Page 14 of Jealous Guy

I spent most of the rest of that night beet red and unable to string an eloquent sentence together. Jordan took it as a sure sign that I have it bad for Summer.

It’s been a while since I met her—almost a year, I think—and Jordan still believes I’m harboring a debilitating crush on her.

Asshole that I am, I haven’t corrected him.

I wish I were better than this, but since getting to college, the whole girl-thing has gotten really hard for me to manage. In high school, I kissed girls now and again. At first to check—and double-check—that it wasn’t for me. When I found that it wasn’t, I kept doing it to avoid queer allegations.

It was easier back then because most high school girls were okay with taking things slow. A bit of kissing here and there, and that was that. I was okay with it. It was fine. It didn’t light up any major parts of my brain, but I didn’t hate it. I was kind of indifferent to the whole thing.

The first time I hooked up with a girl at college, things came unstuck. During high school, I had a reputation for being a gentleman, and there, lots of girls considered it an admirable quality. In college, the first girl I made out with grabbed my ass, told me she was horny, and invited me back to her room.

My stomach dropped and my heart started to pound, and not in a good way. Kissing I could do, but I knew there was no way I could have sex with a woman. It simply wasn’t possible.

I tried to tell myself I’d misread the situation, but then she reached for my dick.

At that point, I freaked out. Big time. I literally squawked as I leaped out of her grasp. I rattled off a long list of fervent excuses—none of which made sense to me the next day—and ran most of the way home.

I was anxious for weeks afterward, my entire body breaking out in a sweat when I thought about the encounter. And specifically about what would happen if she told people I hadn’t wanted to have sex with her.

Thankfully, nothing more came of it, and I haven’t seen her since.

It did make me rethink kissing girls though. Obviously, I shouldn’t be doing it at all. It isn’t fair of me to kiss people I’m not attracted to. I’m basically wasting their time and leading them on, not to mention using them to keep my secret when they haven’t consented to do so.

It’s not the way I want to conduct myself.

I probably shouldn’t have been kissing them in high school either, but back then, there was an element of exploring my sexuality. It was something I needed to do to figure out my preferences, so I give myself a pass on that. Being with girls now, when I know I’m gay, feels wrong in more ways than one. I avoid it at all costs, but it’s fucking stressful because there’s a massive expectation on guys to frequently hook up, and not doing so raises questions I’m not ready to answer.

The Summer situation, while humiliating as hell, has been a blessing. Jordan thinks I don’t want to be with anyone else because I’m hung up on her. He thinks it’s quaint and romantic that I’m like this.

He praises me for it sometimes, and I let him.

West and Riley grab a couple of chairs and pull them up for Summer and Sarah. We all crowd around the table, and soon, people are laughing, talking over each other, and getting a nice little buzz going.

I spend my time avoiding eye contact with Summer by focusing my attention on the tiny drops of moisture slowly running down my beer glass. I use what little bandwidth I have left over to try to keep up with the conversation.

I think it’s mainly about cars.

“Yeah,” West says, taking a sip of his beer and nodding thoughtfully, “so like, I’d drive a Mini, but only if it was six-speed.”

Riley shakes his head, tutting in disapproval. “There’s no way I’d drive a Mini, bud, even if it was free. It’s a truck, SUV, or a supercar for me, and that’s it.”

West’s top lip curls up. “A supercar, bruh? Be realistic. Think of the cost. One service for a Bugatti would put you in debt for years. Hate to break it to you, but there’s no way you could swing it.”

“I didn’t know we were being realistic,” says Riley. “I thought we were talking dream-car scenarios?”

“Obviously, we’re not talking dream-car scenarios, or I wouldn’t have mentioned a Mini.”

“I love Minis,” pipes Sarah.

“Me too,” agrees Summer. “They’re adorable. I always think girls who drive them have such great style.”

Riley raises his hands as if he’s proved his point.

There’s a slight lull in conversation, and Jordan, not one to miss an opportunity like this, dives in headfirst.

“You know what I’ve just realized,” he says to Summer. “You and my boy Orion have a very similar sense of humor. Kind of dry. Kind of snarky.”

I smile, showing too many of my bottom teeth, and try not to whimper audibly. Summer has been here for less than an hour, and so far, Jordan has already managed to drop that I can make pasta from scratch into the conversation. And that I volunteered at an animal shelter last summer, and that I know how to change a tire. If Summer was the kind of girl to fall for that kind of bullshit, she’d be all over me by now.