“Congrats on having a boyfriend who manages the basic task of not being biphobic.” Her face is returning to its normal tan, and she throws on a tank top from her bag, which helps sharpen my focus a little bit—enough to realize I haven’t been clear enough.

“No, I mean, we’re not … exclusive, I guess, is the word. Not that anyone else knows that, but.” Jesus, I sound like a creep.

“Oh wow, okay, so he’s cool with you having a sidepiece as long as he gets to watch, or something? Got it. So glad we had this conversation. Can you please get out now so I can finish changing?”

It’s my turn to wince, feeling every ounce of the implication that she won’t change in front of me. I know she’s queer herself and my queerness isn’t why she’s talking like I’m some kind of predator, but somehow, in a locker room context, the fear you’ll be called out for watching a girl change never quite goes away, even if you would never in a million years.

She must get it too, because for a second, her face softens, but no apology comes, and I can’t blame her.

But I also can’t leave, not while she thinks this about me and Miguel. “Our relationship is fake,” I blurt out, even though it’s far more information than I want to give. “I got tired of constantly making stuff up to turn down guys, and Miguel…” I fumble for a second, then pull something out of my ass, uttering a silent apology to Miguel’s extremely cool mother, Dania, whom I love dearly and who makes me the most delicious flan this side of the gulf for my birthday. “His parents are really strict, and they don’t want him screwing around. Having a serious girlfriend keeps their eyes off him, so this was our solution. And it works. Except…”

“Except?”

I don’t even realize how much closer I’ve moved until I inhale the scent of grass and earth mingled with baby wipes. “Except that I cannot stop thinking about how cute you look in glasses.”

Finally, finally, her defenses fall away and the shoulders she’d been tensing up to her earlobes relax. “Oh.”

“And I mean, you know what they say about cheerleaders and quarterbacks.”

Her lips curve in the slightest of smiles. “You know, somehow I don’t think that’s something they’re saying at Atherton these days.”

Well, maybe they should, I think but don’t say.

I am thinking a lot of things I’m not saying right now, most of which revolve around her mouth.

I definitely should not say any of those things.

Right?