Date Me, Bryson Keller(54)

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Bryson asks Dustin.

“He hit me first but you’re mad at me?”

Maybe throwing the first punch wasn’t the smartest move, but at the time it seemed like the only thing I could do. I never want to hear that word. There isn’t ever a reason for it to be uttered, and yet people like Dustin Smith think they can just go around wielding that word like the knife it is.

“You’re not gay,” Dustin says.

“How do you know what I am?” Bryson asks, pain making his voice crack. “I’m still figuring it out.”

“I would know. I’m your best friend.”

Bryson shakes his head. “My best friend wouldn’t act like a complete homophobic asshole.” He stands. “Are you okay?” He walks over to me and studies me closely. “You might have a bruise.”

“I’m fine,” I say. I watch as Dustin climbs to his feet. He’s glaring at us, and when his eyes land on me, it’s like he’s looking at a fresh pile of dog shit.

“You better stay away from him,” Dustin warns me.

“You better delete that picture,” Bryson says. “Or else.”

“What, you’re going to hit me, too?”

“If you do something to deserve it, I will.”

“This is bullshit,” Dustin says as he climbs into his car. His tires screech as he pulls out of the parking lot.

    Even after he’s gone, we both stand and stare at where Dustin once was. Bryson sighs. “I’m sorry.”

I turn to look at him. “No, I am.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Bryson says.

“You should go,” I say. This is not at all how I imagined our first day as a couple going. “We need to get that picture deleted.”

Bryson nods. “Are you okay, though?” He leans toward me to examine my lip. “That needs to be treated.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Bryson takes my hand in his and looks at my fist. It’s bruised from the punch. He brings it to his lips and kisses it. “I’m sorry.”

“You said that already.” I sigh. “This isn’t your fault. This is on Dustin.”

Bryson nods. “You should go home.” He walks me to my car and helps me climb in. “I’ll head over to Dustin’s house now.”

“Good luck,” I say.

Bryson waves and walks over to his Jeep. He honks a goodbye, and I watch as he drives out of the parking lot. I pull down the sun visor and check myself in the mirror. My lip is busted, and already there’s a bruise just under my eye. It’s clear that I’ve been in a fight. I groan. This is definitely not going to sit well with Mom and Dad.

I sigh and start the car. Some things are simply unavoidable. It isn’t like I can’t go home just to avoid the third degree that I know will be waiting for me. As I drive home, the encounter with Dustin echoes in my mind. A part of me is worried about the picture, but the bigger part is angry that such a photo could be used to hurt us. On any given day I can open up my Instagram and see pictures of couples kissing, and yet because it’s two boys, it’s something to be worried about.

    I hate how unfair all this is.

Fifteen minutes later, I pull into our driveway and I’m angrier than I’ve ever been. I pause briefly at the door to collect myself before entering. I stop to take off my shoes and return Dad’s car keys. I head to the kitchen for a bottle of water and find Mom at the fridge.

Mom’s eyes widen when they land on me. “What happened to you?” she asks. She studies my face and then my hands. “Were you in a fight?”

“It’s nothing,” I lie.

“Kai Sheridan, you’d better tell me exactly what happened.” Mom reaches out to touch my cheek. I flinch at the tenderness. “You’ve changed ever since you started hanging out with this Bryson boy,” Mom says. Her voice is too loud. “Why are you trying to be so cool all of a sudden?”

I’m not, I want to say. I’m just trying to live as me. This isn’t Bryson’s fault. This isn’t my fault. It’s society and its homophobia. In the end I don’t say any of that. Instead, I make an excuse. “I’m tired, Mom. I just want to shower and sleep. We’ll talk later.” I meet her eyes. “Please.”

She nods and says, “Okay, I’m trusting you. We’ll talk later, then.”

    I head to the fridge and grab a bottle of water. As I walk up to my bedroom, I think that maybe I should tell Mom what happened. Maybe I should come out to her. The thought is fleeting. I don’t want to be forced to come out to my parents. I want to do it in my own time, at my own pace.

I want to tell them I’m gay when I’m ready.

And I’m not ready tonight.





24


I stay under the shower until the water runs cold.

After climbing out, I wrap a towel around my waist and move to the bathroom mirror. It’s steamed over, so I wipe it. My bruised reflection stares back at me. It feels worse than it looks, and a part of me is thankful for that. At least I won’t have to walk around with marks on my body—just my face.

I sigh. I’m too emotionally drained to deal with this—any of it. I want nothing more than to jump into bed and dream about Bryson. But in life, we simply don’t always get what we want.