Page 55 of Forgotten
“That seems a little excessive. And inaccurate.”
Preston had raised a brow at me. “Is it, Ash?”
Yes, it was. Ford and I’d been friends our whole life. I knew that the only rule stronger than “don’t fall for straight boys” was “don’t fall for your best friend.” Sure, we had kissed, ages ago. Twice. And I thought about kissing him sometimes, but not nearly as much as I used to. Almost never, actually. Never thought about Ford when I went out with a boy, never thought of Ford when someone on the street had hair the right shade of red or had dimples.
So yeah. No falling. No falling for anyone at all.
???
“Okay, you really spaced out there.” Ford has been talking to me for a while so I shake away Morgan and Preston and their silly recommendations.
“Sorry, my bad. You were saying?”
“How did you know you were a bottom?”
That knocks the wind out of my lungs, and in a panic I drop the paper plate and the half eaten sausage on the grass. I widen my eyes and focus them on Ford. My ears are ringing. In the distance, the rumbling of thunder. “The fuck?”
Without losing a beat, Ford blinks and runs a hand through his messy hair. In this light the shade of red looks particularly dark, almost chestnut. I want to run my own hands through it, feel the curls between myfingers.
“I’m asking you how you knew you were a bottom?” Ford repeats calmly.
Suddenly it doesn’t matter that it’s a cold August day. Suddenly it’s scorching and I’m burning everywhere, and surely my face must be bright red. I want to peel the raincoat off my skin but a gush of wind hits my face.
“I’m actually… Hum, why are you asking? It’s not always the same, uh, sometimes I do… Why do you want to know?” I can’t help but babble like a teenager, and this is not how I usually speak with Ford. This is my best friend. There must be a reason he’s asking me. I need tofocus.
Ford takes a sip of his beer, bending down to pick up the food I’ve dropped. I look at my feet, where the ketchup has made a stain on my white shoes.
“Been thinking.” Ford shrugs, seeming almost reluctant to continue this conversation. A twinge of guilt hits me for not giving Ford my complete attention, for selfishly thinking about my feelings rather than trying to understand his.
“Sometimes I think it’s expected of me. Because I am so skinny and tall, people see me like a little baby deer they have to save. It’s easier to let men take what they need from me than starting to explain what I want from them,” I tell Ford, lowering my voice to a whisper although nobody’s listening.
“And what is that you want, then?”
“Nope, don’t make this about me now. What have you been thinking about?”
Another thunder, closer this time. The music is loud in the backyard and everyone seems unaware of thestronger winds and the darkening skies. Ford’s friends are grilling and passing food around, laughing, chatting.
The space between Ford and me is quieter, calmer.
“I’ve had thoughts about this guy,” Ford tells me.
I can’t wait, I don’t let him finish. “A guy?”
“You don’t know him. I just, it caught me by surprise and I have been feeling things. New things, scary things. You know me, I started thinking. And overthinking. How do you know what other boys like? How do you know if other boys like you? How’s the kissing?”
Ford pauses as the first drops of rain start falling. Timidly at first and then stronger, hammering on the gazebo and the rooftop. Grasping my wrist, Ford pushes me against the siding of the house and we fit our bodies under the roofline. Around us, people start yelling and rushing into the house, grabbing plates and drinks in a hurry.
“I fucking knew it,” Ford mutters and it makes mesmile.
I scoot closer to the side of the house as some people run under the gazebo where the DJ has stopped playing music and is draping a plastic cover over the console. I spot Vicky and her friends trying to warm up, as if the rain has finally reminded them that it is, in fact, cold. It is England. And a bathing suit is not warm enough, even in August.
The crowd is quieter for a while, or maybe the rain is swallowing every sound. I study Ford’s profile, his straight nose and the pensive umber eyes. He’s hunched forward and I wonder if he’s trying to make himselfsmaller, make himself disappear after the biggest confession he’s ever made.
I want to tell him something, anything that will make him stand up straighter, like he always does.
“Truth for one truth,” I tell him. “Sometimes I wish I liked girls. It would be so much easier, you know? My family would accept me better. And society as well.”
Ford is silent for a while and then he takes a long breath in, a long breath out. He stands up taller and he’s still shorter than I am. Yet he looks bigger.
