Page 53 of Steam

“I don’t know about Aaron, he’s a wild card—but there are… at least four dudes who would suck your dick. Probably in public.”

Owen doesn’t know what to say.

“Owen, you’re a catch dude.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Right. Yes. The years we’ve all spent together have been a really complicated joke.”

“That’s not really… I mean—”

“We care about you,” Reese says. “Trey and Cash are out of their minds over this—and I don’t say that to make you feel guilty. They don’t know how to help you and it’s making them crazy.”

“So they sent you?”

“Nobody sent me, Jesus,” Reese says. “I noticed what was going on but I thought you were gonna work through it. You’ve done it before. I don’t know, Owen, I don’t want to get up in your grill about shit like this. I don’t like it when people do that to me.”

“What would anyone need to get up in your grill about, Reese?”

Only then does Reese break eye contact. Something on Owen’s wall is suddenly intensely interesting to him, and he doesn’t stop staring in that direction as he begins to talk again.

“If I tell you something, it doesn’t leave this room, OK?” Reese says.

“Goes without saying,” Owen says. Reese looks at him again.

“I do the same shit,” Reese says, his voice lapsing into a rare serious tone. “I’ve done it for as long as I can remember.”

“You’re not fat,” Owen says without thinking.

“No, I’m not,” Reese says. “You of all people should know it’s not about being fat. You’re not fat either, Owen.”

“I feel gigantic,” Owen admits.

“Right,” Reese says. “But you know you’re not. Your clothes aren’t gigantic. You don’t weigh some unreasonable number. It’s not about what you really are or how you really look.”

Owen nods after a moment.

“I was probably never fat,” Reese continues. “But you don’t have to be fat to have no clue how you actually look to other people. So I worked out and tried to be strong and hoped for the best. I thought having abs would make me feel like I looked right or something—but it doesn’t change.”

“You’re like… zero percent body fat,” Owen says.

“Still hate myself!” Reese says with a smile, lapsing out of the serious tone as quickly as he had fallen into it.

“I cannot fathom why, Reese,” Owen says.

“Uhh because I’m not a moron?” Reese suggests. “Being a human is disgusting and we’re all horrible.”

Owen has to puff a laugh at that.

“I’ve never met a person who didn’t hate themselves—deep down—unless they were at like a third grade reading level,” Reese says. “So—like—yeah you can’t fathom why I hate myself. You’re basically Clark Kent and I can’t fathom why you hate yourself, Owen—but I’m also not stupid enough to think I can talk you out of it.”

“I’m not Clark Kent,” Owen says, petulant.

Reese slings him a look like he’s being completely ridiculous.

“You realize I feel privileged to bone you,” Reese says. “And to be honest? I’m kind of pissed off you’ve been so fucked up lately because you never want anybody to touch you.”

“It’s… complicated, Reese.”

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