“I’ll protect you,” he says, like he’s reading my mind, which is a bit embarrassing. “Promise.”

My mouth goes dry, and I have trouble focusing on Jack as fire blazes across my cheeks. I definitely wouldn’t mind him protecting me.

Should I go in with my shirt on? Shirt and shorts and I wish I had a floor-length jacket, too. I try to steady my shaking hand, but then I remember Benny’s calming presence and how he seems not to give a shit about anything, and maybe I can embody that, too?

What do I have to lose?

I tentatively pull off and fold my Prince-Adam-on-Grindr shirt like I work at a department store, trying not to overanalyze how much of a beacon of queerness I am and wondering if that’s what drew Jack to me at all. I place it next to my sneakers, and suddenly I’m very aware of my bear cub body, slightly chubby but solid and hairy, not at all cut and smooth like Jack’s. My breathing gets shallow, and I try to cover my belly with my arms.

“Come on!” Jack shouts, looking impossibly sexy as water droplets slide down the smooth skin of his shoulders, which of course triggers my body dysmorphia, and I’m certain I must look like an absolute ogre-troll compared to him.

Leila used to poke my stomach and make the Pillsbury Doughboy sound. For Christmas two years ago, Dad bought me a membership to the janky ten-dollar-a-month gym in the neighboring town and said we could work out together if I wanted to. I spent years obsessing over my weight, and the gossipy digs and snide remarks in gym class and well-meaning “we should diet together” bullshit from friends made me binge and then work out obsessively or eat nothing but celery sticks or grapefruits for weeks. Up until I got hooked on laxatives.

I try to breathe and sing “Zero to Hero” from Hercules in my head, imagining my own transformation. Self-actualization or some shit, right?

I tremble still, but it’s leveling out. I have to get out of my head.

Here goes nothing.

I want to ask Jack not to laugh at my red bird underwear as I slip my shorts off. I cover my crotch with one hand, half out of fear that I’ll pop a boner and half because I’m worried that he’ll judge the size of my bulge. I try to hide my belly with the other.

Oh dear god, I can’t believe I’m doing this …

I hold my breath.

Close my eyes.

Brace for his inevitable disgust.

“Hey,” he says, and my body tenses. “We match!” When I open my eyes, I see him pointing to his Red Sox hat then to my underwear, and just knowing where his line of sight is heats my cheeks, and I sigh in relief that he hasn’t swum away from me yet.

Without thinking, I take a running leap and cannonball into the river, plummeting to its murky depths. My feet immediately touch something slimy and grimy, and my entire body convulses. I suck in a mouthful of water. I flap my arms like wings, but I only succeed at expediting my own drowning. Great. This is how I die, spiraling out of control in front of the hottest guy in the world. My tombstone etched in shame, with quotes from the Book of Facepalms.