Page 23 of Burn It Down

“I suppose.”

“He doesn’t seem like your usual type,” she points out.

“No shit.” I can’t believe I ever admitted to her that I think Jake’s hot.

“Honestly, that’s probably a good thing,” she admits, her eyes following me around the room as she flips her hair back over her shoulder.

I finally find the swim trunks I’m looking for and head into my bathroom to change. Walking back into my room with just my trunks on, Cassie huffs out a laugh and shakes her head. When she doesn’t say anything, I look down at my shorts.

“What? Are they ugly? Do they have a hole in them? Should I change?”

“Dildo,relax.”

I cut my eyes at her. Ihatewhen she calls me that.

“That’s hard to do when I’m already nervous and you’re laughing at me,” I point out, throwing a towel in my bag along with my earbuds.

“I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing because if Jacob is straight, I’ll eat my shoe and once he sees your gym-addicted, workaholic ass without a shirt, my guess is it won’t matter what the hell your bathing suit looks like because he won’t even see it.”

Wait, what?

“You think Jake’s gay?”

She shrugs. “I think Jake is in to you. He can call it whatever he wants.”

“No fucking way.” I hate myself a little for asking, but I’m unable to stop the question as it tumbles from my mouth. “What makes you think that?”

“The guy spent God knows how much money up-fitting our shopwithout being asked,after being herethreetimes and not even knowing if you’d fixed his car. He tried to pass it off like he was worried about his cars and me, but it wasyouhe couldn’t stop looking at while he answered Dad’s questions. Plus, you should’ve seen the way his eyes lit up when Dad and I told you to go for a ride with him.”

“You’re reading way too much into this. He’s just a nice guy.”

“Right. Because all nice guys, who are still practically strangers, invite their mechanics out for a day on the lake.”

“He’s not a stranger,” I argue. “Not really. I mean we’ve texted every few days for the past month for like updates on his car and other jobs and shit.”

When she gives me a fake smile and squints her eyes, I know I’ve walked right into her trap.

“Tell, me, Dyl, how many of your other customers do you spend that much time texting?”

I flip her my middle finger in response.

She rolls off my bed, laughing, and pats my shoulder. “Just remember, you promised I could be your best man.”

“For fuck’s sake, get out of here.” I don’t need her getting my hopes up with her delusions. Although, I have to admit, she’s pretty spot-on at reading people.

“Have fuuuuun,” she sings, closing my bedroom door behind her.

I look at myself in the mirror. I work hard for my physique. Early mornings in the gym, long days moving around the shop, and two to three days a week in a calorie deficit keep me pretty cut.

I eye the tattoo snaking up my side. It actually starts on my thigh, crosses my hip, trails up my ribs, over my right pec and shoulder and ends at the base of my neck. My mom would’ve loved it. The beauty and life of roses in bloom, surrounded by crying skulls, clocks telling me we’re always almost out of time, and a portrait of my mother — right over my pec — designed with face paint to look like she’s celebrating the Day of the Dead. The whole thing is black and gray, except for the eyes.

Blue like mine.

Above her portrait are the words Dia de los Muertos, and flowers follow the contour of my shoulder and neck.

From her death bed, my mother told me to live a life true to myself and to keep my loved ones closebecause when the end draws near, time with them is all that matters.I also thinkabout my father’s recent words.You have to let it go, son. Give life a real chance.

Although it probably cost them to do so, my parents always supported me, even when I told them I’m gay they were kind and understanding. I’ll never forget the way we sat down as a family, Cassie clinging to my hand, ready to go to battle for me if needed, the way she always does.

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