I SPENT a week at stealthy reconnaissance.
On Monday, after a particularly dull music theory class, I hiked up the hill to my dorm and managed to catch Peter in our room before he left for Oklahoma! rehearsal. He was on the phone when I came in, and he frowned and stared at the ceiling, clenching his teeth a lot, so clearly this was not a pleasant conversation. He didn’t say much, mostly communicated in monosyllables.
“Parents?” I mouthed.
He nodded. Then he told the caller, “Dad. Dad, stop it. I sent the application in. They’re not telling people for another few weeks. We just have to wait.”
Things went on in this vein for a while, so I tried to ignore him—never possible, but I could kid myself—and then I couldn’t find the folder of music I needed for that night’s orchestra rehearsal and spent a good while ransacking the room. Peter apparently found this hilarious, because he pulled the phone away from his head and said, “Hey, knock it off,” with a giggle in his voice.
I found the folder—somehow it had slid under my bed—around the same time he got off the phone. He groaned and tossed his phone at his bed, where it landed with a thud on the bedspread.
“My family is exhausting,” he said.
“I hear you. My father called yesterday to tell me he’d seen a PBS special with some orchestra in London that premiered a new piece of music, and it wasn’t enough for me to play for the orchestra, I should be concentrating on composition as well, as if anyone who doesn’t write movie scores makes money at classical music anymore.”
“High expectations, huh?”
“The highest.”
We had a moment where we both nodded in solidarity, but it passed quickly. I wanted to say something, but my mind went blank, so I just sat there, trying not to stare at him. Peter stood, picked up his backpack, and said, “I better get going to rehearsal. See you later, Logan.” He limped out of the room. He hobbled around on his own now, recovered enough that he no longer needed a ride around campus.
On Tuesday, between my last class and trying to whip the first violins into shape at our sectional rehearsal, I went to the Mac to grab dinner. I spotted Peter eating with Dave and Noel and some guy with a lot of piercings whom I’d never seen before. Pierced guy was wearing a “Some people are gay. Get over it.” T-shirt, so I had a guess for how they all knew each other. Said guy was also super flirty with Peter, which made rage boil up in me something fierce.
I recognized my brief bout of insanity as jealousy, which was stupid because Peter and I weren’t dating, and he probably didn’t even like me much since I’d been an asshole to him all semester. I hightailed it out of the Mac before he could see me.
I knew where a few of Peter’s classes were from my time as his chauffeur, so I took the long way to all of my Wednesday classes with the hopes of seeing him. No dice, but then on my way to the FAC for my music composition class, I spotted him outside Dickinson Hall, cracking up with a couple of girls I recognized from the Theater Club. They moved in a way that was so animated, I figured they must have been reenacting part of a play. One of the girls broke into song—I was too far away to hear what it was, but her voice rang through the air—and Peter laughed and clapped and was clearly delighted. After class that day, I took the elevator into the bowels of the FAC and practiced/hid in a practice room for a couple of hours, because now I felt like a stalker. I played Bach until my fingers hurt and the furious cloud of bow rosin I’d kicked up made me a little sniffly.
I had an early class Thursday, so I didn’t see Peter until the end of the day, when I stopped by the room to grab my violin before my one-on-one class with Costner. Then there he was, on the other side of the quad, and he was clearly on his way to the gym, probably for the first time since getting off his crutches. He high-fived some dude on the way. After my time with Costner, I had a brief break before I had to go back to the FAC to help out with another violin sectional, so Ellie dragged me to the dining hall to force dinner on me. And there was Peter, across the room, chatting with Lily and apparently making some kind of sculpture out of the dining hall’s very cheap, bendable flatware.
I had given up stalking him by Friday, because I could no longer remember why I was so obsessed, but then I saw him standing in line to check out some books at the library, and he gave me a cute little wave before turning to flirt with the guy working the circulation desk. Oh, right. He was smoking hot. And gay. And I was looking for proof of that, I supposed, and also evidence that I’d misjudged him, which I most definitely had.
Most of what I learned during my week of spying was that Peter was hot and everyone liked him. He was clearly a shameless flirt, and I’d been too blinded by my own stupidity to notice. He had a ton of friends, and he kept busy both academically and socially. By the end of the week, I wasn’t jealous so much as feeling really terrible about myself, because he had all these people around him all the time, and I had… music.
Friday night I had dinner in town with Ellie. We squeezed into a booth in Amherst Center’s crowded burrito place, always packed because it had the best food in town. The counter had a line at least ten people deep and growing, so I felt pretty grateful to have a seat.
As I worked out how best to bite into a burrito the size of a cantaloupe, Ellie said, “So your boy Peter had an op-ed published in The Minuteman.” She handed me a copy of the school paper already folded over to show the editorial page.
“He’s not my boy.” He probably wouldn’t even be my roommate much longer, at the rate we were going, since I’d been avoiding him all week while also spying on him. And I wasn’t really that stealthy, so he probably thought I was a creeper now. I took the paper. “What’s the editorial about?”
“Apparently Student Activities wants to kill the LGBT semiformal, because we live in a post-homophobic society where LGBT people are completely accepted, so there’s no need for a separate dance.”
How absurd. “Right.”
“Anyway, Peter wrote an editorial arguing we still need it because some kids don’t feel safe being out on campus. Apparently there was some incident at the Mac a couple of weeks ago in which there was a confrontation between some football jocks and the Theater Club kids.”
“Wow, really? I didn’t hear about that.”
“Luckily it didn’t amount to much more than name-calling.”
I glanced at the article. I’d gotten shoved into enough lockers in high school that I was sympathetic toward the Theater Club kids. “It’s never fun to get called a fag in front of a room full of people.”
“No, I know. I didn’t mean to undermine how bad it probably was. Peter used it as an example to show why LGBT kids don’t really feel safe so that he could argue that the LGBT dance is one of the few places where these kids can be themselves.”
I nodded. It was a fair argument. “I went to the semiformal my first semester. It was nice.”
“Did you actually talk to anyone there?”
I shrugged, not appreciating her tone but understanding why she used it. “I spent part of the time talking to this hot senior because he was the only other person there who smoked. I think we spent most of the dance standing outside the Mac, flirting.”
Ellie rolled her eyes. “Leave it to you to go to the dance by not going to the dance.”
“I did talk to someone, though.”
Ellie solved the “how do I fit this giant burrito in my mouth?” problem by neatly cutting hers open and scooping the middle bits up with her fork. I cut mine in half, which didn’t really help, and then tried reading Peter’s article. I agreed with most of his points, though I was surprised by a paragraph toward the end.
I came out to my parents in high school, he wrote, and I try to be open when it feels safe to be at WMU, but it still doesn’t always feel safe. I imagine there are students all over campus who can’t even be themselves in their own rooms because they don’t know their roommates enough to confess who they really are. That’s a lonely and frustrating way to live.
Didn’t I know it?
“He still hasn’t said anything to me one way or the other,” I said to Ellie. “I know he’s gay because Noel’s boyfriend told me, but he never came out to me.”
“You haven’t come out to him either, have you?”
“I probably should, huh?”
Ellie frowned at her burrito. “I don’t know. What is it you want to happen?”
What did I want? I couldn’t really imagine a world in which a hot, sunshiny surfer-boy type would ever date a dour, occasionally gothy guy like me, but I sure as hell lusted after him. On the other hand, hadn’t Dave said Peter had a thing for gothy twinks? Had he meant me? Was I crazy to let that get my hopes up? Still, all that was kind of beside the point. “I want to apologize for being a dick. I want for us to be friends so things stop being awkward when we’re both home. I want to let my guard down when I’m in my own room.”
“So maybe coming out will be like a peace offering. Like, you’re both gay, so that’s something you have in common. You could start by talking about that. Then you can explain that you’re just an asshole by nature and you’re not being a jerk to him specifically.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Ellie grinned and shoveled some rice and beans into her mouth. “I love you, Logan. But you are an ass sometimes.”
“Shut up.” Then I grudgingly added, “Point taken.”
I TRUDGED back to my dorm after that, rehearsing what I wanted to say. Peter was there when I got back to the room, studying and munching on chips. He greeted me with a little wave and a friendly hello.
Why had I been so mad at him all semester?
Well, I knew why. I liked him. And my anger at my lot in life, all the dread I felt about the preordained future of auditions and performances, needed a place to go. Lord, I really had been an ass.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” I asked.
Peter closed the book he’d been reading and swiveled on his desk chair to face me. “Sure.”
This was so fucking hard. I sat on my bed and took a deep breath. “I wanted to apologize. To you. Because I’ve said and done some things this semester that were not really fair to you. I’ve been not super happy with the way this semester has been going, but that’s really on me. And I totally misunderstood something you said and got all twisted up about it, but I see now you didn’t mean it how I thought you did, so I’m sorry. For being a jerk.”
He tilted his head as if I’d just spoken in Swahili. “What did I say that you misinterpreted?”
How to even explain? “Well, see, so, I saw your op-ed in The Minuteman today.”
He grimaced. “Oh.”
“No, I thought it was good. I agreed with it.”
He met my gaze. “Okay.”
“I’m not… this conversation isn’t about the op-ed, I just wanted you to know that I read it. So I know. That you’re gay.”
He picked up his pen and started twirling it around his fingers. “Okay.”
“So, look, I just wanted you to know, I’m gay too, and you said this thing when I gave you a ride to class the other day about a career in theater being gay, and I totally get you were mocking the sentiment, not that you were using ‘gay’ as a pejorative, but I thought at the time that you were, and… I’m sorry, I really am.”
He shifted his weight in his chair and wheeled closer to me. “What are you saying?”
I couldn’t look at him, so I stared at the popcorn stucco of our ceiling. “I totally misjudged you, okay? I was wrong to be such a dick. We kind of got off on the wrong foot that night last semester that you yelled at me about smoking, and I let that cloud my judgment.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot about that.”
“And then I guess I just assumed you were a straight, dumb jock with no interest in his fey musical roommate, and I was kind of mean to you, and I apologize.”
His eyes went wide, but his lips curved into a smile. “You thought I was a dumb jock?”
I took a deep breath and looked at him. He was sitting close to me now, only a couple of inches separating our knees.
“I… yeah. I mean, you are, but you’re a gay dumb jock, huh?”
He grinned. “I was wondering about what you thought of me, I admit. Not to be stereotypical, because obviously I believe you should be whoever you are, but I guess I thought… but maybe I was projecting?” He shook his head. “You’re right, we totally got off on the wrong foot with each other. I guessed you were gay but assumed you were still in the closet.”
“Really?” I laughed now, surprised more than amused. “Why did you think so?”
“You never said anything. You don’t date.”
“Same is true for you, as far as I can tell.”
“That’s only because I didn’t say anything because I thought you maybe had some kind of identity crisis, or you didn’t know. Well, I mean, that’s not why I didn’t date. I did date a little. I went out with this guy Jason for a couple of weeks? Didn’t really go anywhere, though. So I didn’t mention it to you.” He shook his head. “That’s not important. I didn’t come out to you because I couldn’t tell what your deal was, and you’re so prickly all the time.”
“But you thought I was closeted?”
“I don’t know. You’re hard to read.” He shrugged. “I caught you checking out that guy Ben from the fourth floor when we were doing laundry a few weeks ago, so I was like, ‘Oh good, he’s not dead inside after all,’ but then I thought it was weird that you hadn’t said anything. And I was like, ‘Hey, I’m pretty easygoing. Logan should be able to be himself around me.’ But if you thought—”
“Yeah.”
He tilted his head. “Well. This may be a rude thing for me to ask, but are you out?”
“Yeah, mostly. I mean, my parents and my friends know. I’ve dated half the music department.” This was a slight exaggeration. I’d dated a bassoonist named Eddie who’d dumped me when he made it into an orchestra in Boston and moved away abruptly, and I occasionally exchanged blow jobs with a hot oboe player named Linus who could do amazing things with his tongue. But this was beside the point.
Peter stared at me for a long moment. “This is very ‘Gift of the Magi.’”
“How so?”
“You didn’t want to come out to me because you thought I was a dumb jock, and I didn’t want to come out to you because I was worried you were in the closet. So basically you sold your hair to buy me a Christmas present while I was out buying you combs for your long, luscious hair.”
I let out a confused burst of laughter. “What?”
“It’s a strained metaphor, but you know what I mean.”
I did. I nodded. “I’m really not as much of an ass as I’ve been acting all semester. I mean, I probably am a little, but I just thought we had nothing in common.”
“We probably don’t have much in common besides that we both like boys.”
“That can’t be true.”
He seemed tickled. I was honestly surprised at myself for being so forthright.
“So your op-ed,” I said. “When you talked about some gay kids not feeling able to be themselves in their own room, you thought you were talking about me, didn’t you?”
“Not just you.” He shook his head. “I mean, I thought you were holding yourself back, which means I probably should have talked to you sooner, but I guess I assumed you knew about me because I hang around with the Queer Student Union kids all the time.”
“You do?” Didn’t he hang out with the football brigade? It took my brain a moment to catch up to the fact that Dave had said he knew Peter through the QSU. “What about Lily?”
“Well, the girl you thought was my girlfriend is actually a lesbian. She’s the president of the QSU.”
I winced. “There’s a ‘when you assume…’ joke coming, isn’t there?”
He shrugged. “You already admitted to being an ass. I accept your apology, by the way.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I nodded.
“Hey, look at me,” said Peter.
I wasn’t sure how long I’d been staring at my shoes, but I had to look up to meet Peter’s gaze again. Dave’s “gothy twink” comment flashed in my mind again as I looked into his eyes. Did he… like me? I felt like an idiot for even having the thought, and I assumed he wasn’t as attracted to me as I was to him, but hope sprung suddenly, and I leaned forward.
“I’m glad you said something,” Peter said.
“I’m sorry,” I repeated, though I was caught up in his gaze now. He had really pretty blue eyes. A tuft of his perfect blond hair had fallen out of its coif and dangled over his forehead.
“No, I don’t need you to apologize. I accepted it. I understand. I just… that is, since we met, I….” He leaned forward and shook his head. “God, I’m probably about to make this about eighty times worse, but honestly? You being out makes me feel like much less of a perv for finding you attractive.”
My heart stopped. “What? Really?”
“Yeah, are you kidding? You’ve got that dark-haired, pale thing going on.” He waved his hand in front of me. I mentally kicked myself for not putting the clues together sooner. “You’re so pissed off all the time, but for whatever reason, that just drew me in more. I wanted to… smooth down your ruffled feathers.” He shook his head. “Sorry, that sounds stupid.”
“No, it’s….” It was sweet. Perfect. I was totally charmed, in danger of melting into a puddle right there on my bed. “That’s… I mean, you have to know how hot you are.” Then I remembered Fred mentioning “that hot guy” in the QSU. “The QSU people I know all refer to you as ‘that hot blond guy.’”
He scoffed. “Are you serious?”
“Not to your face, apparently. But yeah. I didn’t put that together until just now, but a couple of my friends have been telling me about the hot guy who comes to QSU meetings for months, so he must be you.”
“There are other….” He tilted his head. “I mean, it could be Dave or Noel or….”
“You, surfer boy. I’m just saying. You’re all blond and abs.”
He grinned. “You think I’m hot, is what you’re saying.”
I rolled my eyes, mostly for show. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Well, Logan, if you ever pull that stick out of your ass, I’m right here on the other side of the room.”
What was he saying? Did he want me? Was that an invitation? I was too flabbergasted to say anything. He seemed to lose patience, huffing out a breath and leaning away from me. He moved like he was about to stand up, but I couldn’t have that, not without figuring out what he really meant.
So I acted. I hooked a hand around his head, pulled him back close to me, and smashed my lips against his.
Peter let out a surprised gasp that feathered over my lips before he kissed me back, opening his mouth like he was trying to devour me. My poor sexually deprived body went instantly on red alert, tingling everywhere as my senses caught up with what my head had decided to do. His lips were soft and his mouth was hot, and he tasted like spearmint gum. The hair at the base of his skull was just as soft as I’d imagined, and his skin was warm and smooth. He put his big meaty hands on my shoulders, and a sigh passed through me. Finally, my body seemed to be saying.
He pulled away slightly and met my gaze. “Is this what you want?” he asked softly.
“I’ve been thinking about it since the first time I saw your stupid, beautiful face.”
“I love that you still sound pissed off about it.”
Then he kissed me. And I got no studying done that night.