having to smile and pretend I didn’t feel like a complete failure. It wasn’t the first time I’d felt as such. Whenever a relationship ended, no matter how short or long, I couldn’t shake that stigma.
What was wrong with me?
And it had to be me, because the women I’d met and dated over the years were always spectacular. It was true… Riana couldn’t have been more perfect for me—a lover of literature, an avid philanthropist, sexy both inside and out.
I had tried so hard to fall in love with her. My thoughts drifted to the first time we had sex. It’d been after a romantic evening of dinner and dancing. We’d ended up at her condo and quickly engaged in our usual passionate foreplay.
Until then, whenever we reached that heated precipice, she would shyly stop things from progressing. I respected her wanting to wait, understanding getting to know me first was important to her.
But that night, without voicing it, we both knew our time had come.
The stage had been perfectly set for a flame to spark between us. The sex was sweet and slow. Afterward, we spent the night wrapped in each other’s arms. She made me breakfast the next morning before we had shower sex.
That night, I could see the flip of a switch in the way she began to look at me. The transformation had been subtle, but just one month in and I knew Riana had begun to develop feelings.
Knowing that warmed me inside, but it also created a sick feeling of guilt, because I hadn’t felt the same yet. I argued with myself it was still so new, I liked being with her, and those feelings would eventually come.
With each month that passed, I continued to enjoy our time together. I went through the motions of romancing her, hoping upon hope one of those days I’d wake up in love. For months, I yearned for the feelings I knew she had already experienced toward me… but they never came.
And with every week that went by, I’d felt more like a shit.
“Cooper.”
I jumped when a deep voice sliced through my pity session. “Can I get you a… cocktail?” There Ricky stood beside my chair, looking like a suntan lotion ad in his white polo shirt and khaki shorts. “Bar is now open for you, and I’m at your disposal.”
“Thanks. I’ll take a beer.”
He dipped at the waist and grinned. “Coming right up.”
A minute later, he was back with an ice-cold bottle of imported beer. “Modelo, right?”
“Yeah… thank you,” I said, annoyed that he remembered what I preferred. When he placed it on the side table, along with a bowl of mixed nuts, I returned my attention to the royal-blue horizon.
Without invite, he sat sideways on the lounge beside mine as the small round tray between his hands twirled in my peripheral. “Can I ask you a question?” I wanted to say no but instead shrugged. “Are you afraid of what people will think?”
My head twisted his way. “Think about what?”
“Your sexuality.”
What. The. Serious. Fuck?
“What the hell are you talking about?” I asked through clenched teeth. The fucking nerve of this asshole.
He raised both hands in defense. “Calm down.”
“I am calm. You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know you’re a great guy who would do anything for anyone… and I know your sister would personally hang the moon and stars for your happiness.”
“And that gives you the right to psychoanalyze me?” Before he could respond, I leaned into the thick cushion and closed my eyes. “Ricky, I had a rough week and just want to relax.” I felt the need to dismiss him as a tsunami of annoyance swirled behind my chest wall. But the longer he sat there, the harder it was to pretend he didn’t piss me the fuck off.
“Look,” he finally said after what felt like an eternity had passed, “I know firsthand.”
“Know what firsthand?” I groaned, no longer bothering to pretend nonchalance as I glared at him.
“That denial can be a powerful enabler. If you need to talk, I’m here… just between us.” Ricky leaned in a bit, giving me a good whiff of his cologne and pegging his pale-blue eyes to mine. “That gaydar thing… it’s real.”
With that, he flashed a perfect smile and left me seething over his audacity.
Angry as fuck, I snatched the beer off the table and took a long swig.
I wasn’t gay.
Sure, I’d experimented in college, as most kids looking for something had. A drunken make-out session with one