Why didn’t I kiss her? Maybe because I knew secretly she had it within her to morph into the thing she is right now.
I gulp and bump into my doorway as I try to gain some distance, but it’s useless because she follows me. At least when I die, I’ll be in the comfort of my own dwelling. It’s small miracles like this that make me feel at ease with my impending doom.
“Why didn’t I kiss you? Well, I mean, you’re just so lovely, and look at you—”
“Jason,” she booms, her voice a combination of James Earl Jones and an unhinged woman on the verge of an all-out mental breakdown. I’ve never heard anything like it, let alone my name spoken with such baritone and hysteria at the same time.
Kind of wish I could make her say it again, just to study the pitch—
“Are you paying attention?”
“What? Of course. You want to know why I didn’t kiss you. Well, you know”—I dig my hands in my pockets, backing up again—“it’s kind of funny.” Her eyes narrow and I swear, I might be delirious, but I swear I just saw her serpent tongue flash before me. “Uh, about the kissing. Well, there’s kissing and then there’s no kissing, you know?”
“What?”
“Man and woman, wow, what a combination. The things they can do with their mouths. But also, man with man, woman with woman, man, man woman. Then there’s woman, woman—”
“I swear to God—”
“You know.” I tap her shoulder and she nearly bites my hand off. Oh God, don’t touch her, man. “I was just going to say swearing to God could be offensive, but I think I’ll keep that one to myself.” I tap my temple, quick learner. “So, about the kissing. Yes, lips and mouths, they do those things you know. Quite a spectacle.” I lean forward. “Have you ever kissed anyone?”
“Arghhh,” she shouts, tossing her arms to the sky and charging back to her apartment, slamming my door in the process.
Well . . . that wasn’t so bad after all.
Jason: That conversation was weird, huh?
Jason: For what it’s worth, you truly held your composure.
Jason: I wasn’t frightened at all.
Jason: Okay, throwing down some honesty. I was a little frightened.
Jason: Just a little, nothing like pissing my pants or anything like that.
Jason: Did you know you have a pulsing vein in your forehead when you’re angry?
Jason: I counted its pulse rate and I think you might have high blood pressure.
Jason: I’m not a nurse, I don’t know about blood pressure, but CVS has one of those arm-pressure-checker things. Want me to take you? #WorriedAboutYourHealth
Jason: #PulsingVein
Jason: #SerpentTongue
Jason: ^^ Oh shit that was for Knox.
Jason: I wasn’t saying you have a serpent tongue. I’m sure your tongue is normal. Not one ounce of evil in it.
Jason: Okay, I was talking about your tongue.
Jason: I feel like since you’re not texting back I might be digging myself an even bigger hole than before. Am I right?
Jason: I’m going to take your silence as a yes, which in that case, you don’t have a serpent tongue. Love that pulsing vein, and not once was I frightened. There. *Wipes forehead* Glad we cleared that up. Have a good night. #GodBless
Jason: P.S. Don’t know why I said God bless, just go with it. #PrayerHands
Jason: P.S.S. I’m wearing my flannel jam-jams. I like when they ride up in my crack. #FeelsNice
Chapter Eighty-Four
DOTTIE
Sitting in a third grader’s seat, my lunch spread out over a desk that belongs to Juniper apparently, I watch as one of my best friends laughs hysterically to the point of tears streaming down her face, her head buried in the desk across from mine, her shoulders shaking so hard and so fast that I’m afraid she might hurt herself.
I’m unamused.
So I sit back in the tiny chair, arms crossed, and wait for Lindsay to catch her breath.
It takes a while because every time she starts to talk, she lets out another roar of a laugh, denying her ability to talk through her hysterics. There’s no point even trying to understand her so I reach out, dip a carrot into my guac, and chew.
And chew.
And chew.
“Enough, Lindsay, it’s not that funny.”
She waves her hand in front of her face, her other hand clutched to my phone. “Oh . . . my . . . God . . . I’m”—hiccup—“dying.”
That’s obvious; she didn’t need to announce it to the empty classroom.
After last night’s mental crisis—that’s what I’m calling it now—I decided to have an emergency lunch with Lindsay to find out what I should do with the barrage of texts I received from Jason last night.
I was surprised to even get anything from him after his mumbling about mouths and lips and men and women. What the hell was that? For a minor second, I thought he was having a stroke but then realized, it’s just him.
So far, coming here to ask Lindsay for advice has been pointless.
“If you’re just going to sit there and laugh, I’m leaving. Hand me my phone.”
She shakes her head and clutches the phone to her chest. “I need to screenshot these and send them to me.” She laughs even harder, a tear slipping down her cheek. “Hashtag God bless.”
“Fine, I’ll just buy a new phone.” I stand but she snags my hand.
“Pull the stick out, Dottie, and sit down.” She tugs on me just enough that I’m forced to take a seat.
“Can you stop laughing? This is serious. I have no idea what to do. This guy is unlike anyone I’ve ever met. I don’t know what to do with him.”
She wipes her tears away and sobers up. “It’s clear he doesn’t know what to do with you either. So no reason why he didn’t kiss you?”
“None.” I sigh.
On the way home from the cabin, I was texting Lindsay, telling her everything that happened, well, everything that didn’t happen. She was as confused as I was, and then when I filled her in on last night and showed her the texts, she lost it—clearly.
“It seems so”—she pauses, her mouth falling open—“oh my God, Dottie.”
“What?” I ask, sitting a little taller. I know that look on Lindsay’s face; that’s the look of understanding.
“He’s gay.”
“What? No, he’s not gay. Emory would have said something.”
“Yes, he is. Why else would he recoil after being so close to you? Moments from kissing?”
“But I saw him staring at my breasts.”
“Of course he did.” She slides my phone to me. “He was probably curious since he usually sees man pecs all the time.” She whispers, “He’s gay, sweetie, which oh boy does that put a kink in your plans for dating him. Deeply and passionately in love, if he comes out, the Carltons are going to call bullshit.”
“No.” I shake my head. “He’s not gay . . .”
Is he?
No . . .
But . . . no.
“He’s not,” I say, trying to convince myself even though Lindsay planted a seed of doubt.