Because of course, nose rings are hot. On anyone. Girls. Guys. People. It doesn’t mean I’m not straight. Right?
Like he can feel the heat of my stare, Oscar glances up at me.
I don’t look away. “The nose ring was a dare?”
He cocks his head with a look. “You were there for the dare.”
I was. Shit.
I was literally at the bachelor party where Oscar was dared. Though, I was invited to go back to the house in Key West, I didn’t take the offer and see him get pierced. I had an early call time for work, but the whole night in bed I wished I was there.
I’m usually better with facts, and I can’t help but laugh at myself, my smile widening. “I’m an idiot, sorry.”
“You’re not an idiot,” Oscar says in a way that warms my entire body. “But you do ask too many questions.”
I smile more. “You want me to stop?” I sound like I’m flirting. Because I’m flirty by nature. Fuck, I just want to flirt with this guy. The one with an unshaven jaw, eyes that grin as much as his lips, and curly brown hair that’s perfectly messy—the guy that keeps pushing me away.
For good reasons.
He exhales and mutters something like, “Don’t ask me that.” He scratches the back of his head, then tells me, “You can shoot your shot, Highland. Dunk your questions.”
“What if I air-ball?” I quip.
“Dunk,” he emphasizes.
I like how Oscar always brings me up, even when we’re joking around. “Okay, here it is. Why are you still wearing the nose piercing if it was just a dare?”
He could’ve taken it out.
“Because I look hot,” he grins.
My neck heats. It was like Oscar took a personal trip inside my head and captured that answer.
He slides the phone in his pocket. “You have anything pierced?”
“No, but I’ve always wanted a dydoe piercing.”
Oscar’s eyes go wide.
I laugh. “That was a joke, dude.”
“Let me resuscitate myself for a second.” He has a hand on his chest, the other is digging in his pocket. “I had no clue you’re an expert on penis piercings.” He pulls out a granola bar and rips the wrapper.
My smile hurts. “Not an expert, but I watched a shit ton of porn when I was sixteen—”
“Finally, something in common,” Oscar banters. “I was getting a little worried there.”
My cheeks flame. We have a lot more in common. Like how our brothers are both exactly ten-years younger than us. But I don’t voice this because I’m positive Oscar is just playing around.
“Anyway,” I say. “My favorite porn star, Benji Strong, had one.” I regret the words as soon as they escape. “So yeah…” I clear my throat. “That’s how I know about dydoe piercings. I’m not an expert.” My endnote clearly relays a closing of this conversation.
I examine my camera.
But I feel Oscar frowning. Confused at my change in tone.
That’s a good thing. It means he’s not aware that Benji Strong has mostly been in gay porn.
During my cool-vibes teenage years in sunny SoCal, I used to watch gay porn all the time. Never once did I question my sexuality.
Maybe it was because two of my guy friends told me they also watch gay porn and they were straight, too. Maybe it was because my parents have always been so inclusive and open, and there wasn’t a moment in my life that I thought I could be gay just because I liked gay porn.
It just wasn’t a big deal, and I hate that I’m making it a big deal in my head now. Because it shouldn’t be. I’m just confused about everything.
Am I straight?
Being honest with myself, I don’t even know anymore.
I want someone to just appear out of thin air and tell me what I am. Gay. Straight. Bi. Pan. Somewhere in between. I’d be happy with any of them.
But no, I have to figure this answer out on my own, and it sucks knowing that even when I come to a decision, I still may not be a hundred percent certain.
For fuck’s sake, I planned out my whole life when I was twelve.
I want my binder back. I want to be twelve again and look into the future and rewrite this part of my life out, so I wouldn’t have to face these questions. I’d already know the answers.
Smoothly, I excuse myself from Oscar and go grab a water from the bar’s mini-fridge. His eyes are on me, then on the double-doors that swing open.
“Fuck,” Oscar curses, charging for the door but he slows as he recognizes the nineteen-year-old girl in a Thrashers sweatshirt.
Luna Hale.
I smile in greeting. “Hey, Luna.” She must be here for Tom, her best friend. I’ve filmed segments with Luna and her brother Maximoff before, and I know things about Luna that she’s wanted to keep off air.
A Secret about Luna Hale: at 13, a boy left a note in her locker that said, close your legs, slut.
Sometimes I feel like I’m their therapist listening to their darkest days and thoughts, but I’m not even close to being a licensed professional. It’d be a lie to say that it’s not hard on me. I’m a filmmaker, a producer, a guy with a dream, but I don’t want to profit off their pain.
What makes it okay for me is knowing I can be a friendly, familiar safe place when they need one.
Luna waves at me. “Hey. Hi. Heidi. Ho. Howdy.” Purple feathers poke from her light-brown hair. And glitter is painted on her arms like a kindergarten class played arts and crafts on her body.
“Like the hair. Looking cool as ever.”
She smiles, about to reply.
“Luna from Planet Thebula,” Tom calls, using the microphone on stage. “Get up here. Gotta fill you in.”
She waves a second time. “Nice to make contact again.” And then she slinks to the stage.
I conclude fast that Luna Hale’s entrance wasn’t on Oscar’s radar. He stares down
