When I found out he was gay, I was scared.
He was my friend; how was I going to react? I thought I knew what there was to know. I thought we were as close—as intimate—as friends could be. And I missed it. And I was scared. I was stupid then.
And things changed. I ran away from him, more than once. He told me I wasn't his type. He said I smelled, and I think he even called me unattractive. I don't blame him.
But that was years ago. YEARS. And he got a boyfriend and I had girlfriends, and I assume we both had lots of sex. That changed. The thing that guys are supposed to talk about with other guys, about the sex they're having, and with who, I couldn't tell him. I knew he wouldn't want to know, and I certainly didn't want to know about his sex life, whatever it consisted of.
And then he showed up at my door one night. Crying. He finally broke up with his asshole boyfriend, like I always sort of thought he should, and he was crying. Awkwardly, woodenly, the way he says I do things when I'm uncomfortable, I let him in, told him to sit down. My parents and my sister were out. I'd kind of been looking forward to being alone for a change, but there he was.
He sat there for awhile, sobbing like the world was ending, and I couldn't do anything. I sat, weirdly, at the far end of the couch, not even asking if he was all right. I knew in my head that I'd probably regret that later, but there was nothing better I could think of to do.
He lifted his head from his hands finally. "Spin?"
"Yeah?"
"Tell me it's going to be all right."
He looked small, sort of sank back into the couch, folded into himself. Like a girl. The way Paige had looked before, the way Manny always sort of looked, the way Darcy never, ever looked the whole time we were together.
"Dude, it's gonna be fine. Dylan was, what, like your first boyfriend or something? Who stays with their first boyfriend?"
"I know."
And it was strange, you know, sitting there like that. Talking that way. We hadn't really talked seriously in awhile, not since we were kids. I tossed him the remote.
"Here. Find something good on TV."
He smiled that little half-smile, his teeth straight and white. But there was nothing on, really, and eventually he started talking again. "Spin?"
"Yeah, Marco?"
"Have you ever really been in love?"
"Sure. Lots of times."
He sighed. "No, I mean really. Like, did you ever feel like the world just began and ended with one person? Like you would die if you couldn't have them?"
"Not really like that, I guess."
"Oh."
He looked at me again, the way he had before. And something stirred inside of me, that old feeling of friendship, I supposed.
"Spin? I miss you."
"Yeah. I, uh, miss you too, Marco…" It came out funny. The way things come out funny when I'm nervous, only I didn't really know what the hell I was nervous about.
Except that I did.
He was looking at me the way I'd always been afraid he would look at me. Head sort of cocked to the side, biting the corner of his lip. The air in the room changed. I couldn't really move for a minute, and then I quickly reached over to grab the remote and try to change something—ANYTHING—about what was happening.
But, oh, Marco, he was just as quick. He leaned toward me as I leaned toward him, and caught me by the wrist. Looked at me with his red-rimmed eyes, briefly, and then closed them and his lips were on mine, and, oh, I was almost in heaven.