Page 24 of The Idiot

Fuck.

Tractor just took a shit. Think you can come take a look at it?

I don’t even get to put my phone to sleep when a reply pops up.

JESSE: Be right over.

I squash the joy his quick response brings me. No way he was sitting there waiting for me to message him. That fancy is just more pathetic lovesick hope on my part.

Wiping my hands on my jeans, I tell myself it’s stupid to care about my appearance. We’re farmers. We’re always grubby when we’re working. It’s not like he’s going to show up in his bright white polo shirt or give a shit if I’m dirty. Why do I care what I look like for my straight friend, anyway?

See? Thoughts like this are what I was worried about.

Letting out a long exhale, I holler to Auggie, deciding to walk off my nervous energy before Jesse arrives. Misery loves company.

Should I say something about the embarrassing way I behaved at that café? He probably has no clue he did anything wrong. Did he even do anything wrong or was I just being sensitive because I’m in love with him and didn’t know it?

I think I wanted his undying approval so badly, that I expected him to walk a perfect line… a perfect line that involved him opening his arms wide for some kind of affectionate embrace we’ve never danced. Ugh. Listen to me.

I’ve called him an idiot, jokingly, countless times over the years, but I’m the one who’s the idiot. He’s right. Our entire friendship was a lie. Maybe not an outright lie, but it was based on a lie. Because the term ‘friends’ was never big enough for me.

Grabbing up a stick, I toss it for Auggie, watching him bound off excitedly to retrieve it. They say that if you love something, let it go. If it never comes back, it wasn’t meant to be. What doyou do, though, if it comes back but doesn’t love you the way you want it to?

Half-ass ignoring Jesse these past few weeks hasn’t just been over the embarrassment of my café behavior or his—it’s been a necessity. I worried half my life about how to tell him I’m gay, and now I have to figure out how to keep another secret from him until I can get over it. So far, I have no idea how to do that, knowing he’s just down the road or a text message away.

When Mom suggested I take a vacation, it seemed like the perfect out. Maybe if Jesse isn’t accessible, I won’t torture myself with the thoughts of him I’ve been having at night. The harder I’ve tried not to replay all my trysts to Seattle with Jesse as a substitute, the more difficult it is to fight doing so. And the more shame I wake up with each morning. He’d really freak out if he knew what goes on inside my head at night.

I used to think the anxious feeling I’d get sometimes when we touched was my nerves, worrying that he’d somehow figure out I was gay. After the intimate dreams I’ve had lately, it’ll be a damn miracle if I can keep it together in front of him for five minutes.

The rumble of Delores’ engine gives me a start. Spinning around, I watch Jesse barrel down the lane faster than he ever has before.

Holy shit. What’s it been? Like… six minutes? There’s no way he was at his parents’ orchard or his place if it only took him six minutes to get here.

Was he at my neighbors’, the McCutchens? They have a daughter. Granted, she’s forty and kind of looks like Elton John, but…

Oh, shut the fuck up, Murph. Jealous much?

“Auggie doggie!” Jesse cheers when Auggie slams into his leg after his full-speed dart toward him prevents him from stopping in time. “Oh, I missed you! Did you miss me?”

Great. Do we have to talk about the guilt?

As soon as Jesse turns his radiant smile on me, my heart rate goes haywire. Now I know why I couldn’t freaking breathe when I told him I was gay. Realizing you’re in love with someone is one thing, but feeling your body react to them in person is entirely another. Everything inside of me hurts like my chest is caving in on itself, knowing I’ll never have what I want. God, it’s so much worse than I thought.

“Hey,” he says, stuffing his hands into his pockets like a nervous kid when he stops in front of me.

“Hey.” I nod back like an equally nervous kid. This is so awkward.

“So, were you beating on it again?” he asks, smirking as he nods toward the tractor.

A breathless laugh passes my lips at the accusation he always makes when the tractor breaks down. Smirking back, I oblige his juvenile humor because I know it makes him happy and seems like the olive branch we need right now. “No, I wasn’tbeating it.”

My face heats though as the words leave my mouth. He has no idea how much I’ve been‘beating it.’

Snickering, he nods and starts toward the overturned bucket. Slapping me on the shoulder, he adds, “Don’t worry, Baloney. I’ll get you fixed up.”

‘Fixed up?’ He has no clue that there’s no fixing me.

I keep my mouth shut, though, grateful that he’s here. Standing behind him as he starts tearing apart the transmission like it’s a child’s toy that requires no instructions,I catch a whiff of his sweaty scent on the breeze. It’s sweeter than it usually smells and warms my blood. I want to crawl under a rock for noticing. I want to bury my head in the dirt for watching the way the back of his shoulders rise and flex under his t-shirt each time he torques on something.

---