Boys of West Denton ✓

chapter two

Sebastian

Harrisons' hair is still wet from the lake, slicked back as if he meant to show off his strong, squarish face. His cheeks are flushed a blotchy crimson, although I'm pretty sure it's due to the cold, and not the shots of tequila I saw him downing with Liam Grande earlier. The light of the filet shack behind us casts a warm golden light on him, one that catches the droplets of water on his temples and makes his skin glow.

Y'know, he really is a punchable bastard.

"Not all Midwestern gays drive Subarus," I tell him, because it should be obvious. How sad is it that I'm allowing myself to feel emasculated by Harrison McCammon, of all people. I hop into the truck, trying not to get too pissed off. I'm too tired to deal with his petty, microaggressive bullshit today.

I'm not even buckled in when Harris rips open the passenger door and gives me a wide-eyed stare, tilting his head as if he's confused about something. Meanwhile, all I'm thinking of is the feeling of his hands firm against my chest, head tilted up as our lips pressed together, him murmuring my own name against my mouth.

Which, whatever. Whatever. He never talked to me again after that. So, screw Harrison McCammon, and his stupid parted lips. Fucking mouthbreather.

But then he asks, "You're gay?"

And all I want to ask back is, How fucking drunk were you? But I don't. I just say, "Uhhhh, yeah? We kissed once, dude."

His face crumples. Somehow, his eyes get even wider.

So, um, he most definitely does not remember that.

The back of my neck heats up. "Do you ... do you not remember that?"

"Fuck no," Harris says, shaking his head. He lifts himself into the truck and sits in the passenger seat, staring forward a few moments before looking over at me. "When was that?"

"Elana Doorsey's New Years party," I tell him. Everyone was there, even me and Saanvi. It was right after Evan and I broke up, and it was where everyone said Liam temporarily dumped Harris for the umpteenth time. I figured I was a rebound kind of situation for him, and that's why I was so easily ignored the Monday after the party. Harris never even tried to speak to me after that—not that he ever had before, of course.

"Oh." He winces. "I don't remember any of that."

I blink. "Not any of it?"

"No. That whole night is ... well. A blur, pretty much. I didn't even realize you were gay."

I shrug, even though it stings more than I'd like it to. If Harris doesn't remember our kiss, then there's no way I could possibly expect him to recall my own queerness. I'm content in the closet—that's why Evan and I broke up, after all. Because, even if I loved him, the idea of coming out to my parents, who aren't the nice kind of Methodist, was far from appealing. And that was a no-go for Evan. I don't understand how or why it stings, the fact that Harris doesn't know. I don't know, maybe it would have been nice to have someone aside Saanvi and Evan be in the know. Someone who gets it who's not my ex.

I start the engine and peel out of the parking space, tires fighting to maintain a strong hold on the loose gravel. Harris stares out the front dash the whole time. I want to tell him it's okay, he's allowed to make eye contact with me. I won't verbally eat his face off, not like Saanvi would. I'm by and large apathetic to most people. I don't think it's misanthropy, I think it's laziness. In this case, I'd feel quite comfortable declaring it the latter. The garden of fucks I give about Harrison is completely devoid of any and all signs of fuck-giving life.

I'm playing Mountain Goats on the radio, from off one of the CDs that Saanvi and I burnt together when we were thirteen and thought we were the only people in the world who listened to this music, our music, even though we only found it because it was in a John Green movie. I'm having a suitably enjoyable time ignoring Harrison and his marble-chiseled cheekbones until he breaks the comfortable silence.