Page 47 of Tell Me Again

He nods, but I see it again—his eyes darkening. And this time, they also dart down from my eyes to my lips. Then he shakes himself a bit, swallows tightly, and turns to lead me toward the house.

God, I just . . . don’t even know.

He jogs up the few steps leading into the house, opens the door, and ushers me in ahead of him. And it’s about what I’d expected, really. The house is small but clean. There’s a couch and modest TV in the living room right as we walk in, a tiny kitchen to the right, and then a hallway that must lead to the bedroom on the left. And the décor is... sparse. There’s a single photo hanging on one wall—looks like it’s a picture of him and his mom—and then a couple of books sitting on a coffee table just in front of the couch. Otherwise, that’s it.

“Uh, the, uh, bathroom’s just down the hall on the right,” he sort of mumbles as he closes the door and steps up next to me. He takes off his baseball cap and then grimaces as he stares down at the ground. “It’s... um, the water can take some time to heat up. Sorry about that.”

Dammit, is he embarrassed about his house? My stomach clenches at the thought, but it sorta fits, given his behavior.

I give him a quick smile and nod. “No worries, man. Thanks. I’ll be right back.”

The bathroom is small, but like the rest of the house, it’s clean. I take a few minutes to really scrub all the black gunk off and then dry my hands on a towel. My phone rings just as I’m leaving the bathroom.

I recognize Brenna’s ringtone right away.

I haven’t talked to her since I dropped her off at her parents’ house this morning, and that reminder makes my chest feel tight. She wouldn’t be calling if she didn’t want to talk to me, right?

And this morning at the diner—god, her dad would be home from work by now, and he’s probably told her about what happened. My stomach hurts, and there’s a heavy weight pressing down on me, another reminder of just how much I’ve screwed up everything.

I mean, even though I didn’t do anything wrong at the diner this morning, it’s completely possible she’s realized how angry she should be with me.

But this is Brenna. My best friend who’s probably the most genuine person I know and who promised me this morning that she still loves me and she’ll always support me.

So I should answer.

I pull my phone out of my pocket as I walk toward the living room. Coop’s still standing just about where he was a few minutes ago, his hands awkwardly clasped in front of him, and he looks up at me with raised eyebrows as I approach.

“You gonna answer?”

“Um, yeah. It’s—it’s Brenna. I probably should. You mind?”

He shakes his head with a weak smile. “I’ll just go wash my hands. Be right back.”

I try not to let my hand tremble as I swipe up on my phone’s screen to answer the call, but it does anyway.

“H-hello?” Great. My voice is shaking too. I definitely feel sick.

“Hey, Josh,” Brenna says. And with just those two words—just hearing her say my name, her voice so soft and caring—I almost immediately feel better.

She’s not mad at me. Somehow, she’s still not mad at me. The heavy weight on my chest lifts.

“Hey, Bren. Um, are you okay? What’s—what’s up?” I turn slightly toward the kitchen as I reach up and rub the back of my neck. From the other end of the line, I hear what sounds like a sniffle.

“I just had to call you after I—” She lets out a long breath, and I hear some rustling or something. “Josh, I-I can’t believe my dad. I’m so sorry he did that, I just can’t believe he’d—”

She stops herself with some sort of frustrated sigh, and I close my eyes and shake my head.

“It’s not your fault, Bren. I’m—I mean, it’s...”

“I know,” she says quietly. “But I needed to—I wanted you to know I didn’t—” Another short breath, and then she seems to gather herself, although her voice is still shaky. “I didn’t tell him or my mom why, um, why the wedding’s... not happening. And I guess because I was so upset this morning, he just assumed you must have done something to hurt me. And that’s not—that’s not what happened. And I’m sorry.”

I want to hug her, both because I can hear the hurt in her voice—which I know is all my fault—and because of how amazing she is.

“I’m sorry, Bren. I’m sorry, and I hate that I’ve made you upset.” I close my eyes briefly, and when I speak again, my voice is thick. “And I really appreciate that, um, that you didn’t mention why...”

“It’s not for me to tell, Josh,” she says slowly, and her tone is so compassionate and reassuring. Still. Again. Always. “It’s your choice. If and when and... to whom.”

God, it’s as though she knows the depth of this suffocating shame and guilt I’ve felt about my sexuality for so long.

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