Sure, at least he’d finally come out, but beyond that? He was still annoying as hell and the person sure to piss me off quicker than anyone.
What about Blaine?
I gritted my teeth at the memory of my ex-fiancé.
Fine, the angry fire I felt toward Blaine was more than I felt toward anyone else in the world.
But Dre was still the man who could make me stabby just by walking into a room.
Why?
Honestly, the answer to that question was difficult to pinpoint.
I’d seen the kid around school back when he was a freshman and I was a senior. He was the quintessential theater and band geek, which meant I should have had no reason to interact with him.
As one of the better players on the basketball team, my only goal was to get a scholarship and get out of Bellville—away from my drunk-ass father and the memory of my absent mother.
But my damn little sister, Gabby, had befriended Dre so I ended up seeing him around a lot more than I wanted. The first time Gabby brought him to our house, I nearly died of embarrassment. We were the epitome of wrong side of the tracks in our trailer park, even had the car up on cinder blocks that my unemployed dad swore he was always going to fix and never did. Either Gabby didn’t realize—or didn’t care—that guys like Dre King grew up a lot different than us.
I knew he lived in the fancy subdivision in a huge house with parents who made more money in three months than we’d see in a year. I hated his nice clothes, his nice house, and his involved parents from the moment I laid eyes on him.
Dre was everything I wanted to be.
But then, I got to know him a bit and realized he was also everything I swore I’d never be.
I’d been an outcast—written off—basically since birth. Or at least that was the way it’d always felt. I constantly felt the need to prove myself, always fighting a chip on my shoulder.
In my little Midwest town, with a Black father and white mother, I was born with a strike against me. My given first name was Reginald, after my father, but I’d been called Khi since birth and I would never go by that man’s name. The only things my mother gave me were her blue eyes and her back as she walked away. The two people who were supposed to love me had screwed me over more than I liked to think about.
I recalled year after year of teachers being surprised I was smart for a Black boy, coaches joking they’d thought I’d be a lot better since I was Black, and fellow students never able to figure me out. I didn’t fit with any one group—too white for the Black kids, too Black for the white kids. While, I wasn’t super popular, no one ever gave me any shit which I guessed was lucky—just ignored me for the most part.
I remembered the day I came out in eighth grade. I’d spent nearly a year coming to terms with the fact I was gay. I’d finally decided that I was already the kid from the wrong side of the tracks with an alcoholic father and basketball as my only way out, I figured I’d grasp onto my truth and be my authentic self. Plus, I knew having a gay son would piss my dad off even more than knowing I was good at basketball, but not great. I swore he’d only agreed to have kids with my young, naïve mother—before she took off for a better life—because he was under the impression we’d turn out better than him and support his sorry ass.
Well, joke was on him, Gabby and I did turn out better than him, but we both left that trailer and never looked back.
So, there I was, a high school senior when I met the infuriating cute little asshole, Andre King. At that time, the only things I took time for were homework, my sister, and basketball. I’d been out for over four years, but I had zero room for dating or relationships.
Which meant the stupid little crush I started to have on Dre completely fucked with my head. He was too young, too rich, too different from me. And then he started to show a side I’d not been expecting. When I’d first met him, I thought there’d maybe been a bit of interest shining in his eyes, but it soon turned to derision.
I’d never in my life seen a kid who tried so hard to deny his sexuality. Overall, I didn’t give a damn if he wanted to be in the closet or not, but when he started the shit with badmouthing all things LGBTQ, making snide comments, and spreading rumors, I had to admit I was shocked. It was likely for the best because Dre and I had zero business having any sort of involvement, but his blatant disgust of me turned the annoyance I’d already felt toward him into full-blown dislike.
And then the day came for me to head off to college, leave town—hopefully for good—and be the best I could be.
A day that my hatred for Dre was cemented in my soul.
“What do you think this meeting is about?” Dre asked, tearing me from my trip down memory lane.
I glanced over and took in his dark brown skin, deep brown eyes, and long black braids. One thing I’d never been able to forget was his killer smile—it was still great and it just pissed me off even more.
Maybe he’d finally found himself and come out—good for him, I didn’t wish for anyone to have to hide themselves—but that didn’t change the fact that he was an ass back then and he was an ass now.
Were you much better back
