“What the “hell, dude?”
I blink and slowly realize what I’ve done, the pain and sudden spike of embarrassment pushing me back toward sober. He stands, crinkles his nose, and shoves his hands in his hoodie.
“I…” I rub my temple and slowly rise to my feet. My knees threaten to give out, but I’m too ashamed to reach out for support. “I’m sorry. I’m drunk, and … and I was confused or something.”
“Confused,” Morgan says. He strides back to his bike. “Are you gay or what?”
“No,” I say. I stumble after him and feel naked down to my nerve endings. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I like girls, and just … without my glasses you looked…” Even in the dim light I can see his cheeks are crimson when I catch up to him. I think of my brothers and all the homophobic shit that they always say about Morgan. About him being a “sissy” or worse. But here he is and here I am, and maybe it’s me. I think back to all the times I saw him from the corner of my eye, or without my glasses, or in a moment of vulnerability, and how I felt a snap of desire in my chest, and how hard I’ve tried not to think about it, and … but … it’s only with Morgan. And Morgan’s small, and skinny, and he has long hair. Have I felt this way about Nate? Chud? Any of the guys on the football team? I think back, my thoughts unsteady and slurred, and decide that no, I haven’t. “I’m not gay.”
“Okay…” Morgan says. He picks his bike up and rolls it beside us. He rubs his nose and pulls his hood up even though it’s like seventy-five degrees. “Me neither.”
“You could tell me, you know,” I say. “If you are.”
My mind flits back to our kiss for a second. How it felt to have his lips on mine. He leaned in, ever so briefly. It felt like he wanted it as much as I did. He kissed me back. But now I can feel his guard’s up—that he’s pushing me away. I rub my ribs and flinch at the growing bruise. It hurts where I hit the ground, but the dull pain distracts from the embarrassment, or the tension, or whatever this is.
“I said I’m not,” Morgan says. His eyes dart to me and his normally full lips thin into a razor-sharp line. His nostrils flare and he lets out a quick breath, then turns to me. “I know I’m not, like, normal. Believe me, I know. But if I ever figure out the specific way I’m fucked up, I’ll tell you.”
Maybe I should say it, what I thought when I was behind him on the bike, about how things would be better if he were a girl, about how I can’t bear the thought of us falling in love with other people and growing apart. The first revelation seemed so perfect and important, and the second so sobering and desperate, and when I was on the ground, looking up, I knew in a flash that I had to kiss him. It felt like the universe was telling me to.
Night sounds rise up, texturing the space between us with the yearning cries of frogs, crickets, and the last of the season’s cicadas. I still don’t have my glasses. I can still see this blurry, feminine outline of him that just feels right.
I take in a breath, ready to say it again, better and more clearly. Morgan’s eyes drift to mine expectantly, but I can’t tell him that. I’ve already acted like enough of an asshole tonight. I can’t lose him. What if it’s just too weird? What if it’s a final straw, and then the last thread joining us together unspools? I let my breath flow out and aim for a casual shrug.
“I don’t think you’re fucked up,” I eventually say instead. I run my hands down my face. I don’t want to be drunk anymore or ever again. “This is so weird. I’m sorry. I’m never drinking again. Are we … are we still cool?”
Morgan takes another step back and for a minute I think, that’s it. This is how my fourteenth birthday begins and how our friendship ends.
“Neither of us has ever been cool,” Morgan says. I look up and his dim smile expands into a grin. “But we’re still friends if that’s what you mean.” The nausea recedes a little, but then he points a finger at me. “Just friends. Which means you sleep on the floor tonight.”
“And tomorrow we’ll pretend it never happened?”
“Right,” Morgan says. He turns his face away from the streetlight and rubs the bridge of his nose with his frayed sleeve. “I’ll lock the memory away in a big warehouse with everything else I want to forget. Have my top men take care of it.”
Half of me is relieved as I hear the words come out of his mouth. But another part, the part that still thinks Thebes is beautiful despite everything, screams that locking away this memory would be like destroying a part of us. But I’m not sure I have a choice.
“Any chance we could watch Indiana Jones instead of The Crow too?” I ask.
His arm snaps out and pops me in the shoulder. It doesn’t hurt, but I make a show of wincing all the same. He winks and sticks his tongue out.
“Don’t press your luck, birthday boy.”