Page 7 of This I Promise You
“Mysterious. Love that for you. Don’t fuck it up in front of all these people.”
“Not. Helping,” I sputter through gritted teeth.
“Relax, Paul. You’ll do great— OMG, yay! Easton’s here!” Her eyes shoot by me. “I haven’t seen him in forever. You’ll meet him after, he’s the best.”
Huxley keeps talking, but I tune her out. When in the history of someone telling someone to relax has that person actually fucking relaxed? Seriously, I do appreciate her concern, it’s not that. It’s just been a fat minute since I’ve even looked at another boy.
I loved—or I thought I loved—my ex, Michael Hernandez, but that dickweed can rot in hell for all I care. Not everyone believes in monogamy anymore and that's fine, but I still do. If you don’t, you should communicate that. He had one idea of what our relationship was and I had another. Not to mention he was a dick to me about the whole thing after I found him fucking some other dude inourbed. But whatever.
I’m not an idiot, I know people check me out, but I do not engage. I know I have a nice body, all the muscles, but it’s not about the aesthetic forme. It’s about the function. The gays just don’t see it that way. Dating is a hassle and a half that I most certainly do not care to partake in. Call me a bitter, old, cynic, or whatever, I don’t care. I don’t know about this Easton dude, but Freckles is cute and he smiled that smile at me and now I still don’t know what to do with myself. All I can think about, all I canseeare those damn freckles.
I hope he likes my piece.
I’m gonna throw up.
Easton
Green Eyes Like Seafoam
“It’s a no-go.” Aidan rolls his eyes.
“What did you expect?” I laugh and nod toward a pair of plush-looking seats that resemble living room furniture. This place is different in a cool sort of way. The lights are low and filled with a dull neon blue glow from a hodgepodge of bar lights and beer signs along the walls.
“I’m almost twenty-one.” He grins and takes up residence in the chair next to me facing the stage. Somehow Aidan thought they’d sell him a drink.
We ended up at a speakeasy in NoDa—North Davidson; it’s the art district, so they can’t just call it that. I don’t start back at the kennel until Thursday and I finished my Party work earlier, so I can sleep late tomorrow. I’m part of the state Democratic Party’s social media team. They hired me after I headed up social media for Nichelle Harrison’s successful congressional run against this raging theist named Bob Walters a few cities over. I didn’t want to pack up and move to Washington when she offered me the job. Maybe it was stupid to turn it down, but I want to finish school, and I’m already four hours away from my dad and sister. I didn’t want to make it farther. Not to mention starting all over finding a doctor, and I doubt there are any country bars in D.C.
“Yeah, but you look sixteen,” I remind him. It’s because he’s so short and can barely grow a beard. All he can manage is a porn stache like a fifteen-year-old going through puberty.
His middle finger pops up, backlit by the blue glow, but he’s grinning.
“You going to sign up?” he changes topics. My face skews in confusion. Why the hell would I sign up? “You could bore everyone with one of your depressing monologues on how we’re killing the planet or why we need to ban assault rifles. Riveting stuff, you know.”
“First, that’s important shit.” I give him my best faux annoyed look. “And second, fuck you. There’s no way I’m getting up in front of everyone.”
I’m too anxious in front of crowds. Now give me one or two people to talk to about how they need to require all semitrucks to be electric within the next ten years and that they should make all these smog-blowing small-dick-guy trucks not pass emission inspections and I’m good. Just don’t ask me to talk to a group. I can’t.
Aidan laughs as a guy takes the stage and the lights brighten around him. Showtime.
Two hours later—and a plethora of musical acts, a few half-decent comedians, and one weird but seriously hot poet dude later—everyone is on their feet talking about their favorite or least favorite act.
“I need that Junaloco group’s music,” Aidan says again. He was raving the moment he realized they played rock, and I just know I’m going to be hearing their music back in the dorm. “What did you think of them?”
“Eh,” I shrug. They were good, not my type, but at least they didn’t make me understand why everyone here is drinking, unlike the rest of the acts.
“Huh? That’s your type of music though, right?” I can’t tell if he’s serious or joking. I hope to God he’s joking.
“You’ve known me for, what? Like two years,” I remind him. How dare he think I like old ’90s covers.
“I know. Swear you’re the only gay I know who likes country.” He kicks my foot.
“And some indie,” I correct him. I’m more than my country music.
“Still weird,” he says and I roll my eyes.
Weird my ass. I’ll never understand people who go to a concert knowing they’re coming out with an ache in their neck from headbanging. It doesn’t make sense.
“Uh…hey,” someone says to my left. When I look, the first thing I see is an ornate black and white angel on their forearm. Their other forearm is covered in flowers leading up with the bottom half of what looks like a wolf peeking below their sleeve. Part of a butterfly shows on their chest through an unbuttoned shirt. A rose wraps around a dagger pointing up a thick muscular neck leading to the most perfect face, a trimmed beard, and short bleached blonde hair. I noticed the tattoos when he was on stage, but we were too far back to make them out. Now I take them all in, right before my eyes glue to his green eyes. They’re like seafoam.
