Jay's Not Gay, You Guys 7

 I got a harebrained idea that I'm going to get two stories finished and out into the world before the end of the year. This one is flowing a little more naturally at the moment (and your feedback helps a lot, Cameron). Retrospectively, it's funny that I thought it would be a quick, flashy installment. The current draft is pushing 24,000 words.

There will be some continuity errors if you hold the Watching Him Back epilogue I posted as canon, but…we sally forth knowing that nobody will care all that much.

“Are you kidding me?” I ask Professor Valero, and he actually chuckles. “I’m passing? For real?”

He leans back against his desk. “Not only that, but I just finished grading the last test. You earned yourself a B.”

I must be grinning like an idiot. “Seriously?”

“Indeed.”

This is the first time I’ve ever left a meeting with a teacher feeling good about myself. I never had to worry about it before because I’m a fucking great cornerback when my ACL isn’t fucked. Okay, also it was easier to cheat in high school. Here, people get really mad if you fuck off during a group project. But, like, it’s feels fucking amazing to have tried and gotten a real result. I got a B on a Stat test! I gotta celebrate.

Who can I tell first? It’s Friday; nobody’s on this side of campus this hour except for the exchange students and two people heading back to the quad. One’s in so much flappy fabric I know it has to be fucking Viera, but the taller one is in jeans and a quarter-zip, curly black hair, light brown skin—I'll bet that's Dillon. And you know what? I'm happy to see him. I got a motherfucking B on that fucking Statistics test, he helped, and I'm going to tell him. So we made out a little. So what? He and Aaron both confirmed that making out is not anything. Dillon helped me study, and now I might actually pass my toughest class.

Jogging up to them, I call Dillon’s name. They turn, and Crispin leans over to say something to my study buddy. I can’t hear Dillon reply as I get closer.

"Oh, I've known he was gay since high school," Crispin is saying all sassy. "All that pent-up repression."

Dillon shuffles a little bit.

“Oy, it’s Young Bicurious!” Crispin snaps at me, and then the next part is in Brazilian or whatever, but it sounds mean.

He told. Dillon fucking told Viera. That’s how Viera knew about the thing with Brantley, right? Dillon told him, then he told Aaron. And now it’s going to happen again, but worse because I was sober and still hung out with Dillon after. Crispin hates me, so he’s definitely going to tell everyone, and then no matter how I respond I’m fucked socially. I’m so stupid. That good feeling of my grade disappears, and instead I’m having full flight or flight.

“Fuck you both,” I say through my teeth.

Dillon looks confused for half a second before I shoulder check my way past them. There’s a rushing in my ears. I can’t believe I trusted that goddam homo. Fucking Asshole. Bastard.

“Jay,” he yells after me.

Shit. I’m going to have to, like, beg Viera not to spread anything, because if Carter finds out then he’ll tell, and then it’ll get back to my folks, and I don’t have an older brother like Aaron does to keep me out of conversion therapy. This fucking sucks. I wish I’d never met that stupid fucking fairy. Being the manager of a QuikTrip pays okay, I heard. So maybe one semester of passing Statistics will be enough to get me a job there, and then I can work my way up. I don’t know how to budget though. But if my parents cut me off, maybe someone from St. Louis would let me stay with them during the holiday long enough to get a job—

"Jay!" Dillon must have followed me all the way back to my dorm.

"Back the fuck away from me!"

Dillon grabs my backpack strap, bringing me to a stop. "I didn't tell him anything!"

I throw him off, and maybe I use a little too much force because Dillon hits the ground and skids a little bit. I point a finger in his face. "Don’t touch me, you fucking faggot."

I only see Dillon's expression darken before he surges upward and decks me in temple. My teeth hit each other so hard that they squeak like styrofoam, and then two things are going on at once. I clock Dillon right back, and we stumble backwards, holding our faces. "You're a fucking jerk," he says, but he's smiling a little bit. But that isn't what's happening. Instead I grab Dillon by the throat and kick his legs from underneath him. He goes down without a word; he just looks at me with his big, bright eyes when my grip tightens, like, "Is this going to make you feel better?" When I add another hand to his neck Dillon just pats my ankle all comfortingly, and says—

"Jay! Oh my god, please wake up."

I blink.

"Are you okay? Hey, talk to me."

My vision is swimming like a school of fish, but I can make out Dillon's head blocking out the evening sun. So at least I'm not choking him. Good.

"I'm so sorry—I never thought I could hit anyone that hard— you went down like a soccer pro."

I want to laugh, but I kind of feel like I'm about to throw up. Words are a struggle. "I pass out?"

"Yeah, for like, a few seconds. Can you sit up?"

"Uh huh. You got an arm on you."

He pulls out his phone. "I'll call the nurse just in case, but let me help you back to your room."

"Okay."

I'm dimly aware of Dillon hauling me upright. He's very strong. I shouldn't have called him a faggot. I was just scared that Crispin would go telling everyone because of how much we hated each other in high school, when I couldn't figure out what that brief make-out with Dillon even meant to me. Did he kiss a lot of straight guys? Did Brantley even remember that we had gotten caught? I couldn't remember the actual making out with him, just part of the three-way discussion and then the door bursting open. Dillon smells like Old Spice. Do all gay guys smell good? Aaron always smelled really good.

"Hey, Jay, count backwards from ten." Dillon interrupts my brain for a moment.

"Ten nine eight seven six five four three two one zero." It comes out like I'm drooling words, but Dillon seems to think it was okay. I’m very hot. It’s hot out here.

"What year is it?"

I'm going to make a joke. "It's showtime!" Dillon does not think I'm funny. "I'm just kidding; gimme a minute…" But Dillon is back on the phone with the nurse. He's frowning, and it gets all wrinkled between his brows. Does it feel rubbery?

Dillon knocks my hand away from his forehead. "We’re going to the emergency room right now. I’ll drive."

"Tomorrow. I'm tired. You got an arm in you."

"You can't sleep for a while," he says.

"I can't sleep." That's not…I didn't mean to repeat him. I might throw up.

"Is Carter here this weekend?"

"No."

"Any of your friends?"

I know where he's going with this. "No!" I poke his handsome face. "You stay. You're staying, because you're Jason Statham. You got an arm on you."

Dillon sighs in disgust.

"And you can't be mad at me anymore." I add.

"Fine. Use your legs, then."

Time is kind of fuzzy between now and when we get back to the dorm room. Dillon’s car is tall. Was it an MRI or a CAT scan that I had? Dillon's shoulder is a terrible pillow. He calls my mom, probably, because I have the sound of her trying-not-to-yell-at-me tone in my head going, “And did he say that you’re friends?” I think she helped Dillon fill out a form.

From the tall car to the dorm feels forever, and then Dillon has to guide me to my room because everything looks the same.

"What the fuck, Montgomery?" Carter yells when we stumble through the door.

It's kind of funny that Carter knows that whatever happened, Dillon did it. "Not my first big bonk; I just need to sit down for a little," I say.

"Dude, go to a hospital."

"We did," I say slowly. "He knocked me out, so he's going to make sure I don't fall asleep for the day and wake up every hour at night. You break it, you buy it."

As soon as I see my bed I slump onto it. I barely register Dillon looking around. There is shit all up on the desk chairs, so he moves toward the only free space.

Carter stops him. "Don't sit on my bed, f—"

"Don't!" I interrupt loudly. "Don't call him names, dickweed. That's how I am concussioned."

Carter looks at Dillon, who shrugs. "I know how to throw a punch," he explains, all cool and offhand. "This asshole had no idea, because he's just my lab partner, not my friend."

I get that he's trying to save face for me, but come on, man. That hurts. I figured we were even by now. "No, no, Carter, he's cool. We are bros now, because I'm cool, and he's cool. So don't worry. You can be friends, too, and talk about football…"

”Wake up!" Dillon shouts, and I do.

I nod in gratitude. "That was a close one." Yup, yup, yup. I can't sleep.

Carter looks between us like we both grew an extra head. "You sure you got this, Montgomery? I was headed to Columbia for the night, but I can stay."

"Dude, it's not hard. I'm sure your number's in his phone; I'll text you if anything happens."

I want them to quit talking like I'm not there. "Give Dillon a Red Bull," I order.

Rolling his eyes, Carter says, "They're in the fridge over there."

Dillon nods. "Cool. Thanks, man."

"Tell Ashlyn hello," I say.

"I will. Take care, bro." Carter grabs his backpack and leaves, but he seems a little reluctant to shut the door behind him. He's a good friend.

"I'm sure he is," Dillon agrees.

Dillon leans against my desk, looking through the papers we got from the ER, until I call him over to stand by me.

“Hey. Hey.” I grab his wrist. “Hey. Are you still mad at me?”

He sighs. "Yes, but I'm sorry I hit you," he says.

"I'm really sorry that I called you a faggot," I mumble.”I knew I shouldn't say it, but I did anyways because I was feeling vuner bunder. Vulny buerr…uh, vulnerable. I won’t do it again.”

"Thanks."

He's quiet while I try to think of some more words.

"I seriously didn't say anything to Cris. He…Whatever you did to him in high school stuck; that was just, like, a preemptive verbal attack. Like, didn’t he used to call you ‘Young Bicurious’ in high school?"

Is Dillon trying to make me feel worse?

"And it’s not even that we were talking about you. Of course, it's hard not to talk about someone you spend all your time with. I didn't tell him we—that I kissed you. I swear. For Cris, I think it’s weird for him to see you be less homophobic here than you were back home. But, shit, Jay. That’s something you’re going to have to live with, because you’ve never tried to make amends to him."

“You’re right.” I pat his hand. "You’re always right. I'm sorry I called you a slur. I’m really sorry. That’s not okay."

Dillon's soft laugh could put me to sleep. "So you said."

Oh. Man, I must have hit my head on a tree root or something, or Dillon has fists like Muhammad Ali. "You should be a boxer."

"Ugh, Jay," Dillon groans, putting his head in his hands. "You're killing me."

"Why?" It actually comes out like a statement, like my voice just won't work right.

Blue eyes peek at me through his brown fingers. "Look, I am so, so sorry for giving you a concussion, and I will never do that again, but you are being adorable right now."

I don't know why that's funny, but it makes me chuckle. "I'm sorry."

"Stop it, you're making it worse."

That's even funnier. I am like, fucking giggling. It's like being high, except with more nausea and a splitting headache.

"I can't; I can't handle it. Go to sleep."

"You go to sleep." I reach to shut his eyes for him. Dillon catches my hands and puts them on my stomach. My brain is heavy. Oh my god, if I go to sleep, will I die?

“I’ll make sure you don’t die,” Dillon says, and I’m not sure if I was thinking aloud or if I just looked concerned. “And I was kidding: you can’t sleep for two more hours.”

I pat his—I don’t know, thigh, maybe—and shut my eyes. “You’re a good person.” He really is. For all the smartassedness and secret-keeping and knocking me out, Dillon is a good person. He’s still putting up with me, after all, and I’ve been a fucking dick to him. “I’m sorry I called you a faggot. That was wrong. I’m sorry. You can kiss anybody you want. You’re a good kisser, so you can kiss anybody. I’m sorry.”

Dillon puts his hand on my chest, right over my heart. It’s warm.

“Hey, Jay,” he says, kinda shy, “can I—”

“Yeah, sure,” I interrupt. I figure I owe him at least that much.

Dillon doesn't kiss me, though. He kicks off his shoes and climbs into bed next to me. He sits against the headboard and puts an arm around my shoulders so that I'm propped up enough to see the TV when he flips it on. Dillon finally settles on some dumb network comedy and just kind of holds me upright for a little bit until he figures I can sit up by myself. I say 'a little bit' because my sense of time is still soupy, but I do know that the sun has been down for a while by the time we decide to get food.