Page 17 of The Idiot

“What? Who?”

Rolling my eyes, I dig into my bag for whatever mystery food he bought. If he wants to play the aloof game, so be it. He should know I always win.

“The fancy coffee place. The health food. The polo. Did you meet someone? Does she work here or something?”

“What?” He laughs. “No. Why would you think that? I just wanted to hang out.” Pulling a giant cookie out of his bag, he studies what look like flecks of herbs in it. Man, this place can’t even make a cookie. I refuse to feel sorry for him, though. The dumbass came here willingly.

“Oh, I don’t know. Let’s see. The summer we turned fourteen, and you had a crush on Miriam Biggs—you dragged me to the public pool with you five times a week and almost killed yourself trying to dive off the high board to impress her.”

“That was planned, and you know it. How many times do I have to tell you that? She was the lifeguard. I knew what I was doing.”

The quiche I unveil from my bag isn’t kelp green, but it sure as shit isn’t pastry-colored either. Why does the cheese on it look curdled? There’s no way that’s properly pasteurized.

“Yeah, your blue lips and the water you puked up in her face said you knew exactly what you were doing. Tell me—has she called yet?”

“Fuck you.” He snickers, taking a bite of his lawn clippings cookie. It’s so hard, I can hear the crunch from here. Half of it breaks off, leaving a trail of crumbs down the front of his polo as it falls to the floor.

“Damn it,” he whispers.

“What the hell did you get me, anyway? Is this parmesan?”

“No, he said it was goat cheese and rosemary with Canadian bacon.”

Dusting at his crumbs, he leans forward, then curses at how it causes the crumbs to pool in his bean bag. Ripping open my quiche, I decide to forgo the goat cheese and dig for bacon’s sad cousin as he gets up and shakes out his bean bag.

“So, what’s the deal, then? Are you on a health kick? Because I know you, and this isn’t the answer to a long life. You’ll be dead from starvation by next week if this is what you’re planning to live off of.”

Scoffing, he drops the bean bag, and does a wrestler’s elbow drop into it, landing on his side, leaving his legs kicked out on the floor. He’s half-child. How he’s not a master of a bean bag chair is beyond me.

“Oh, my gosh. What’s with the conspiracies, Baloney? Can’t a guy just take his buddy out for coffee? It’s a chain. I looked it up. They have them in Seattle, so I thought you’d like it.”

My hand pauses halfway to my mouth with the lone fleck of sad-ass bacon I found. Seattle? He brought me here because I told him my rodeo trips weren’t actually rodeo trips?That’swhat this is about?

I can feel a frown trying to form on my face, but do my utmost to fight it. My brain tells me this is about me being gay as I stare at his stupid shirt while he squirms to get comfortable. My heart tells me it’s a sweet gesture, that he at least thought about my feelings and is trying to make an effort to accept my truth. I don’t want to have to be accepted, though. I don’t want him to have to try. I just want to beus. Theuswe’ve always been.

Scoffing, I jest, “Yeah, I’m gay now, so that means I only drink grass and eat rabbit food. Good call.”

Snorting, he gives up his living room lounging pose and gets to his knees. Walking on them, he circles behind his bag and lays over the top of it on his stomach, trying to get the perfect angle to reach his smoothie.

“Well, I don’t know what you guys like. I thought you liked the rodeo, so how was I supposed to know this place sucks? I had to try something.”

I’m torn between grappling him into a headlock for a noogie and smothering him with his bean bag. He gets points for finally admitting this was a bad idea, but I don’t like being referred to as ‘you guys’. Yougayguys—that's not what he said, but it’s what he means. Why can’t he see that I’m justaguy? Is it that difficult a concept for him?

“I eat and drink the same stuff I always do when I go to Seattle. It’s a Saturday night. Let’s just go to The Dew Drop. Ralph can throw on a pizza for us.”

“Uh uhn. No way.” He shakes his head, breaking off a piece of his cookie.

“Why not?” I laugh at his severity. “What did you do? Did they finally ban you?”

“No,” he scoffs, but then shrugs, going somber on me. Mumbling, he adds, “I can’t take youthere.”

His words are a sucker punch to the gut.

Me.I’mthe problem.

My heart and my brain have a serious disagreement over which one is in charge right now as I reassess the logic he must have put into tonight’s events. I try to make my next words come out casual, but I can hear the challenge in them.

“Why not? We go there all the time.”

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