Page 49 of Gap Control

"You ever spend so long keeping something locked up that you forget what it feels like to say it out loud?"

TJ's expression didn't change. "Yeah, I do."

I stared down at the table. Someone had scratched a heart into the surface next to a ketchup stain.

Inhaling, I launched into what I'd never shared with anyone. "When I was a kid, queerness wasn't a problem exactly. Not in the way people always assume. It was more like something to manage. Like a bad haircut you were expected to outgrow."

I could almost hear TJ listening.

"My parents didn't say, 'Don't be that.' They said, 'Maybe wait to be sure. Maybe don't make things harder for yourself. Maybe don't tell Grandma until you're older. Maybe don't mention it on college apps. Maybe don't this or maybe don't that.'"

My throat was dry. I picked up my mug and sipped.

"It trains you, that kind of thing. You learn to anticipate discomfort and smooth the edges before anyone can trip over them. You keep the things that matter most hidden where nobody can use them against you."

When I looked up, TJ's gaze was steady on me.

"I didn't kiss you to start something I couldn't finish," I said. "I kissed you because in that moment, I wanted you more than I wanted control. And that scared the hell out of me."

The truth was out, sitting in the middle of our table, next to the squeeze mustard bottle.

TJ didn't speak right away. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, fingers laced together.

"I don't need you to be fearless," he said. "Just honest."

I waited for the panic to rise up inside me. It didn't come.

I didn't know what I expected after saying all of that. Some kind of release, maybe. A rush of relief. Instead, I mostly felt raw. Like I'd scraped the inside of something that hadn't been touched in a long time.

TJ didn't try to smooth it over. He didn't reach across the table or toss out a joke to soften the air. He stayed with me and let the weight of my confession settle.

Nobody had ever done that for me. Sat in the mess without trying to mop it up.

He exhaled softly. "I used to think if I kept things funny enough, people wouldn't notice the moments when I started to fall apart."

I blinked. It was a completely unexpected comment.

He shrugged, eyes on the rim of his coffee mug. "I had this one teammate during my first year in juniors. Loud, kind of an ass, but he meant well. He used to say I was built for PR. Always smiling. Always the quote machine." TJ paused. "He thought it was a compliment."

I didn't interrupt. I listened.

"I remember this one night—I'd had a bad game. Like, horrible bad. Two penalties, missed an open net, and a turnover in the third that led to the game-winner. I was busy beating myself up in the locker room, but then the camera guy came in, and boom—TJ mode. Big grin. 'We gave it our all,' and all the rest." He looked up at me. "And I remember thinking, maybe if I said it convincingly enough, I could believe it, too."

For the first time, I saw all of TJ. Not only the guy who made people laugh and sucked the attention out of the room, but I sawthe structure of the armor and thought about how long it must've taken to build it, how heavy it was to wear.

"You're not doing that now."

He shook his head. "Trying not to."

I reached for another fry.

"I don't trust easily," I said.

"I noticed."

"But I trust this. Or I want to."

TJ didn't flinch. "That's enough."

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