“Plus, and I mean this nicely, you’re definitely out of sight.”

“Excuse me?”

“You dress funny. You talk funny. Hell, you move funny. Hence, weird. Luckily, I like weird. Especially weird, cute guys.”

“You don’t think I’m lying?” I ask, ignoring his flirting as best I can.

“We’re all lying about something, Andre. And, if I may, the idea that something out there—or someone—has connected us? That out of all the gin joints in all the world you walked into mine?” He looks over, his shaggy hair now in front of his eyes. “That’s unreal. And I like when things are unreal. And I prefer to think that’s what this is, rather than accepting that my existence doesn’t matter in the grander scheme of things.”

When I was young and afraid of something, instead of comforting me with platitudes, my mother and father explained facts to me. Told me how irrational my fears were.

My family is a family of science. My father? The biological. My mother? The statistical. We don’t believe in this.

But this moment, sitting here with Michael, listening to him hum under his breath to the music? It feels like magic.

Eight

Hanging out with Michael is as easy as breathing.

We spend hours talking and laughing. Occasionally, we argue, but it’s never more than a small debate. And when we do, we pause, compare words, and make jokes at each other’s expense about how different we are.

In many ways, the most important ways, I guess that makes us the same.

Sounds like the message on some half-price greeting card or something.

Until he asks me that question, sometime between four and five o’clock in the morning, that no one ever likes hearing.

“Mind if I ask you a personal question?”

I know what that means. It’s like saying, No offense, but…

Spoiler: these questions are always, always offensive.

I don’t look at him as he turns to face me. I keep my eyes trained ahead, memorizing the disfigured shapes formed from the warped ceiling.

“Sure.”

He hesitates for a moment—for so long that the tension settles, and I think he won’t ask it. A part of me prays that he won’t. But Michael isn’t that type of guy.

“Are you gay?”

The question comes out of left field, or at least it feels like it does. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been asked that. I’m not saying I live some perfect life where everyone just knows or doesn’t dare assume, but the question, so blunt and direct, makes me refocus my attention.

“Why does it matter?”

Michael shrugs. “Just curious.”

It’s a decoy answer. Something you say to relax your target before laying the real hard-hitting question or statement on them. Give them a false sense of security, and then throw them off guard.