Riding With Brighton(36)

Brighton looks at me, and I force a smile. He turns back to his mom and says, “Actually, we’re pretty tired. Mind if we take our dinners downstairs? I think we’re gonna watch a movie.”

I can tell his mom is inspecting us. I wonder if she can tell that the straight kid who was here this morning is now gay and totally crushing on her son. She smirks at Brighton, and I’m pretty sure she’s figured it out. “Sure,” she tells him.

As Brighton grabs a couple plates and starts filling them, his dad asks, “How’d things go at The Farm?”

“Good,” Brighton tells him. “Abe was pretty stoked about the paint sprayer.”

“I heard the new guy’s there. Did you happen to meet him?”

His dad’s voice is excited, and I’m just understanding why when Brighton says, “Nice, Dad. Is that the whole reason you sent me over there?”

“Not the whole reason,” he admits.

“Seriously, is my dad trying to set me up? Because I can find my own guys.”

“I wasn’t trying to set you up. I was just excited for you, you know, if it turns out Samuel is someone you’d be interested in.”

“Who’s Samuel?” Paisley asks. “Is he your boyfriend?”

I cringe. I can’t help it.

“Okay everyone,” Brighton’s mom says. “I think you’re making Jay uncomfortable.”

I clear my throat. I wasn’t uncomfortable, necessarily. Not until she said that, but now his whole family’s staring at me inquisitively.

“Oh,” Max says. “Sorry, I got the impression you weren’t gay. That’s another thing someone should invent—a chip you can put into oblivious straight people’s heads so we can tell who’s gay and who’s straight. What do you call that?” He turns to Mickey. “Gaydar?”

“If they ever come up with that chip for four-year-olds, the one that censors their comments, you should have it implanted in your head too,” Brighton says with a smile.

“What’d I say?”

“The word gaydar shouldn’t be coming out of your mouth, Dad,” Cooper says. “You sound like you’re trying to be cool and trust me, you’re not.”

“Oh really?” He lunges and tickles Cooper, who giggles and smiles and actually looks like a kid instead of a miniature playboy.

Brighton laughs, then says, “Thanks for dinner, Dad,” before turning and heading out of the kitchen.

“Yeah—thanks for feeding me.” The words sort of dribble out of my mouth. My brain has turned into an exhausted pile of mush.

“Brighton,” his mom calls after us. “Stay in the family room.”

He pauses and turns to her. “Seriously?”

“Well, you know, no getting into trouble down there.”

I’m pretty sure I’m the color of a tomato as I stare at her, feeling a little stunned.

Brighton tugs on my arm and leads me to the stairs. “Sorry, they can be overwhelming.”

“It’s okay. I mean, it’s cool that you guys can all talk to each other like that. But shit, now I feel like some little slut. Maybe we should have stayed upstairs so they don’t get the wrong impression of me.”

“Wrong impression? What does that mean—you don’t want to make out with me?” He sets our plates down on the coffee table and collapses into the sofa.

“So I am a little slut, huh?”

“Maybe. But I really did bring you down here so you could rest.” He grabs a couple fries off his plate while turning on the TV. “What kind of movies are you into?”

“Whatever,” I tell him, picking up my burger and biting into it. “I’m seriously gonna fall asleep after I fill my face if that’s okay.”

“Yeah, of course. That’s the whole point.” He flips through the channels and stops when he gets to what I recognize as Silence of the Lambs. “Hell yeah. I love this movie. ‘I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti,’” he says in a creepily spot-on impression of Hannibal Lector’s voice, before laughing.

Shit. I hate scary movies. It’s definitely the most cowardly thing about me. If I watch this, I will literally have nightmares. Which is not an exaggeration. Last year I accidentally walked in on my parents watching some disgusting slasher flick and I was tempted to crawl into their bed for the rest of the week. Creepy weirdos.

Brighton stands, goes to a small fridge, and pulls out a couple waters, handing me one blindly as he leans forward, totally caught up in the move, and scarfs down his food. I do the same—scarf down my food that is—so I can get to the part where I can close my eyes and pretend to sleep.

A commercial comes on just as I’m finishing up, and I practically say pshew and drag an arm across my brow.

Brighton turns to me, his whole face a big smile brought on by the movie that might literally make me piss my pants. “God, he’s so creepy, right?” he says about Hannibal Lector. “And Buffalo Bill….” He shakes his head. “That crazy asshole almost turned me straight.”

“Yeah,” I manage to mutter.

Brighton squints at me like he’s trying to figure out the expression on my face. Then he laughs. “Oh shit. You’re scared, aren’t you?”