I’m so glad Ben is here with me. The thought keeps circling around in my head as I stand by the bar, gripping my glass way too tight. The condensation makes it slippery, and I place both hands around it like a toddler, which seems pretty fitting. The hordes of confident men, whether demanding a drink at the bar or slinking together on the dance floor, which includes Craig with some unknown guy wrapped around him, makes me feel so naïve and out of place.

When I got his text inviting me out tonight, the knots of worry that had started to tie up my stomach began to loosen. Well, they’re back, and now I’m wondering why he invited me at all. If he wanted to stop seeing me, he could have just said so. I honestly didn’t take him for a coward, but I guess crickets don’t lie.

He stumbles on the dance floor, and I realize it’s because he’s seen me. Ben has been strangely quiet next to me, but as Craig and the stranger approach, Ben holds out his hand.

“Hey man,” Ben nods to Craig, then introduces himself to the exotic-looking man half-draped across Craig.

“Mal,” Craig’s friend practically purrs at Ben before taking his hand. “Let’s dance,” he says and leads Ben to the dance floor. I don’t even warrant a first glance, much less an introduction.

Craig’s eyes can’t seem to find mine, and I can’t tell if it’s because he’s drunk or avoiding me. He watches our friends walk away, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Definitely avoiding me.

“So, that’s Mal. He seems … friendly.”

“They.” His eyes finally connect with mine, but they’re distant and glassy. Also definitely drunk. “Mal’s non-binary. Use they pronouns.”

“Oh.” Whatever I was expecting, it wasn’t that. “Okay.”

I could kick myself for my stupidity Thursday night. This is Eric all over again, except Craig is a decent guy who is trying not to be a dick about the whole thing. I’d say we stand and stare at each other for the next few minutes, but neither of us can actually meet the other’s gaze. It’s more like we look in the general direction of each other’s head, but then focus on something just off to the side.

“I think I’m going to go. I’m really tired from the drive.” The tiny piece of me that was hoping he’d stop me, buy me a drink, ask me to dance, anything, dies when he nods. I can practically see the relief wafting off him.

My throat tightens and I’m determined not to let him see that he’s affected me. I text Ben to meet me at the car and exit the club. The brick wall of the alley beside the club is familiar, as is the ache I’m feeling inside.

Why do I always do this to myself? A sob catches in the back of my throat, and Ben’s arms are around me before I even realize he’s found me.

“Oh sweetie,” he whispers into my hair, “Let’s go home.”

* * *

My eyes were almost swollen shut from all the crying last night, so Ben fixed a cold pack for me to help with the puffiness. He also made coffee, and although I appreciated that he was just trying to show his support, in a way it only made things worse. It reminded me of how totally fucking pathetic I am, a grown man who is unable to have a relationship because they either run from my social oddities or from my disgusting perversions.

At least I can be assured that Craig will be the last thing on my mind now that I’m at my parents’ house. They should be home from church any minute, so I go ahead and let myself in, and the scent of pot roast fills the air. Standard Sunday lunch. My stomach growls, which isn’t a surprise given that I haven’t been able to eat anything since the disaster at the club last night. I grab a spoon and scoop out a carrot.

The door from the kitchen out to the garage opens, so I stuff the carrot into my mouth, then promptly spit it out onto the floor.

“Fuck! Hot!”

“Language, Zachariah,” my mother says from the doorway. She tsks at the mess and makes a big show of setting aside her Bible to get a wet paper towel to clean up the single carrot on the floor. “What were you doing?”

“Testing to see if the carrots were done?”

She shoots me a long-suffering look and tells me to go wash up, and I leave, feeling like I’m twelve again. This seems to be a recurring theme with me. The only time I don’t seem to feel young and inadequate is when I’m working.

No Sunday lunch would be complete if we didn’t start out by holding hands and praying first. I didn’t find it so creepy when I was younger. Now that I’m older, and it’s a thing they do no matter who’s in attendance, I realize I’ve had to hold hands with some pretty random people over the years. Gives me the creeps. I bet Craig would find it hilarious, and I cringe when I remember that I can’t text him about it.

Once we’re finally able to start eating, I pull out all the paperwork that I collected yesterday in Denver. I don’t think Dad even notices, but I swear Mom has a full-blown internal debate between having “work” at the dinner table and wanting to plan Shelby’s party. Planning wins. Thank god, because my brain has already started on a downward spiral, and I absolutely refuse to cry over a boy in front of my mother. I’d put a fork in my leg first.

I spread out all the brochures, starting with the smallest (and only) room available at such short notice, which still has room for one hundred guests. There’s a sticker with the quoted price for our two hours fixed to the top corner. Dad sees it and chokes on a potato.

“Now, honey, that’s not too unreasonable, given the location,” Mom says as she reaches over and pats his back. I’m glad he’s not really choking, because she’s not putting a whole lot of effort into it.

“Actually, that’s just the base rate. It doesn’t include the catering, which is per person, or the AV rental that Shelby requested.” Yes, Shelby has decided it would be lovely to have her sonogram video playing on repeat for the whole party. Because nothing’s more appetizing than looking at a woman’s insides over finger foods.

I hand over those figures and enjoy the show. Mom still tries to desperately wave away the expense as totally normal while Dad’s color changes based on a large variety of fruits and vegetables – tomato to cherry and ending at beet.

“Did you put down the deposit?” Mom asks as if she doesn’t notice that Dad’s about to have a total brain hemorrhage.

“You said you’d put it on your card,” I remind her, while hoping that my father makes it through lunch. “The guy I met with said he’d hold the room for you to call him today with the info. He’s also going to want to know which catering package you want. I’ve already told him the AV is a definite.”

“That’s just fantastic, darling. I can’t wait to call Shelby tonight and let her know.”

Mom excuses herself from the table so that she can start making calls.

“Sorry, Dad. I tried.”

Dad grumps and we both start to clear the table. Mom will probably be busy for the rest of the afternoon at this point. The sooner I get the dishes done, the sooner I can get back to Fort Collins and have another breakdown in private.

When I get in the car, my phone buzzes. I pull it out to let Ben know I’m on my way back, figuring the text is from him. Instead I find a slew of texts from Craig that came in during lunch.

Craig: Hi

Craig: I was wondering if you would like to go to the fireworks with me on Tuesday?

Craig: I was hoping we could talk. I’m sorry for shutting you out the past few days.

Craig: And for last night. I just

Craig: Never mind. If you want to talk, I’d like to.

The last text was the one that had just come in. I don’t text him back right away as my brain weighs all the possibilities. I arrive at my apartment parking lot without even remembering the drive home, and I’m texting him before I even realize I’ve made a decision.

Zach: Okay