“Sounds like I’m dating a smart guy.” He checks his rearview as an SUV rides our ass. “And I’m legitimately surprised you packed clothes.”
I thought about purposefully forgetting just to steal yours. “I surprised myself too,” I smile, but as I shove the backpack to the ground, pressure that I haven’t felt in a while sits on my chest.
“You have that look again,” Oscar says, worry hardening his face. “What’s bothering you, bro?”
I rake both hands through my hair, leaving them on my head and leaning back. “I really haven’t given a lot of thought to what I’m supposed to tell my family or the public.” I clarify, “About my sexuality. And I honestly haven’t had time to mull over a label. People are going to ask what I identify as, and I don’t have an answer.”
“Just say that.”
“Without one, I’m afraid I’ll keep getting asked, are you sure? over and over. Or people will think it’s a phase.”
“They could think that even if you say you’re bi,” Oscar tells me.
I nod. Also true. “You know, if I really sat down with my feelings for longer than a few minutes, I think I’d know that I’m attracted to people. Flat-out. No matter the sex or gender. It’s probably always been like that, but I cut myself off to anything outside of my narrowed frame of what I thought my life would look like.” I let my hands fall to my thighs, expelling a breath. “I’m trying to hold onto what you told me about my sexuality having nothing to do with where I’ve been or what I’ve done. It’s just who I’m attracted to. But sometimes I feel like if I call myself pansexual, I’d just be a fraud. Like I don’t serve the label well enough. I’m twenty-seven. I’m too late to the party.”
Oscar’s face breaks. “You aren’t too late. Do what you feel without letting judgment cast you aside. So whatever label you choose—or don’t choose, you don’t have to have one—don’t let anyone take that from you. Live your truth. And if someone tries to check you on it, I’m going to check them back in the fucking mouth.” His grip tightens on the wheel, veins spindling in his biceps.
I can’t look away from him. He’s hot as hell when he’s defending me. “You’re Team Jack Highland?”
“Let’s put it this way—whatever president was sitting at the top of the Jack Highland fan club has been dethroned by me.”
My heart swells. “What a coincidence. The Oscar Oliveira fan club president was usurped by me.”
We’re both grinning.
I roll down the window. Letting the summer night rush into the car, and I expel another deep breath, pocketing my phone for right now.
Oscar notices. “Is there something that helps you stay on the bright side?” He must be concerned about me since the onslaught of negativity is just beginning.
“Confidence, breathing, sometimes surfing.”
“And when that fails?”
I stare at the cord to my car’s entertainment system. Plugging in my phone, I tap into Spotify. “Blaring music.” I pause before clicking into the song. “I’m about to be painfully California, but this is my dad’s favorite band and I grew up listening to them.”
“They’re your favorite too?” he asks, not knowing who it is yet.
“I know basically every lyric to every song, and they have over ten albums.”
“So that’s a fuck yes,” Oscar laughs. “Play it, Highland.”
I put on “Higher Ground” by Red Hot Chili Peppers, originally sung by Stevie Wonder, and I immediately start singing the lyrics and bobbing my head to the beat.
Oscar surprisingly joins me. He knows the chorus, and with an arm out the window, I tap my hand to the hood of the car.
We sing to each other, and I thought I had a good voice, one that melts like butter on a hot day. But Oscar sings the fuck out of this song. His voice is deeper and richer and smoother, belonging in the air like a current of wind.
And his hand slips back into mine. We coast and sing, and I let his affection and the melodies calm the outside noise that fights its way in.
Don’t let it in.
“Did I say or do something to where you thought you couldn’t tell me?” Jesse wonders, his face shadowed in the dark over FaceTime. I can barely tell he’s in bed, head on a pillow.
Oscar just left to pick up take-out and give me some time to call my family. So I cup my phone, sitting on a kitchen barstool with a towel around my waist. Thanks to a hot shower, I no longer smell like strawberries and cream.
“It wasn’t you; it was me, Jess,” I explain. “I’ve been confused, and I wasn’t ready to tell anyone until now.” Quickly, I add, “And before you ask, I’m still attracted to women. I feel like gender and sex aren’t really factors in who I’m romantically or sexually attracted to at all.”
“Okay, okay.” Jesse lets this sink in, his grin erupting. “I mean, as far as people go, you really landed an ace in the set. Oscar is sick. At least, from what I know while I’ve been on this project with you. He boxes, protects celebrities, speaks multiple languages, cracks funny jokes—ah wait, question.” Jesse sits up for this one, and I relax forward, happy my brother is cool with the news. “So are you giving or receiving, Kuya?”
My face feels hot. This is all so new. Including this question from my brother. “I’ll let you know when I’ve figured it out. Only if you don’t mind me asking you the same questions.”
Jesse smiles. “That’s totally fair. I have a more important question. The most important question.”
I stiffen. Don’t know where this one’s going.
“Does he surf?”
My lip quirks. “Not that I know of.”
“When are you going to teach him? We should go
