and forbidden.
After what seems like hours, my nerves are raw, my lips are swollen and tender, and my stomach has another hickey because it seems Chris really does want to devour me. I’m a little afraid to turn him loose on the boys.
“So… you really want to do it?” he asks, picking up from our earlier conversation. I wonder if he’s been thinking about it this whole time. He’s leaned on one elbow, staring at my chest while tracing one of my nipples in slow circles. It tickles a little, but I don’t stop him. His golden hair is a mess of waves, his lips are plump, his skin ruddy and glowing. His confidence is dimmed only a little as he waits for me to respond.
“Only if you do.” Having this conversation with anyone else would be completely mortifying, which makes me wonder how other couples get through their first time, perhaps by not talking about it.
“How?” Chris asks, placing a light kiss on the center of my chest.
“I think it involves our….” I nod to the downstairs department.
He pinches my nipple so hard that I cry out. “I know that, T. I mean, who does what?”
“I don’t know. I figured I’d let you decide.”
Chris is quiet at that. Strangely quiet. He looks like he’s been called on in class and is trying to come up with the right answer. He licks his lips, and I watch the slow, careful path of his tongue, wishing to lean up and intercept it with my own, but he’s deep in thought and it doesn’t seem right to disturb him.
“What is it?” I ask, worried I’ve freaked him out again.
“Nothing. I’m just really turned on at the thought of it.” He presses his boner against my thigh to let me know how aroused he is. My heart races at the prospect.
“You think we’re too young?” he asks.
“For butt sex?” Chris nods. “I don’t know. Maybe if we were talking about hooking up with strangers, but we’ve known each other forever.”
“I think about it all the time.” He rests his chin on my shoulder with his mouth turned toward my ear like it’s a secret. He draws one finger along the inside of my arm, and I shiver down to my toes. I want to know all his secrets.
“Me too,” I confess.
“I want to touch you,” he says in a husky voice.
“You can.”
He reaches for the button on my pants and unfastens it, plunges his hand inside, and grabs hold of my cock. I can sustain an erection for a pretty long time, one of my many marvels. In any case, this is some sort of record. My breath goes ragged as he strokes me up and down. I love the way he touches me. Possessively. Passionately. Like I belong to him. I moan and curl inward, gripping his back with one hand and the fabric of his comforter with the other. The wave builds toward its apex and my body is full of it, a thimble in a fire hydrant. I didn’t think it possible, but this make-out session just got better. “Chris—”
“Christiano.” Paloma cuts me off, her singsong voice coming from down the hallway.
“Shit,” Chris mutters, and we both jump off the bed like our pants are on fire and grab our shirts off the ground. I button up my pants faster than you can say hand-eye-coordination. We’re in the process of pulling on our shirts when Paloma opens the door, glances from me to him to me to him, down to Chris’s raging boner straining against his shorts, and then over at mine.
“Biscuits are ready,” she says and quietly backs away, shutting the door behind her.
“Shit,” Chris whispers and starts to panic, pacing his room.
I grab his shoulders and give them a little shake. “Relax, Chris. Paloma’s cool. She won’t care.”
“What?”
“Go downstairs, tell her we’re together, and bring us back some food.” I settle down in front of his television and adjust myself so my junk knows good times are over for now.
“Should I?” he asks, his mind likely working over all the possible outcomes.
“Yeah.”
“Come with me.” He nudges me with his foot. I remember the Dr. Giggles incident, when he made me come down with him to tell his parents what happened with the shower. He knew they wouldn’t get too mad if I was there with him.
“Okay.” I hop up while Chris rakes a comb through his hair like he’s getting ready for a date, then freshens his pits with body spray.
“You look fine.” And smell even better.
“I don’t want to look sloppy.”
“Like you just got done making out with your boyfriend.” He gives me a look. “You don’t.” Except he totally does—all wild-eyed and flush-faced. I bet if I pressed my palm to his chest, I’d feel his heart still racing. I did that to him, I think with satisfaction.
It takes another five minutes for him to work up the nerve to go downstairs. When we do, Paloma is in the kitchen putting away dishes from the dishwasher. Chris and I sit down at the counter, and she retrieves the biscuits and sets them down in front of us without a word. Before Chris can grab for his, I push away the plate and give him a pointed look. He glares at me. He hates being separated from food.
“Paloma,” he calls, because she’s trying to pretend nothing’s out of the ordinary.
“Yes?” she asks without turning.
“Theo’s my boyfriend.”
She sets the dish gently on the counter and crosses the kitchen to perch delicately on the stool across from us. “Theo’s your… boyfriend?” She tilts her head, like maybe she didn’t understand him and is giving him the chance to correct her English.
“Sí, mi novio. I’m gay, but Mom and Jay don’t know yet.”
“Oh.” Her mouth makes a little O shape, and she says it again in a different key. “Oh.”
“It’s cool, though. I’m going to tell them.”
“Yes,” she says with a nod. “Yes, you should, Cristiano. Soon.”
“Very soon,” he says.
“Okay, then I won’t say anything about….” She glances between us, then smiles at Chris affectionately, the same smile he got earlier when he asked for his flaky biscuits.
He nods. “Gracias, Paloma.”
“And you?” She looks at me. “Are you the gay too?”
I nod, suppressing a smile at the translation.
“Well.” She points at the biscuits. “Tienes hambre?”
“Sí, muy, muy,” Chris says, a grin breaking over his face. His Spanish, while not always grammatically correct, is adorable.
She slides them over, and we each eat our biscuits—already buttered—while Paloma finishes putting away the dishes. As we’re standing to go back upstairs, Paloma taps me on the shoulder. “Be good to him,” she says to me in Spanish.
“Prometo.”
“And change your shirt. That one’s Christiano’s. I know because I washed it yesterday.”
I glance down to discover she’s right.