Jay's Not Gay, You Guys 12

It’s almost the end of the month when I give in and find fucking Crispin Viera in the student union.

“I need to ask you something real quick.”

He folds his arms, cocks his hip out all queeny. “I’m not going with you to a second location.”

“We can do it here,” I point to the little groupings of chairs by the window. “I just need your advice.”

He chooses one and sits in a huff. “What.”

Might as well get this over with. “So, you know Dillon was tutoring me, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Right. So we became pretty good friends, I think, but then suddenly he was like, ‘let’s not be around each other anymore,’ and it—” If I don’t say it, it’s not real. Although if I don’t say it, then I can’t fix it. “It really hurt my feelings.”

Instead of making some smart comment about me not knowing what a feeling is, Viera leans forward. “Was this after he punched you out?”

“Because I cussed at him? Yes.”

“And he nursed you back to health?”

“Also yes,” I say. Also Dillon kissed me, and touched me, and that’s not what this is about so stop thinking about it. “I apologized like, over and over again, and Dillon said we were cool. Then suddenly we’re not?  I’m respecting his wishes that I don’t ask him about it, but if I fucked up I want to know what I did. So that I can, at the very least, never repeat that mistake…with another friend. I just want to know if he said anything to you.”

Viera sits back, analyzing me. “Dillon is a pretty private person, so it sounds like he told me exactly what he told you. Maybe he felt like you were getting codependent.” Then he adds, “You’ve always been a clingy bitch.”

“There it is,” I groan. He’s such a cunt! “Never mind, I’ll figure it out by myself.”

“You can’t,” Viera says with an evil little grin. “You’re coming from a majority perspective, not to mention you have medical, terminal Main Character Syndrome. Also, just for the record, Dillon basically gave up his social life to help you. Give him half a second to, like, enjoy being in college.”

“For the record,” I mimic him, “when you talk to me like that it makes it real hard to be sorry about high school.”

“Oh no! I’m not a perfect victim!” Crispin pretends to cry. But then he stands up. “Grow up. What you don’t know about me, Jayseph Elizabeth Givens—”

“Not my name.”

“Is that I usually don’t think about you until you’re right in front of me. Therapy is a beautiful thing, you know? And you need a few sessions before you get anywhere near Dillon Elizabeth Montgomery. Mkay bye bitch!” He snaps in my face and saunters off, fabrics flapping.

You know, if anyone punched me in the head I would have expected it to be Crispin Viera, but life is full of fucking surprises.

Let Dillon enjoy being in college. Leave him alone, because being around me is not enjoyable. There’s also this thing I’m starting to pick up on, which is basically Straight Guys Go Home, right? All the shit I read about allyship tells me to respect Dillon’s space, to be mindful of boundaries, that he needs community of other queers, blah blah blah, but like, come on. If he also didn’t have a social life last semester then that means I was his community, right? Right? There’s no fucking way I’m the only one around here not knowing what to do with myself without all the…tutoring. And shit.

I’m really not trying to be annoying. When Kayleigh adds Design and ends up in my class, I don’t ask her anything about the guy I’m leaving alone. I lend her my notes because I think they’re pretty good ever since…well. “Your buddy Dillon showed me how to color code,” is how I put it. When she tells me that the Thetas are hiring a real DJ for a party on Friday, it’s obviously an invitation.

This is an experience reward for being a good student. Way better than an old movie in a dude’s room. The Theta house is way less gross than most of the other houses, and they clear their big meeting lounge so there’s more dance room, but there’s also a little fire going outside in their backyard surrounded by the lounge sofas. They have a dress code: no hoodies or sweats or even jeans. It’s basically the classiest party you’re gonna get here.

I show up with Carter’s friends, fellow Sig Ep pledges who I should like better because we’ll be on the defensive line together. Let’s just say that maybe they need judgy gay tutors, too. Somebody to make them read a book or two. So I find other people to talk to pretty quickly.

Experience reward. I should be really feeling this, but I’m not. Getting blackout wasted is still a bad idea because of my head injury, Carter’s in our room with Ashlyn, and I don’t know. I’m just not in the mood to entertain strangers. If I told Dillon this, he’d say something like “Why do you feel the need to entertain anyone? You’re not the host,” but it’s not like I can explain it. The house is packed, so it’s easy to be talking to someone, look away, and when you look back there’s forty people in between you. Then you have to start over again with someone else. Hey, what’s up. What’s your major? Cool. No, I haven’t decided yet. Where are you from? How far a drive is that? Oh, it’s about three hours for me. Not too bad. No, I’m not drinking tonight, but thanks.

And repeat.

Fine. It’s lonely. That’s the fucking word. This house full of people is lonely. You happy?

In the hallway I’m standing between two Thetas while they complain about a professor I haven’t had yet. Maybe I should just go back to my room; I’m sure Carter and his girlfriend are done fucking by now. Ashlyn’s fine, we can all hang out and maybe order pizza or something. Not that I’m hungry, but it’s something to do. 

That’s when I see Dillon coming off the dance floor. He’s going to have to pass me. Without thinking I stop him by his arm. Dillon turns to me and for, like, half a second he’s still smiling.