“Bailey?” Gordo bursts in as I’m flailing.
“Get out!”
This afternoon, when we came back from the pool, this kind of scenario would have been perfect. I slip in the bathroom and Gordo rushes in. Here I am, half out of my clothes, and there he is, all big caring concern. Oops. I fall into his arms. Shenanigans ensue.
Tonight though, I have too much rattling around in my head for sexy hijinks. Gordo must see some of it on my face because he slowly backs away and closes the bathroom door behind him as he retreats. In the end, I strip out of the rest of my ruined outfit and get back in the shower, letting the hot water roll over me until my world straightens again.
Except nothing’s straight. At least not Gordo.
I put on one of the monogrammed hotel bathrobes and stare at myself in the mirror for a long time. Twenty-four hours ago, I eyed myself up as I decided whether or not to indulge in clandestine masturbatory fantasies about a man who I thought could never want me as much as I wanted him in that moment. And now I find out that’s maybe not true?
Except it still might be. Being not straight is not the same as being into a particular queer person. Not all vegetarians like tofu, not all pop music fans think Beyoncé had one of the best videos of all time, etc., etc. And he’s never given even the slightest hint of any interest in the entire history of our acquaintance. His not-straightness does not conflate attraction to me.
I can’t very well hide in the bathroom all night. I let myself out silently. The room is dark except for one lamp by the massive bed. Gordo’s down in the living room, facing the fountain.
I could go to bed. Easy enough to slip under the covers and will this whole day—hell this whole trip—to be over.
But if nothing else, I should apologize to Gordo.
He’s taken his jacket off, and when I come to stand next to him, his shirt sleeves are pushed up and he’s got his bare forearms crossed over his chest. Ugh. Good forearms are my true weakness. I don’t know why I never noticed his before since Gordo never met a T-shirt he didn’t like. He’s been flaunting his freckly fuzzy forearms around our condo on a daily basis and I was oblivious to their charms.
“Sorry,” I say, stuffing my hands into the robe’s oversized sleeves. “I get grouchy when there’s vomit between my toes.”
Gordo wrinkles his nose. “I thought we weren’t talking about it.”
We watch the fountain. It’s honestly better than TV. We’re so high up that there’s a delay between the walls of water splashing down into the lagoon and the crash of the impact. I hope Gordo’s enjoying it. It’s the least I can do for him.
When it all goes dark, we stay watching the lights and the crush of humanity as it moves up and down the Strip.
Finally, when I’m about to crawl out of my skin if I don’t ask him, I say, “So you’re gay.”
He’s quiet for a long time. Long enough I think I’ve upset him. Finally, he says, “No, I’ve been with women too.”
Fine by me. “So you’re bi.”
He turns away, but he only goes to the sectional before he sinks down, claiming the corner where the two halves of the sofa meet. He spreads his hairy bare forearms over the back of the leather, and I have to fight a shudder at the sight he makes, still imposing and impeccable, so very different from the Gordo I’ve known. Everything about him is different.
He says, “More like pan. Demi, actually. I don’t care about the equipment. I care about the people.”
Of course he does. Of course that’s how he’d be. The answer is so perfectly Gordo it’s obvious.
I sit at the far edge of the couch. “But what about Scarlett Johansson?”
Gordo laughs softly. “What about her?”
“She— You—” You know what? It doesn’t matter. I read all the signals wrong. I’m going to have to watch the Avengers again and see what part of her character arc I missed. “Why didn’t you tell me? About you.”
Gordo reaches one long arm up until he finds the switch on the wall. He flicks it, and lights come on overhead, tucked behind panels that mean they warm the space, but aren’t harsh. I pull the neck of my robe closer to me.
Gordo says, “It’s complicated. Not everyone understands. When you tell them you’re demisexual, people don’t understand how that’s different from committed monogamy, because of course you’re attracted to people you’re emotionally close to. But it’s not really like that.”
The appropriate thing to say here would be that I, at least, get it. But that wouldn’t be true. As a teenager, as soon as I realized all the magical things an adult penis could do, I wanted to do them all, with anyone who was male and interested in doing them with me too. That’s probably the exact opposite of what Gordo’s talking about.
Gordo says, “I’ve only figured it out in the last couple years. For a long time, I was like you.”
“A drama queen?” I say hopefully.
He laughs, and the small sound makes me feel a little better. “I worked too hard. Didn’t have time for relationships, so it didn’t matter that I wasn’t with anyone. It was only when I stopped and had space for myself again that I realized I didn’t feel the way most people do.”
There’s a lot to unpack there. “I can’t imagine you working too hard at anything,” I say. “Except maybe building a new terrarium. It doesn’t have to be a spa, you know. Turtles are totally happy with a few rocks and a puddle.”
Gordo smiles. “You think the turtles don’t like my terrariums?”
I scoot a little closer to him as our conversation starts to feel familiar again. “I think you spoil the hell out of the turtles, Gordo.”
“Animals are easy to take care of. People are a lot harder.”
Especially when they don’t have all the information. But I don’t say that. He’s never owed me any explanation.
I say, “So the whole time we’ve known each other, you’ve never been with someone else?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“Because you’re demisexual?”
Gordo runs a hand through his hair, messing up the perfect style. I breathe easier as a bit of his shaggy persona comes back.
He says, “Because I wanted to be with you.”
Oh. I laugh. Gordo, who I would never have credited with having any serious game when it comes to romance, he slid that one in there. “Very smooth.” I grin.
But he looks uncomfortable. “When you said you wanted me to come this weekend, I thought you . . .” He trails off, dragging one finger along the stitching of the sofa.
My heart slams to a halt. “You thought it was real?”
He shrugs. “I thought. Maybe.”
How many more times is my thoughtlessness going to leave me feeling like shit on this trip?
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think—I saw Jake and I panicked. He saw your picture on my screensaver and he asked if we were together.” As I’ve been speaking, I’ve been slowly making my way across the sofa, and now I’m on my knees next to him. I squeeze his thigh. “I’m sorry, Gordo. You’re my best friend. No one else would do as much as you do for me.”
He covers my hand with his. His mouth twitches, and he stares up at the ceiling. His rusty caterpillar eyebrows do a little dance. He says, “And if I wanted to not be a pretend boyfriend? If I wanted it to be real?”