Upside Down(16)

“What are you saying?”

“If he plays the ‘just-friends’ card, that is still a good thing.”

“Well, yeah…” I made a face. “Of course. I can see that.”

She pursed her lips. “Jordan.”

“No, I get it. I do. I can be friends with an undercover, asexual cop in the witness protection program.” Then something occurred to me. “Oh God, what if he’s not really asexual?”

“If he said he is, then he is. It’s not something people lie about. And if he did lie about it—” She gave a serious nod. “—then we’ll kneecap that motherfucker.”

“Merry!” Mrs Mullhearn said from behind us. “Language!”

I burst out laughing and quickly pushed the trolley of returns away, abandoning Merry to cop a lecture about appropriate language and acceptable vernacular in the workplace. I smiled the entire time, though my ears burned. Like a motherfucker.





Waiting for the bus was like waiting for Christmas morning to see if Santa Claus either delivered the best present ever or if he merrily burst your bubble, depending on whether you’ve been naughty or nice, and Lord knows that could go either way. At any rate, I was either going to be thrilled or disappointed. I doubted there was a middle ground even if what Merry said made sense—and it did. My brain was the studious, logical type that could see very rationally that gaining a new friend who was also asexual and gay could be like the best thing ever. But my heart, on the other hand, was the blind drunk one, stumbling around in the dark, belting out 80s hits like “What About Me” and “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go”.

My brain and my heart very rarely saw eye to eye, which explained my string of failed relationships well enough. Well, that and the fact that me being asexual was an issue. It never started out as an issue, but as things progressed and time went on, it sure as hell became one.

But Hennessy wasn’t like them.

So, as the bus pulled in, my heart was dressed in neon Lycra, a bottle in one hand and a microphone in the other, singing Deniece Williams’ “Let’s Hear It For The Boy” while my brain was stoic, arms crossed, working on some algorithm or genius equation that would determine indisputably, unequivocally, that I was the dumbest motherfucker on the planet for even entertaining the idea that Hennessy would be one, single. And two, remotely interested in me.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped onto the bus and couldn’t even bring myself to scan the faces. Because what if Merry had jinxed me and he wasn’t on the bus at all, and I’d have to somehow survive the weekend—or God forbid, the rest of my miserable existence—without knowing what he wanted to ask me.

But then my stupid heart broke out with Bonnie Tyler’s “Turn Around Bright Eyes” so of course I turned around and there he was… smiling at me.

But the bus was full and he had a window seat. The lady sitting next to him was the sweet old dear that I had to apologise to for dropping the mofo-bomb, though by the way she shot me a look of disdain, I was sure she thought I was evil, and I didn’t fancy standing right next to her while I attempted to talk to Hennessy. It was going to be embarrassing enough without the judgemental audience mumbling ten Hail Marys under her breath.

So I gave Hennessy an apologetic smile and had to stand toward the front, holding onto the railing. And I put my head down and did some deep breathing, because as it turned out, the worst possible scenario did occur. I thought him not being on the bus would be the worst, but oh no, him being right fucking there but not being able to speak to him, that was the worst.

“Excuse me, excuse me,” someone said, as they tried to weave their way through the people standing up. Keeping my head down, I shuffled forward a little, not that I could really go anywhere. I apologised to the poor woman sitting in front of me for the almost lap dance, but a warm hand on my back made me spin around.

And sweet baby Jesus in a manger, those eyes. “Hey,” Hennessy said, really close and really sweet.

Every suave line I’d ever read evaporated from my mind. My traitorous brain had taken the bottle of vodka from my heart and was chugging away, leaving me to my own devices. “Hi,” I said. Not even remotely manly, but more of a breathy, smiley, nervous sound which wasn’t embarrassing at all. He was so close, and as the bus jostled, he bumped into me and put his hand on my arm to steady himself.

“I uh, I was hoping,” he said, then broke out in a grin, like he was embarrassed or nervous or something that didn’t make sense. “I had to offer your seat to that lady.”

Why the hell was he nervous and flustered, and why was he blushing a little, and his hand was still on my arm? Nothing made sense, because my brain was now doing the drunken hula dance with a Mai Tai in each hand on a tropical beach singing the words horribly wrong to the Beach Boys’ “Kokomo”, a million miles away from where I needed it to be.

This was going to be a disaster.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Oh sure. I’m just… I was going to stand by your seat, but the lady who you were sitting next to thinks I’m the antichrist and it’s Bonnie Tyler’s fault I even looked for you, but now the Beach Boys are involved. God, I need to stop talking.”

He stared at me and I shook my head, internally kicking myself. And you just wait, brain. I’ll give you fucking “Aruba, Jamaica, oh I wanna take ya.”