If I Could - B. Celeste Page 0,25
stepped between them. I don’t know what he said, but he murmured something to both of them, eyed the other kids who were circling the show hoping for a fight, and disbanded the whole thing within seconds. He’s got “the touch” as my old adviser would call it. He’s a natural who seems to like his role and be the best he can be at it.
Am I surprised? I bet there’s nothing he isn’t good at. Baseball, football, teaching, dealing with kids—that’s a lot to balance, yet he does it like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He’s probably the type who only ever pushes to succeed and never steps down until he does.
Which could be a good thing or bad thing when it comes to me and the friendship he’s decided we have. Maybe he sees me as a project to work on, a hobby while he’s here. And while part of me is okay with that, a larger piece of me isn’t.
Because I like Lawrence. As a coworker, friend, even a confidant. He’s an open book, willing to share a part of him not many know about to get me to talk to him, to trust him. What he doesn’t know is that I already do. I don’t even know when that happened. Maybe after he told me about his parents or the first boy he ever experimented with. I won’t lie. I thought about that a lot since he told me, especially in bed at night trying to picture a younger version of Lawrence as he figured things out.
More than likely, the revelation of my trust in him occurred after his speech influenced me to call my parents. They were happy to hear from me, to listen to me talking about how things have been going—the new school year, my summer, Michelle, the works.
So, yeah. I trust Lawrence McKinley, even if the flirt charms everybody. I could tell he was worried the day he admitted he was into guys, waiting for me to tell him my opinion like it’d be a bad one. I’m not sure if he thought I’d be disgusted of him or what, but I don’t care about that. Hell, I’d be a hypocrite if I did, even if my personal life is lacking in that respect. Even my parents, my own mother, asked me if I was seeing anybody, specifically if I “met a nice boy” yet.
Inhaling slowly at the question that’s been bouncing around in my head since she asked, I smile at the cell phone still in my hand. I think Mom might have cried when I said, “Yes, I have” even though I didn’t offer more information than that.
Maybe it’s been a long time coming for them, so my mother’s tears were justified, but I couldn’t help but choke on the lump in my throat when I heard Dad soothe her after my admission. When I told them that Sophia was pregnant with my baby, they’d both stared at me with blank expressions. Sure, Soph and I were both young, but we were also mature and capable of being good, stable parents. It wasn’t the reason they looked at me like I just told them chocolate milk came from brown cows though.
They held each other’s hands, shared a look, and it was Dad who said, “Son, we thought you were gay.” Simple. Straight to the point. A confused statement made by two people who loved their son no matter what. And the truth is, I regret not coming out then and there, admitting my mistake with Sophia and her plan to fake-date, especially because we couldn’t fake co-parent. We were responsible for a human being, no matter the circumstances of how it came to be, and I held onto that.
Held on until I drowned. In her. In Brea. In the life I molded but didn’t want. The thing about drowning is that it doesn’t happen by falling in the water. It happens when you stay there. And that’s exactly what I did.
Pushing the memory away for now, I thumb out a reply to the “nice boy” in question.
Me: A bit bossy, don’t you think?
His answer comes instantly, those three bubbles popping up mere seconds after sending my text.
Junior: You trying to tell me you don’t like it, Scout?
Rolling my eyes, I set my phone down and stare at the paper in front of me. His message is right there, waiting to be answered, and I can’t help but think