Page 38 of Exchanged

I lean forward, holding my oboe almost like a trumpet, while I do a stupid butt-scootching dance backward. Just as I add in a showy trill on a high note, my ass hits something solid.

I turn around.

It’s Garrett’s crotch.

I’ve grinded backward into Garrett’s junk.

I stop playing mid-phrase. One by one, the rest of the quintet peters out as well. I straighten. Lower my oboe.

“Hey,” I say.

He wears an amused, wry grin, looking so freaking put together and perfect in that damn navy suit. But before he can say anything, Mrs. Makinen stumbles over to us, eyes unfocused, an overstuffed coin bag in one hand and an empty water bottle in the other.

“I doubt Garrett would let me dance with him,” she pouts.

Garrett didn’t let me dance with him. What just happened was not consensual.

She gives me a mischievous grin. “I don’t blame you. It’s hard to resist him in that suit. Doesn’t he look handsome in his suit, Enzo?”

Here’s the thing about the old people in this town. Many of them—at least the regulars at our shop—know that I’m gay. Some of them disapprove, but others—like Mrs. Makinen—try to prove how supportive they are by making comments like this. Because what teenager doesn’t want to talk to septuagenarians about who they find attractive?

“Enzo,” Mrs. Makinen chides, somehow managing to slur my four-letter name, “tell him he looks handsome in his suit.”

I hear a snort from behind me. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the rest of my quintet watching us.

“Maybe we should get you out to your ride,” Garrett tells her.

I’m probably imagining it, but I think I notice a flush of red creeping into his cheeks.

“Not until Enzo tells you how handsome you look in your suit,” Mrs. Makinen whines. “Enzo, you’re being rude.”

Garrett looks at me helplessly, clearly trying to invent a logical argument to convince Mrs. Makinen to leave. For a brief moment, I consider just running away. Maybe if I pulled the fire alarm on my way out, the ensuing chaos would be enough to make everyone forget about this embarrassing sideshow.

“Garrett,” I eventually say, realizing there’s a much quicker way to end this, “you look handsome in your suit.”

“Thanks, Enzo.”

I hear a sound like a dying cat behind me. I glance over my shoulder, and Katrina has her head between her knees, her entire body shaking with laughter.

Mrs. Makinen beams at me. “That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?”

As the Casino Night ends, I intentionally hang back, taking an extra-long time to clean my oboe—while enduring my quintet’s relentless teasing—so that Garrett and I end up walking home separately.

At the house, when I reach the landing between our rooms, his door is open, the warm light from his bedside lamp spilling into the darkened hallway. I walk over and stand in his doorway. He sits on the edge of his bed, taking off his shoes. They’re soft brown leather. Expensive. He looks up.

“Seems like your date was kind of trashed.” I carefully planned this sentence on the way home. Make a joke about Mrs. Makinen and pretend the suit part didn’t happen.

He grins. “You have no idea. Mrs. Koski had to shuttle her and her friends home. I mean, I’ve gone hard before … but damn.”

“Wait until Caribbean Getaway Night. So many fruity drinks with rum.”

He looks down at himself. “I’ll make sure to wear something less enticing.”

I laugh, and then there’s an awkward pause during which I try to avoid looking at the offending sexy suit. I tilt my head toward his camera and photos. “You into photography?”

He throws his shoes into a corner. “Yeah, I guess.”

I step over to the photos, pretending to see them for the first time. I point to the selfie of him and the eclectic group of people in front of the fountain. “Are these your friends back home?”