Riding With Brighton(46)

“Ouch. Dammit, that hurts.”

“There. It looks better now.” He stares at me, his eyes softening, as he runs his fingers over mine. “Are you okay?”

I rest on his shoulder and close my eyes. “Yeah, I think I am.”

My thoughts are there: What is everyone saying about me? Are they putting together a lynch mob as I stupidly let myself feel content? How long is it gonna take for the word to get back to my parents and Coach? Will my parents kick me out of the house? Can I move in with Brighton? Will I be kicked off the baseball team? I’m so gay. I’m totally falling for Brighton. Why the hell is it taking so long to get back to his house? The thoughts are still there, but the panic isn’t. Brighton obviously knows I want him, the entire school, including Sadie, knows I’m gay, and the world has yet to implode. So I guess the time for hardcore panicking has passed. Plus, Brighton’s still here with me, and for now that’s all that matters.

When Nico’s van comes to a stop, Brighton rustles us into a sitting position. “What the hell, Nico? Are you serious?”

I look out the window and see the truck stop with the twenty-four-hour diner at the edge of town.

“What? I’m hungry.”

“You couldn’t have dropped us off first? I mean, Jesus, Jay’s bleeding over here.”

“Man up, pussy. We’re hungry, and Jay owes us a meal for fucking up our gig,” Molly says, opening the door and stepping out.

I’d rather be back at Brighton’s… in his bed… while he doctors me, but I suppose I do owe them. “I’m kind of hungry,” I tell Brighton.

He lets out a frustrated breath, takes his arm off me, and steps out of the van. His friends are already heading inside. He’s looking a little mopey, so I wrap an arm around him and say, “It’s not so bad, is it? You’re with your friends, and you’ve got me and a boatload of dirty truckers. This is gonna be great.”

He laughs and smiles at me, and my heart sings. Is that the metaphor? Or swells? Anyway, seeing him happy makes me happy. “You’re so full of shit,” he tells me.

He opens the door and I drop my arm. I see his friends climbing into a booth, looking totally out of place amongst the overweight, overtired, old men. Brighton drags me to the back of the diner and into the restroom.

“Really, Brighton? You couldn’t wait to get me back to your place? Because, I mean, I think I have standards… maybe.” I look around what is definitely a contender for the most unsanitary bathroom I’ve ever been in.

He laughs, too hard, at that as he drags me over to the sink and turns on the tap. “What?” I ask.

He shakes his head and pulls a couple paper towels out of the dispenser. “Nothing.”

“Are we playing this game again? Is it time for the pep talk?” I ask, recounting his words, which feel like they came out of his mouth weeks rather than hours ago.

He runs the paper towels under the water and wads them up against my eyebrow. I try really hard not to whine like a baby this time. “When you asked me to meet you at the park, I couldn’t stop thinking that you wanted to drag me into the bathroom and throw me on the other side of a glory hole.”

“Jesus,” I mutter. “And you were still willing to come meet me? You must really like me, huh? What the hell would you have done if I had showed up and been like ‘I’m putting a nice big hole in this metal wall separating the shitters just for you, sexy’?”

“Not even for you, Jay. That slide was about all the sharp metal I can handle.”

I laugh, thinking back to this morning when he was freaking out on that slide. “You really are a wuss, you know that?”

“Really? Do I have to break out my Hannibal Lector voice on you? ’Cause I will.”

“Fine, I’m a bigger wuss,” I agree wholeheartedly.

He throws the paper towel in the trash. “Your eye’s not as bad as I thought.”

I turn to the mirror to get a look. I can’t really make anything out in the dirty pathetic excuse for a reflective surface. Except that Brighton’s standing beside me. I look at our reflections, and I smile. It hits me how strange that sight is. Me and Brighton. Two guys who totally made out today before kicking ass in a pro-gay vs. totally-anti-gay smackdown. “Is this real? This totally doesn’t seem real.”

“What… us?”

“Us… all of this… is this really my life?”

“God, I hope not. I mean, look at us. We look like a couple of deformed, spotted mutants, and I really feel a bad serial killer scene coming on.”

I turn to him and roll my eyes. “You know what I mean.”

He reaches out and grabs ahold of my hips, and I grab on to his. “If you want it to be real, then yeah, Jay, it is.”

I lean in and kiss him softly on his lips. “I want it to be real.”

The door opens, and I jump out of Brighton’s arms.

“Hey, are you guys coming out? Molly wants to order.”

“Jesus Christ, Shaw,” I stammer. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Huh?” he asks, his eyes full of worry. “I didn’t mean to.”

Brighton pushes me toward the door and tells him, “It’s not your fault. Jay thought you were a serial killer.”