Page 71 of Gym Bros
He frowns, studying my face for a moment, then says, “And for some reason, you think you want to with me.”
More than he could possibly know. If he knew how much I wanted to kiss him right now he’d probably jump into the bay. “Is that so unbelievable?”
“I mean I guess I’m flattered?” he says, returning his gaze to Alcatraz.
“Is that why you showed up today?” I ask. “More flattery?”
“I’m not sure why I did, honestly. Peer pressure was involved.”
“You can leave at any time.”
“I know. I’m curious, too, I guess.”
“That works for me,” I tell him.
“You’re cute, Samuel.”
Ouch.“Not sure anyone’s ever called me that before.” I say. “Didn’t realize how condescending it would sound.”
Calyx drops his face into his hands and lets out something like a growl. “It was a fucking compliment.”
“A really patronizing one.” That’s a better word. Either way, 'cute’ feels like shit. In any case, I’m officially ready to call it a day. This man doesn’t do “cute.” He does suave, sophisticated. Handsome.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and it sounds pitiful.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, refusing to let one more rejection from him get to me. I more or less expected it. It’s why I brought him here in the middle of the day instead of suggesting a more intimate place in the evening. Being blown off doesn’t feel as serious in broad daylight. “Did you drive here?”
Calyx whips around to face me. “That’s it?”
“Feels like it,” I say, as straightforward as I can be while I try not to let the sting of rejection penetrate my chest.
“Look—do you wanna come back to my place?” he blurts, his cheeks rosy pink and his lips even redder from the wind.
The sudden question is mind-blowing. “What?”
“Not to like—hook up or whatever—but this is all very distracting.” He makes a generalized gesture at me, the bay, the pier. “I’ve been out almost all weekend, and I think if we just go home—maybe we can make more sense of this.”
I don’t see how. At all. Unless he doesn’t want to be seen with me, which—who knows? “I don’t think coming home with youis gonna change the fact that I’m attracted to you, and you’re not attracted to me.”
“I never said that.”
“It was heavily implied with the cute thing. The sea lions are cute. Baby goats are cute.”
“Cute can mean attractive, too. People call me cute all the time. I don’t show them the door when they do.”
“Is that how you meant it?” I ask. “Really?”
“I meant I might be interested, but I need to think.”
“Interested in what?” I ask.
“Figuring you out?”
That’s not technically what I wanted to hear. “I’m not that complicated.”
“You don’t think?”
To say I don’t understand this man would be a massive understatement. Am I as confusing as he’s acting like I am? Was what I said to him on the dance floor as out of the blue as him inviting me back to his place? I felt like the fact that I danced with him at all—that I shoved my tongue down his throat the first chance I got would be a big enough hint I’m into him, but maybe he thought I was too hypnotized by his beauty to think logically. I mean—that’s always a factor, but it doesn’t take a lot of brain power to know I want him—or for him to be able to tell I do.
