14. Kent

FOURTEEN

"You slept together?"

New pastel blues, purples, and yellow beads at the end of Ruth's braids signal the looming spring. The trees surrounding the track also hint at the change of seasons with new buds. Ruth's determination to get my love life on track doesn't waver, but I'm still my usual half-step behind.

"Slept. As in sleeping. That's it."

Ruth gives me her patented I'm-not-buying-your-fakakta-story look.

"Really, nothing happened."

"Nothing?"

"Okay, we kissed. And cuddled."

Her cheeks go soft, followed by her entire face. Ruth's eyelids stretch wide, and she slows her pace and hooks her arm in mine.

"Mr. Lester, you spent all night canoodling with Mr. Clean?"

Tugging her back, delight plastered on my face, I say, "It was actually lovely."

"You're preaching to the choir. Spooning is my love language."

"Really? I wouldn't have taken you for a cuddler."

"Look at me." Ruth pauses, jutting her hip out. "I'm all skin and bones. I love nothing more than burying myself in a curvy lady."

We continue our brisk walk and a grin sneaks onto my face, thinking of Ruth losing herself in someone.

"He did say something interesting the next morning. Well, told me something."

Ruth blurts out a blasting noise, mimicking the fire alarm. "Incoming, red-flag alert!"

"Hush." My arm releases hers, allowing us both to resume swinging them for extra cardio.

"He's a side."

"Aside? Aside from what?"

"No, not aside, a—" I pause, holding one hand out with each word. "—side. Two words."

"Oh, a side. Cool. My cousin Stewart is a side. It's way more common than people think."

Of course, this is nothing new to Ruth. She volunteers at the queer community center in town, has dated more queer folks than I can count on all my fingers and toes, and is clearly a million times more hip than me. Not that it takes much.

She slows her pace and rubs my forearm as we stroll. "People think sex equals penetration, but take it from me, that couldn't be further from the truth."

"I told him I don't mind."

"And do you?"

"I don't think so," I say, scrubbing my face.

"I get big top energy from you. I'm talking sex, not the circus."

I open my mouth to reply, but Ruth continues, "Bottom? Verse? Wait, are you a side? That would be convenient."

The moment the question leaves her lips, it dawns on me. I have no clue what I am.

"With Corrine, I mean, I guess a top?"

"That's with Corrine. But actually, you totally could've been a bottom with her."

"Excuse me?" I reach for the base of my neck and stumble on the track.

"She could've pegged you."

"Pegged me?"

Ruth's braids sway wildly as she shakes her head, clicking and clacking.

"Kent. Kent. Kent. You have much to learn from your Auntie Ruth."

Tops. Bottoms. Verse. Sides. Pegging. What have I gotten myself into?

"What do you … want? When you're with Vincent."

"I don't know. To look at him. Take care of him. Hold him."

Ruth purses her lips. "Kent Lester, that might be the sweetest thing I've ever heard. But sexually, when you imagine being with him, do you want to top him? Bottom for him? Both? Neither?"

My mouth goes drier than the Sahara, and I wish I'd brought my water bottle.

"I mean, I don't know. I've been happy with what we've done. More than happy. I never really thought about it much."

"Much?" She pokes me in the side with her elbow. "So some. This is a safe, judgment-free space," she says, waving her hands in front of us.

"I mean, I guess, maybe both?"

"Both. That's verse. So, you'd like to fuck him and be fucked by him?"

Thoughts of Vincent's cock in my mouth. In my ass. Touching his ass. My cheeks flush red under my beard, and I blurt, "Ruth, we're on school grounds."

"Kent, it's six thirty in the morning, and we're on the track. The only ears that might hear us are the birds." She points to the trees dotting the track's edges.

"Did you know pigeons have the best hearing of any birds?"

Ruth cocks her head.

"What? You can learn a lot at the science fair."

"Anyway." Ruth shakes her head. "Verse."

"I mean, I guess so." I rub the back of my neck. "We're only friends. We're not doing anything. Not anymore. And he's a side! So, I don't think it matters."

"Oh, it matters," she says again, looping her hand around my arm. "You guys are totally hooking up again. Mark my words."

I let out a long exhale, unsure what any of this means for me. For us. Not that Vincent and I are an us.

"Sides don't like"—she lowers her voice to a whisper and nods to the birds—"penetrative anal sex. With a dick." Heat rushes to my face, and I close my eyes, knowing Ruth wants to help. "Some enjoy a finger or rimming, that's a tongue. Many will do almost everything else. Oral. You've done that already." She sticks her index finger in her mouth and pops it. "Toy play. You could explore some light bondage. Maybe a harness," she says, squeezing my shoulders. "You could totally pull off a leather harness."

My mind treads water, trying to stay afloat. "Wait, rimming?"

"Kent Lester. Do we need to have another pizza and wine sleepover, so I explain the ins and outs of gay sex?"

"Maybe?"

"Here's what I'll tell you," she says, patting my arm. "Most people define traditional penetration as the standard for sex. But that's a heteronormative construct. As queer people, we get to buck that patriarchal bullshit. Sex acts are sex. Full stop."

I nod slowly, trying to take it all in.

"The important thing is communication. Ask him what he wants. Likes. Tell him what you want. And then do it."

Maybe all this side business is a sign that the mishigas with Vincent was a foolish mistake. I enjoy his company … and the kissing. But maybe it's more complicated than I thought. Although, what we've done so far has been some of the most amazing sex I've ever had. Do I really care about him being a side? Labels are for soup cans. Vincent's soft skin. His beautiful eyes focused on his laptop as he types away. In my office. Working together. The implementation. My job counts on this working and proving how amazing Lear staff and students truly are. I've been on my own for years now. Me and Sweetums. There's no reason to muck it up.

"What a good morning you've had, Brodie," I say.

Standing at my door with Sheldon, Brodie can't conceal the bashful grin sketched on his face.

"Yup. He's been listening, staying safe," Sheldon says. "He got frustrated during phonics and went to his table spot independently."

"Brodie, wow. You should feel proud." I rest my hand on his shoulder.

"The cafeteria is a little loud today," Sheldon says. "I offered him headphones, but he didn't want them, and he asked if he could eat with Theo or you, and well, Mr. Berenson is busy." He pops an eyebrow, and I guess these boys are spending lunches together.

"Brodie, I would love for you to eat here," I say. "I'm just working with Mr. Manda, but I'm getting hungry myself."

I nod to the table where Vincent sits, tapping away on his laptop.

"Mr. Manda, why don't we break and join Brodie for lunch? Sound good?"

Vincent's eyes finally land on us, and he's blinking profusely. I know children aren't his favorite, but this is only one child. Having lunch with Brodie is super chill. And I'm here.

Brodie approaches, carrying his dinosaur lunch bag, and without caring about personal space, pulls his chair inches from Vincent and starts unpacking his lunch.

"Sure," Vincent says with a complete lack of enthusiasm. "I just need to …" he stammers, folding his laptop, holding his hands up, and heading for the bathroom.

With my brown bag retrieved from the bottom of my desk drawer, I join Brodie and offer him a squirt of hand sanitizer before using it myself.

"What's for lunch today?" I ask.

Brodie holds up a sandwich, and I push my glasses up and move closer to inspect its contents.

"Ah, cheese and … mayonnaise?" He nods and takes a huge bite. "A classic. One of my favorites."

Removing my sandwich from the bag, I show him. "Peanut butter and jelly. You're not allergic?"

Brodie shakes his head, and we eat in silence. Since he started kindergarten, I've spent my fair share of time with Brodie, and one thing I know—above all else, he prefers silence. While he may not talk much, he's always watching, taking the world in, observing, analyzing, and reacting in his own unique way. Kindergarten, where there's more play and exploration, suited him better, and his transition to first grade has been … challenging.

"All set," Vincent says, returning to his seat and taking his lunch box out. It's stainless steel and sparkles under the bright lights.

Brodie pauses his chewing and stares at Vincent.

"What's wrong?" Vincent asks.

Brodie nods toward Vincent's lunch box.

"I think he wants to know what you're having," I say.

Brodie nods slowly three times and smiles at Vincent.

"Oh, well, I have toast," he says, removing a plastic container. "A piece of rotisserie chicken from the grocery and a few nuts and raisins for dessert."

Brodie's face scrunches up like he's just stumbled upon a foul, rotten egg.

"Nuts and raisins," he says, and his first words in front of Vincent today come out in his usual raspy voice.

"I'll have you know, nuts have a ton of protein." Vincent holds up a small container with his "dessert" and offers it up for Brodie's inspection.

"I have a brownie," I say, pulling the plastic-wrapped, store-bought confection from my bag. It's topped with chocolate icing and mini chocolate chips.

Brodie holds up a small yellow bag of shortbread cookies coated in chocolate.

"Yum," I say. "Way better than … raisins."

I shoot Vincent a half-smile and wink, and he replies, "Oh, hush. Well, now I'm definitely not sharing."

Brodie laughs at this, and I'm unsure if Vincent meant it to be a joke.

The three of us sit quietly with the occasional wrapper and chewing noises the only sound as we eat. Brodie and Vincent look at each other occasionally, but busy chewing, they mostly stare at their food until Vincent asks him, "You like LEGO?"

Brodie's face, focused on his sandwich, lights up, and he nods his head quicker than I've ever witnessed.

"Me too. A lot, actually."

"But you're a grown-up," Brodie says with a full mouth.

"True. But grown-ups build with LEGO." Vincent rips off a small piece of dry toast.

"You know," I begin, "some grown-ups have a job playing with LEGO. They create all the kits, think of new bricks and concepts. You'd be surprised how many adults spend a good chunk of their time with LEGO."

Brodie's full mouth falls open, the contents of his chewed cheese and mayo sandwich visible, and my gaze flits to Vincent, unsure how he'll take it. But he either doesn't notice or fails to react.

"Those people are living the dream. Paid to build," Vincent says, his lips easing into a smile.

"Maybe we could do one together sometime," Brodie offers.

"I don't think so." Vincent quickly shakes his head. "I prefer to build alone."

Brodie shrugs off the rebuff and pops one of his cookies in his mouth.

"Finish up." I nod toward Brodie's lunch. "Mr. Soleskin will be expecting you soon."

When Vincent finishes, he begins the clean-up routine I've witnessed for a few weeks now. After disposing of his trash, he takes wipes from his bag and diligently scrubs down the exterior of every container, his lunchbox, and his section of the table. When the wiping reaches the perimeter of his area, Brodie quickly packs up his trash and bag and hugs everything to his chest. Vincent's gaze falls on the small boy, and he gives him a hasty smile, finally handing him a wipe. Brodie takes it and feverishly wipes at his area of the table.

"Mr. Lester," Brodie says, nodding toward my trash. I quickly swipe it up, and Brodie takes a wipe to my spot.

"Brodie, why don't I walk you back to class?" I extend my hand and Brodie swiftly takes it. With his tiny fingers enveloped in mine like a puppy snuggled in for a nap, we head for the door.

"I'll be right back," I say.

Vincent takes a fresh wipe and meticulously cleans every spot on the table. Maybe Brodie was too much for him. But they seemed to connect over their shared love of LEGO. Regardless of where this might be heading, I want to learn more about what makes Vincent tick. Brodie and I stroll down the hallway and a light quiver stirs in my stomach thinking about what waits upon my return.