Page 112 of Finance Bros

“Jesus, Mal.”

“I’ve always cared more about what guys think of me than girls,” I say, moving off the ugly topic that created my reality and had no small part in shoring up my sexual identity.

Ryan narrows his gaze. “I guess that tracks.”

“Does it track with anything else you can think of?”

“You mean me and you?”

I nod.

“Is this what you meant about being inappropriately physical? Because you weren’t.”

“Wasn’t I?” I ask. “Do all preteen boys snuggle together to watch TV? Or wonder what it would feel like naked?”

He gives me a suspicious look. “Is that what you were thinking about? Because you never said anything. Not about sex or porn. Nothing, Mal.”

“Will you hate me if I say I thought about it a lot?”

His eyes widen. “You…? Okay…”

“Is it?” I ask, not knowing what to make of the incredulous expression on his face.

“I just want to understand,” he says.

“That answer makes me sick to my stomach,” I admit.

“Is Will the reason you say you’re not straight?”

“Partly,” I say. “Will and everything after.”

“Including me?” Ryan asks.

“Yes.”

“But—”

“Listen,” I interrupt him. “You weren’t Will. You were a kid, and he was an adult. It didn’t start out like that for me with you.”

“Was it ever?” He sounds dubious, and I get it.

“It’salwayslike that for me. By the time I realized what sex actually entailed, it wasn’t long until I heard about how guys could do it with each other, which meant Will lied, and that’s another whole mess of fucked up, but a bunch of the kids I hung out with in junior high all had older siblings with access to porn, and it was kind of all I thought about.”

Ryan goes from looking troubled, then confused, then annoyed. “So, what the fuck happened?”

“Well, around the time I was regularly getting boners every time you touched me, was about the time my friends started calling guys fags and making being gay sound like it was disgusting and wrong.”

He sighs heavily. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?”

I think it’s a rhetorical question, so I don’t answer. I start to move off his lap, but he holds me in place. “Wait,” he mutters, but doesn’t tell me what I’m waiting for.

I pretend he’s piecing together the room metaphor, hoping he remembers it well enough for any of this to start making sense. Formeto make sense.

“What about Kaylin?” he finally asks.

“What about her?”

“Does she know any of this?”

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