Page 29 of The Mayor and the Mystery Man

“He’s awesome,” Cal said. He then shot up from the picnic table and pointed at a pair of twin boys. “Mason! Aiden! Stop wiping your boogers on the blocks!” He turned back to us. “Excuse me. I have to thwart a viral contagion.”

He pulled a box of wipes from the floor, something he seemed to have on hand perpetually, and dashed into the obstacle course.

“So…” Mitch said, looking toward the bathroom, then me, then back at the bathroom.

“Mitch, do you need some fiber supplements?”

“Can I ask you a question?” He crossed his arms over his flannel-covered chest, really acing that lumberjack look.

“Does this have to do with small business licenses?” I joked, trying to delay the inevitable question I knew was about to pop out of his mouth.

“Why were you and Dusty never a thing?”

“We’re friends,” I said, almost offended. I didn’t know why the question bothered me so much. “If I were straight, you wouldn’t be asking me this.”

“Well, you’re not.”

“He is,” I said firmly.

Mitch cocked a skeptical eyebrow. The man said so little and so much at the same time; it was infuriating.

“Oh, stop. Why don’t you go back to the Bounty paper towel logo where you came from?”

“You two are good together. In the article. In person.”

“Because we’re best friends. That’s what twenty million years of friendship gets you. And as I previously stated, he is straight. If you’re going to keep asking me the same question repeatedly and expecting a different answer, then we’re going to be here a long time, and I’m going to need to sit in an adult-sized chair.” I got extra verbose and extra lawyer-y when I was annoyed.

“Maybe it’s not as black-and-white as straight or not.”

Mitch, champion of the full spectrum of sexuality? I had to excuse myself to go die of shock.

“We’re faking it. Women aren’t the only ones who can fake it.”

“That joke hasn’t been funny since the ’90s,” Mitch said. Apparently, my sarcasm had been rubbing off on him. “If you are faking it, you’re doing a really good job.”

My frustration expanded in my chest like a cough that wouldn’t go away. I glanced over at Dusty, who was now chatting with Russ, his smile brighter than the oppressive fluorescent lights of LeapWorld. My damn heart did this loopy-swoop shit as if I was in an elevator that decided to plummet ninety stories.

“Dusty is my closest friend. We tell each other everything.Everything. If he were the slightest bit gay or bi or whatever, he would’ve told me. Also, when did you become a hopeless romantic? I don’t think it goes with your aesthetic.”

Fine, so I was a little bitchy. I didn’t want to be fielding questions about my relationship status with Dusty from my friends on top of all the relationship questions I was getting from voters and the media. My friends knew what was up. This was a fake relationship. Dusty was on board with the little touches and petting during the interview because he was a good sport. It was on me not to read more into it. There was no “there” there.

“Hey!” Dusty returned and massaged my shoulders. I refused to look at Mitch. Lord knew what kind of self-satisfied grin he had poking out from his bushy beard.

“Hey, yourself,” I said.

“Did you know that the gladiator setup isn’t just for kids? Do you want to give it a go?”

“I don’t know if I’m dressed for it.” I had come from work, which meant slacks, a button-down shirt tucked in, and dress shoes.

“If you’re not up for it because you’re afraid of losing, just tell me.” Dusty ground his fist into the knots of my shoulder. His fingers danced up to the hairs on my neck. He’d really run with the public affection part of our ruse.

“I’m not dressed in official gladiatorial footwear. Any results from our matchup would have an asterisk.”

“But what if you win? Remember when we played soccer in that piazza in Spain, and you were in sandals?”

“You’re new here, Dusty. I don’t want to embarrass you in front of these kids by whooping your ass.”

“Mitch, what do you think?” Dusty asked.

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