Right?
I do like his smile. I like his smile a lot. I like it when he teases me. I like how he gets when he talks about philosophy and X-Men and all the ways Xavier was kind of a little bitch. I like how things feel easy with him. At least, they did. And maybe that—just being comfortable around him—is what Kat is mistaking for wanting to be his boyfriend or something. Being around him feels like this really comforting space away from the rest of the world and all the expectations everyone else has of me. He makes me smile just thinking about him. Even now, while I’m fucking going through it, I’m smiling thinking about him. How excited he was when he brought the comic that introduced Roberto to class one morning for me.
He is one of the best kissers I’ve ever kissed.The best. And I’ve admitted that he’s a good-looking guy. And yes, I’ve had thoughts about him that have involved his legs on my shoulders. And (theoretically) I didn’t hate it. He lookedreallygood. I’ll admit that too, in the quiet loneliness of the kitchen. And that he soundedreally, really goodwith my name on his lips. Even in normal situations, something in my chest reacts to the way he saysGabi.
“Fuck,”I groan, my head thudding onto the island counter.
I swipe out of Notes and go to my texts, scrolling until I end up at Kat. And, slowly, my fingers start pressing letters.I think I’m b
And then I delete it all, setting my phone back on the island and pushing it away from me.
Because what happens then? If I, this second, said, “Okay, Imaybefeel a type of way about Vale that might look like crushing, like something romantic, like something …bisexual. So similar to the way I felt about any of the girls I was into or dated,” what does that change? What’s the next step here?
Realistically, nothing.
Even if those words don’t sound like a lie, it can’t change anything.
I can’t like guys. I can’t be bi. And not because it feels wrong. It doesn’t. When I sit with that word, nothing in my head says, “No. I’m not bisexual. Hell nah.”
I think of Barrera and wonder if he wouldn’t treat me with the same disrespect he gave to some Florida boy he’s never met before. I’d like to believe that I’d still have a team to belong to. That, if it’s me, hislittle bro, “the best goalkeeper TAMUCC’s ever had,” he’d see it differently.
And I think of Pops and what he told me. Go find what matters. Embrace the parts of myself that terrify me. I don’t know if this is what he had in mind. And I don’t want to put him or myself in a spot where we have to find out that it’s not.
And this isn’t how I wanted to relate to my Philosophy class. If this is me growing, changing, finding my way toward who I actually am, then yeah, I am scared of change. I don’t want it.
I want to be one of the world’s best goalkeepers. I want little Mexican kids who look like me to see me and know they can be great too. I want to see crowds of people wearing kits with my name on them. That’s got to be my focus. No room for debate. No time for philosophizing about this. Because I know for a fact that my people aren’t ready. Fans can be great, and Mexicans are some of the best football fans in the world. But I also know they come with their fill of homophobia. I—nah. There’s no room fora brown, bi, mexicano futbolista. I can’t expect all dads who look like mine to be as cool as Vale’s was.
If I have to choose between my name on a professional kit one day or saying those words out loud and making them true, I’ll swallow them down. Keep them inside until I forget about them.
Shit, thinking about it, I’ve already done that once. What’s one more time?
And maybe that’s cowardly of me. Maybe I’m giving up way too easily. But I’m not ready to find out how hard I’d have to fight just to be seen holding Vale’s hand. Just to say the words “I’m bisexual.”
Wild how I get told I challenge normalcy. How I want to be someone who does. Who isn’t afraid to stick up for other people. But when it comes to me? I’m so scared of falling out of line. Of being someone who exists off that line. Of being “not normal.” I said I wanted to see the sun, but when I’m handed the keys to my chains? I drop them. I kick them away. I stay staring at the wall. It’s what I should be doing. It’s the smarter choice here. Go on never knowing what there is to gain.
Because I’ve got everything to lose.
17
“YOU’VE BEEN STARING ATthat same page for the last thirty minutes.”
My head perks up, and it takes me a second to remember where I am. Cuco’s playing from my speaker at my desk, which neither of us are using. Vale sits at the head of my bed and I’m lying down on my stomach between him and the wall, the book I clearly haven’t been reading open in front of me. He’s focusing on his laptop, working on an essay for another class, which is great for me because I don’t get caught lingering on his face.
“Sorry. I’m having trouble focusing today.”
I let out a sigh through my nose and turn over on my back, tossing the book to the far corner of my mattress, not caring when I hear it thud as it hits the floor. He’s right. I’ve been off the last few days. The whole week. Spending minutes that turn into entire hours lost in thought. Because of him. Well, it’s not his fault.Because of Kat.Because Kat got in my head, and now I’m constantly spiraling. I’m either trying to persuade myself notto care and to go back to a place where the bisexual dots hadn’t been connected (the better, safer way to be spending my time) or I’m spending too much time on those dots; trying to figure out exactly when my heart started feeling a type of way for Vale.
Which always ends the same.Maybe I’m overthinking this. No, I’m for real overthinking this.One conversation with a friend doesn’t have to change my entire life. It doesn’t have to change anything. Not if I don’t want it to. Not if it can’t. And especially not if it might end up with Vale at the center of drama he doesn’t deserve.
Except every time I see him now, I can’t ignore the way his smile gives me butterflies. How eager I am to spend time with him. To be close to him. A couple nights ago, we both sat here and watched some X-Men series on his laptop for nearly four hours. And, better, I got to watch him be so into it, giving me backstory and context and be all, “They do Roberto kind of dirty in this one, and he doesn’t once play soccer in any of these episodes, but you’ve just got to keep going. I promise it gets good.”
And a couple nights before then, he showed up for some studying with a few Talenti sorbets (for after, so I had a reward to work toward) and we went through some ice cream and chamoy and tajín and argued about which ones were the best and worst. Hearing Vale say (so incorrectly) that strawberry is better than raspberryalmostmade me think, “Actually, nah, I’m not bi after all. This isn’t going to work.”
Until I was hearing his laughter and my heart was like, “Not so fast, cabrón.”
I, more than once, imagined him falling asleep on me. Holding him while we watched episode after episode until he couldn’t keep his eyes open and telling him, “Just stay the night.”
Because, more than the overthinking, it’s the overimagining that’s killing me. I get caught not paying attention in class. I’m letting easy kicks get past me in practice. The usual internettabs I keep handy aren’t doing it for me like they used to. I almost screamed when Nguyen knocked on my truck’s window yesterday when he saw me just sitting in the driver’s seat thinking about Vale. The only positive is that seeing Vale at my game yesterday, wearing my jacket again and cheering me on, did the exact opposite. It makes me want to play better than I ever have.
