Page 14 of The Idiot

The last few days on the orchard have dragged by. My emotions have teetered between guilt, over keeping my sexuality a secret from him for so long, and dejection, over the possibility that it shocked him so much that he won’t know how to remain friends with me. Dusting a piece of fuzz off my blue paisley button-down, I can’t believe I’m anxious about hanging out with my best friend. I’m excited that he wants to see me, but can’t help worrying that our relationship is still in limbo. If he does the finger-fighting and twenty questions thing again, I need to try not to lose my cool. He’s trying. That counts for something.

I hear Delores’ engine rumble up the driveway. My palms are sweating, and I practically jump out of my boots.

Get a grip, Murph. It’s just Jesse. It’s just us hanging out like we always do.

Except… some foreboding feeling tells me that this won’t be like our usual hang outs. It’s only five-thirty. Mom’s right. We never go out this early at night. He didn’t say where we’re going, and I was too grateful for the invite to ask.

His signature playful knock resounds at the front door. Watching him invite himself in like he always does calms my nerves. At least, that hasn’t changed.

“Hey, Jesse. How’s harvest going for you and your folks?” Mom calls from behind the kitchen counter that overlooks our dining area.

“Hey, Charlotte! We’re doing good. We finished up the first pick of theJonagoldstoday.”

“Oh, I bet your parents are happy! I’m itching for the weekend so I can help Murphy with ours. The hospital had two day-shift nurses on vacation this month, so I’ve been stuck on days.”

“Mom, it’s fine. Danny and I can handle it,” I interject, grabbing my house keys and heading toward the door. I don’t need the reminder that Jesse didn’t stay to help Sunday afternoon, nor do I want him to think I’m salty over it. “Are we doing this?” I ask him as I near the place where he’s waiting.

Why does it feel like I’m addressing a stranger? A stranger in a Jesse suit... er, polo. Why the fuck is he wearing a polo?

When I came out to my parents after high school, Mom asked me several times before I shipped out to the Army if I had told Jesse ‘yet.’ I know she was just curious and invested in my life, but asking made me imagine there would be a fuse attached to revealing my truth to him like it was a bomb. Each time she asked, the fuse got shorter, the bomb bigger. I finally told her I didn’t want to find out if he’d take the news badly.

“Honey, if he takes it badly, then he’s not a good friend,” she had said.

I remember being aggravated by her remark on Jesse’s behalf because how could someone who filled me with so much joy over the years not be considered a good friend? She’s never mentioned it since.

Glancing back at her to wave goodnight, however, I catch the signature little smile she always gives me when I leave to hang out with him. Maybe I’ve always known and just ignored it, but I swear there’s a hint of sadness to it. Has she been biting her tongue all these years, just waiting for the day he leaves me high and dry?

That’s not reassuring right now.

Outside, there’s even less reassurance as we climb into Delores without a word. If we’re going to do a repeat of the awkward silence we had on the way home from town the other day, I’d rather hop out right now and go bury myself balls deep in reruns of Breathless.

When he starts down the driveway, the lacey thong on his rear-view sways back and forth. It feels like it’s mocking me, washing a sense of inadequacy over me. What the hell is that about?

And is that… Taylor Swift on the radio?

Glancing over, I catch Jesse sneaking a peek at me in return. He flashes me a weird smile that doesn’t belong on his face. It almost looks like his ‘I’m-not-scared’ face, the kind he wore when I dared him to pet that sleeping badger we found in the woods when we were twelve. Do I make him nervous now?

“So, what’s on the agenda?” I ask, leaning back in my seat like I usually do, once I realize how rigid I am.

Maybe my body language is throwing him off. If I don’t act like the old me, he won’t treat me like the old me.

That bit of conversation starter has the excited Jesse smile I know lighting up his face. “I thought we could try out this new place downtown.”

“You want to drink downtown? That explains the polo.” Shaking my head, I chuckle as I gaze out my window.

“What’s wrong with my polo? You don’t like it?”

I glance back, fully expecting one of his playful smirks, but he’s frowning, scrutinizing his bright white shirt.

“We always go to the shitholes outside of town or The Dew Drop. You only dress up when we go downtown where the tourists are.”

What’s with that face? Don’t tell me stating the obvious actually hurt his feelings. We give each other shit on the reg. Raising my hands, I laugh.

“Jesse, I’m fine with the shitholes. I wasn’t giving you crap. If you want to go downtown, let’s go downtown.”

Nodding, that seems to calm whatever nerve I touched on. He flashes me a little smile and says, “Well, it’s a surprise.”

A tingle trickles through my chest along with a pang of dread. Jesse’s surprises can go either way. They range from entertaining as fuck to ‘why-in-the-hell-did-I-agree-to-this?,’ like the trip to Velma’s Gift Shop on Sunday. Tonight, though? The fact he balked at me giving him shit over something as insignificant as a polo shirt might be why the dread seems to be outweighing the excitement.

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