Tips on Having a Gay (ex) Boyfriend (29 page)

Because my mind keeps flashing on images of Dylan’s fist hitting Tom’s face and because I am resisting the urge to not stare out the window at Eddie or to obsess about the fact that Dylan cheated on me with Mimi, the stupid stereotyped arch villainess of my life, I start another list on my computer.

Reasons Not to Have a Crush on Tom Tanner

1. It’s a rebound thing and he is far too cute to be a rebound thing with those big soccer legs of his. Don’t obsess about that!
   
2. Because he makes things out of duct tape and that’s a little weird, although in a sort of kinky way it could be . . . Don’t obsess about that either!
   
3. Because he obviously is a corruptive force on your morality because he makes you obsess about things that you shouldn’t be obsessing about.
   
4. Because he makes you wonder why you shouldn’t be thinking those obsessing thoughts about those things.
   
5. Because it is too soon. It is too soon and it would sully your post relationship with Dylan who was perfect, even if he was gay. Okay, that’s not true, since he had a thing with Mimi Cote, which is too disgusting for words. This is turning out to not be a good reason. I should cross it out.
   
6. Because he makes you wonder if having sex with a straight guy is different than having sex with a gay guy. DO NOT THINK ABOUT THAT EITHER.
   
7. Because he knew Dylan had a fling with Mimi and didn’t tell you.
   
8. Because he keeps eighth-grade promises even if no one else does.
   

“I think I have a crush on Tom Tanner,” I tell Emily the moment we’re out of my driveway.

“Damn. That was fast,” she says in a completely ironic way. “It’s not like you told me that last night or anything.”

“Shut up.”

She whoops and slaps me on the leg. Then she starts grinning from ear to ear and I am too.

“I’m sure it’s just a rebound thing,” I say, still smiling.

“Of course. Is he a good kisser?”

She bites the end of her fingers.

I hit her hand away from her mouth. “No biting!”

She shakes her head at me.

“And he does make all those things with duct tape,” I say and let my sentence dangle there.

Em wiggles her eyebrows. “Kinky.”

Someone in a minivan honks at her because she’s cut them off and she screams at them, “Hey! No honking! We don’t honk at people in Maine!”

I check out their license. “They’re from Connecticut.”

“They should know better,” she says, mad now. Then she forgets, races around the schoolhouse corner, and smiles. “You got over Dylan fast.”

I gulp and watch the angry New Yorkers in front of us flail their arms around. “I know. I feel guilty.”

“Don’t. He got over you.”

I shrug. I tell her the rest about the Y and about Mimi and Tom.

“Damn, you’ve had a week. Your voice is better today,” she says after I’m done and turns on the radio.

“Yeah.” I hadn’t noticed, but it’s perfect now. “Do you think it’s bad that I got over Dylan so quick?”

“No!” She gives me big eyes. “I do not! You need to live, girl.”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Yeah!” she shouts it.

I shout it back. “Yeah!”

“You know, if you think about it, you and Tom were always meant to be together. He gave you that ILOVEU ring in first grade or something. Remember? And then Mimi borrowed it and you let her and then she lost it.” Em turns onto another road.

I remember. Mimi’s always wanted what’s mine. Dylan’s always wanted to be who he really is. Tom’s always wanted me. And what have I always wanted?

We pass the blueberry barrens. There’s a dusting of frost covering the boulders, the short bushes making it all more magical than barren, or maybe the barrenness is magical.

Em presses the CD button. “You want to sing?”

“Yeah.”

We sing the cheesy musical music. Then Emily changes the CD. “That’s Dylan music. That’s not your music. Let’s listen to some Dar Williams.”

“Sing to folk stuff?” I say.

“Yeah. Sound good?”

The turned-up volume of guitars and Dar Williams’s sweet voice blares through her speakers. Em snaps a picture of me singing. I wish I had Gabriel, my guitar. I take out the little duct tape one in my purse and pretend to play it. Em laughs and takes another picture. She’s so into it, she almost rear-ends the New York minivan. We just laugh and turn up the music.

“Yeah,” I yell. “Sounds good.”

Then we start to sing. My voice sounds low and full of things. My voice sounds like me, not a show-tune voice, but a folk voice, like there should be guitars playing with it. And the thing is, I like it. I like it. It’s good.

Dylan waits by my long metal locker, number 238 for anyone interested, and leans his body against it, just like he used to. I swallow. Maybe I imagined everything. Maybe it was all a big, rotten joke. But Dylan’s shaking hands and sad dog eyes tell me it’s true—all of it. All of it. My heart caves in, but my feet keep moving on automatic pilot.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi,” he says and tilts his head just a little bit to the right. It’s so sad that I reach out, pull him to me and hug him, while people walk around us. People turn and stare. People don’t look on purpose, but everybody, everybody sees.

He lets go first and says, wiping at his eye with the back of his hand, “I read your note.”

I nod.

His voice cracks. “Thanks. It meant a lot to me. You mean a lot to me.”

“Yeah,” I swipe at a tear that’s escaped out his eye and follows the contours of his cheek, racing for his chin. “You mean a lot to me too.”

He swallows big, nods, moves aside so I can put my stuff in my locker. He helps me pull off my coat. I hang it up, grab my things, try to figure out what to say. “You know Eddie Caron is threatening to beat you up?”

He shrugs. “He’s always threatening to beat someone up.”

“I wouldn’t be talking about beating people up. You nailed Tom last night.”

Dylan smiles. “Gay guys can hit too, you know.”

“Thank you, Mr. Let’s-Break-the-Stereotype.”

Em walks by and mouths, “You okay?” I nod.

“You know, Eddie Caron used to be nice.”

Dylan barks. “When was that?”

“When we were little,” I say, remembering Eddie building castles in the dirt at the edge of the road, scaring off the third-grade school bus bullies on our first day of kindergarten.

Dylan shifts his weight back against a locker, looking more casual than he has all week, and Anna walks by giving us a thumbs-up sign like she’s proud of us just for talking. We both give a little wave back and then Dylan says, “You’re always trying to see the good in everybody, Belle. Sometimes there’s no good to see.”

I nod. The air between us is soft and hard, easy and difficult. I can taste the worry in it. “I heard you and Bob were going to the dance.”

“Yeah.” He shifts his weight on his feet, pushes a hand through that golden hair, my golden boy, my Dylan. “You okay with that?”

I step back. My eyes search his. My hands don’t tingle. But my heart leaps with love.

“Yeah,” I say because I am.

“Where’s Gabriel?”

“I haven’t been playing her,” I pause and watch Em fumble around, probably looking for her camera. “Not since we broke up.”

“That’s stupid.”

“I know.” I smile and shrug because it is stupid, to give up something that’s important to me so easily. “Just call me stupid.”

Then all of a sudden, Dylan smiles and he’s back, all golden, all glowing, and says, “You’re my best friend, Belle.”

I scunch up my nose at him. He used to call that move the Belle Bunny Nose. “Yeah, you’re mine, too. But I’m really pissed at you about the Mimi thing.”

“That was stupid.”

“Yeah, it was. You lied to me a lot you know, about Mimi, about Bob,” I say, but the truth is it doesn’t hurt at all right now, all those lies.

“You are a twerp,” I tease and then I punch him in the shoulder. He punches me back. I punch him again, harder. He rubs his arm and says, “Can you help me with my economics homework sometime?”

I shake my head at him and smile. “You’re such a user.”

He laughs. “I know.”

The his face turns serious. “I
was
attracted to you, you know.”

I smile. “I know.”

“You know . . . in the sexual way.”

I nod, and feel my cheeks flame red. “But you were gay.”

He nods. “I think I made myself not gay somehow, but it wasn’t real. I mean . . . I don’t mean that you aren’t attractive.”

He laughs.

“But I like guys better,” he finishes. He looks up toward the ceiling like he wants to hide in the water stains. His eyes shift back down to me. He bites his lip and he smiles.

“You like boys
a lot
better,” I say and he nods and grabs me into a hug.

I let him. I hug him back and it feels good, not tingling good, but good. But what feels the best is how I no longer hurt.

“I’m not sure Bob is good enough for you,” I say.

He glares at me. “And what about Tom? Like he’s good enough?”

I bite my lip. The bell rings. “Maybe we shouldn’t go there, Slugger.”

He hustles me off away from the lockers and down the hall, like he used to when we were going out, only it feels like a friend kind of hustle, like Emily. “Probably.”