Page 8 of The Idiot

Why the fuck is he laughing?

“What?” He prods when he notices me gaping at him as he cracks up and brings his pint to his lips.

He thinks I’m joking? I finally told him, and he freaking thinks I’m joking. This isn’t how I imagined it.

There's an awful feeling in my gut. I think it’s sadness, ten times bigger than that sensation of emptiness I felt when I saw that couple. This could change our friendship forever, but in spite of the sadness, I feel like relief is in my grasp. Iwanttotell him. I want my best friend to know me, even if it alters the threading of our relationship.

“Jesse… Iam,” I clarify. “I’m gay.”

The hand with his drink in it pauses mid-air. He’s still smirking and lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh that makes my windpipe feel like it’s closing up again, but I hold his gaze.

Shaking his head, he mumbles, “Hilarious,” and takes another swig. “Make fun of me because my brother’s dating a dude. Who’s mature now?”

The blockhead. Fuck my life.

Leaning my forearms on the bar, I try again. “I’m not making fun of youorthem. They looked… happy.Reallyhappy.” It feels so good to vocalize my opinions, I can’t stop. “I think it’s great,” I add, wistfully. Swallowing against the lump in my throat, I glance over at him to see if I have his attention yet.

I do. He looks confused as hell, but he’s paying attention.

Here goes nothing—and possibly everything.

“I think it’s really cool. It probably took a lot of guts for Pete to grab his hand like that in the middle of downtown, right in front of us. I know because… because I’ve never even been able to tell my best friend.”

His mouth parts, and he stares… and stares, frozen. He heard me. It registered, but… how does he feel about it?

“Are you going to say something?”

“Gayas in…”

When he trails off and glances down at his hands, I follow his gaze. He looks at his fist and then at the index finger on his other hand, like he’s confused. Before I can figure out what he’s doing, he extends his other index finger and jabs the tip into his other one.

“What are you doing? What the fuck is that? Finger fighting?”

“No. It’s… sword fighting,” he says earnestly, continuing slowly jabbing them together as though he doesn’t even realize he’s still doing it.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. I’ve fried his brain. Smacking his hands down, my face goes up in flames as I glance around to see if we have an audience.

“Knock that off. Will you?”

Scoffing, his cheeks tint a shade of pink at being scolded. “You’re the one that said it. I’m just trying to understand. Gay as in… gay how?”

Jesus, am I going to have to draw him diagrams?

“Gay as in… I like men,” I whisper.

“But you can’t like men,” he protests at full volume. “You go to the titty bar with me!”

Pinching my eyes shut, I rub my lids. How can I be best friends with a guy who calls it a ‘titty bar’ and has a woman’s thong hanging in his truck?

Extending my palm with my fingers together, I flash him ‘knife hand,’ a standard Army tactic used for dispensing orders to people who catch on slowly. I try to keep my voice patient as I emphasize, “I go because you ask me to.”

“But…but the girls. Youlook atthe girls.”

Okay, so knife hand doesn’t always work. I need a drink. Picking up my pint, I take a healthy chug, feeling every second of his bewildered gaze on my profile.

The bartender stops by, so I request two burgers, one with seven extra pickles. I know how many fucking pickles he eats, and he didn’t know I like dick. No wonder he looks dazed. I’mas aggravated with myself as I was with him a moment ago. I should have told him years ago.

“No,” I clarify when the bartender leaves. “Youlook at the girls. There’re men there, too.”

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