Date Me, Bryson Keller(14)

“Not really,” I say. “You?”

“Romeo and Juliet. Not the play, but the movie. The old one, from the nineties.”

“Well, we should choose a scene from that, then.”

“No, we don’t have to do the one I like.”

I laugh. “It’s not that. It’s just that I know Mrs. Henning loves that movie, too. She mentioned it when we first started reading Romeo and Juliet.”

“Oh yeah, nice catch,” Bryson says. “It’ll be smart to perform from the teacher’s favorite movie.” He makes the okay sign with his fingers. Just then the barista brings us our drinks. I take a large sip and savor the sweet chocolaty taste. I take another just for good measure.

“Bryson?” We both pause at Isaac’s voice. Bryson looks over my shoulder and smiles at my crush. Isaac comes to stand at the edge of our booth. I look up and meet his gaze. He offers me a small nod, which I barely manage to return. “What are you doing here?”

“Drama assignment,” Bryson explains.

“Oh, right, I need to start that, too. Having any luck?”

“Working on it,” Bryson says. “You here alone?”

“Natalie’s in the car,” Isaac says. Just then an order is called. “That’s me.”

“I’ll see you, then.”

Isaac saunters off and I try not to watch him leave.

    “You have something on your lips.”

“Oh God, did I have it there this whole time?” I ask. Bryson nods with a smile as I roughly wipe my lips. Trust me to embarrass myself in front of the boy I like.

“Weird, Natalie said she hated the coffee at this place when we dated.”

I look up. “Are Isaac and Natalie dating?”

“Yeah,” Bryson says. He’s looking at his phone, trying to hunt down clips of the movie. “It’s pretty recent, though.” He looks up when he feels the weight of my eyes on him. “Wait, do you like him?” Bryson whispers.

I’ve never had anyone ask me that question before. And it feels strange to have it be Bryson, but strange doesn’t always mean bad. I simply nod.

“Huh, so that’s your type?” Bryson’s brow is furrowed, and his eyes are looking anywhere but at me.

“I don’t think I have a set type,” I say. “I just liked him.”

“Past tense?” Bryson quirks an eyebrow. It’s annoyingly cute.

“It’s not like I ever stood a chance with him.” I know that it was impossible for me to like Isaac, but his dating someone stings nonetheless. The fantasy of our future dissolves like a burning photograph. “That’s the problem with liking straight boys. The story always ends the same.”

I take another long sip from my drink. Bryson stares at me.

“What?” I wipe my lips. “Do I have something on my face again?”

    “I’m just curious about something.”

“What is it?”

“Why do you assume that everyone you like is straight?”

I shrug. “I mean, I don’t always know. But Isaac probably is. He’s dating Natalie now, so it doesn’t really matter.”

“Yeah…Isaac is straight. But I just mean in general, why are you so sure that the guys you like are straight?”

I bite on my straw as I think. I’ve never really thought about it. It’s strange to be having this conversation with Bryson Keller. He waits for me to answer, and finally, with an exhale, I do.

“I think it’s what society has made me believe. Everyone says straight is the norm. Look at our school. The number of out kids can be counted on one hand. I’m pretty sure there are other closeted people like me and maybe even a few who haven’t figured out their sexuality yet.” I chew at my lip. “Maybe assuming everyone around me is straight is a defense mechanism.”

“Sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have asked?” Bryson sighs. “It’s just so shitty.”

“Yeah, it is. But I’m glad I outed myself to someone like you.” I laugh but it’s hollow. “This could have ended badly for me.”

He meets my gaze. “I won’t tell, but on the off chance that anyone does find out about you being gay and gives you crap about it, call me.”

“My personal bodyguard?”

“A friend,” Bryson says with a wink. His phone rings again and he moves to answer it. “You need me to pick up something?” He pauses. “Okay. Got it. I’ll be there soon.”

    While Bryson talks on the phone, I finish off my mochaccino and study the boy before me. He’s different than I thought, but not in a bad way.

Bryson hangs up the phone. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t be. Do we need to go?”

Bryson nods. “That okay?”

“Sure. I don’t want to miss dinner, either.”

We leave the café, with my thoughts preoccupied by Bryson. In the car, one of the Graces’ ballads thrums as I give directions to my house. I live about fifteen minutes from the café, but it takes us longer because of afternoon traffic. It feels oddly strange to have Bryson taking me home…but thrilling, too.

We come to a stop outside the two-story house that I have called home since I was three years old. The house is off-white brick with French windows and a dark wood door that I helped Dad stain. Ivy covers the side of the house, and from where we’re parked we can just see the balcony that’s off my parents’ bedroom. There’s a two-car garage, and above it hangs a basketball hoop that Dad and I use from time to time. We used to live in an apartment, but then Mom got pregnant with Yazz and my parents decided to take a leap of faith and invest in a fixer-upper. Over the years the house has grown and changed just as I have. It’s not as large as the homes of some of the other kids at school, but it’s special because we put the time into making it ours.