5. Vincent

FIVE

"Crashed and burned? What do you mean?"

Marvin, my gay guide through the trials of queer courting, tries, as he has for the past year, to unravel the enigma of my disaster of a date. He's determined to understand why my first dates never warrant a follow-up.

"It all felt … right. Until it didn't."

"Vincent, listen. I may know a thing or two about overanalyzing a situation." Marvin's voice booms through the speakers in my car, and I take the last sip of my black coffee.

"Oh, really?"

My tumbler from home fits perfectly in the center console next to the cylinder of hypoallergenic wipes. After my last slug of caffeine, I grab one, clean my mouth, and contemplate stopping for a coffee refill. A quick glance at the clock informs me I don't have time. The word "late" isn't part of my vocabulary.

"Hush. Now, back up. Start at the beginning. Tell me every detail."

"Marvin, I'm almost at the school. You're getting the Cliff'sNotes version," I reply, checking the address on my phone.

"Fine, but embellish a little. I may be engaged, but I still crave the juice."

"Dinner was great. I folded and refolded my napkins like you showed me. And it worked like a charm. Two napkins. For the entire meal."

"Two? You're kidding?"

"I'm not. Val was impressed."

"Fuck, that's amazing, Vincent. You should feel so proud," he says, and I smile, wondering how I ever thought there might be something more than friendship between us. Marvin's cute, but there weren't any sparks. When he suggested we stay in touch, I was certain I'd never hear from him again, but almost a year later, he's become one of my dearest friends.

"Thank you. Yeah, I was really riding high from the win. And Kent was, well, my walls came crashing down."

"And …"

"He came home with me after dinner. For dessert."

The interior of my Subaru goes silent, and I tilt my ear toward the left speaker, waiting for his reply. Nothing.

"Marvin. You there? Did I lose you?" I pull my beanie up, hoping to hear better.

"Um, yeah, here. I'm not sure I heard you correctly. He came home with you? To your condo? You let him inside? With shoes?"

My eyes find the car's ceiling, knowing I need to spill it. I wince, and the words gush out quickly.

"Yes, he came over. Inside. He took his shoes off. I didn't even have to ask."

"Wow."

"I listened to you. Stayed open. Didn't tally objections." Stopped at a red light, I check my face in the rearview mirror. "I'm rarely into someone like that, so I went for it. We made out … and did other things. I asked him to brush his teeth, which he seemed happy to do. And well, when the moment ended, I felt overwhelmed with embarrassment, and I asked him to leave."

"Wait, rewind. Define other things."

"Really?"

"Really."

My cheeks flush. I pop off my hat and take another quick glance in the mirror, and yup, my face, ears, and entire bare head tinge crimson. I want to tell Marvin. We're friends. But awkwardness and shame overshadow my will to share.

"Not on the phone."

"Why not?"

"Someone might hear."

"Who?"

"I don't know. They could be monitoring my line."

I take a quick peek around the car.

"Who?"

"The government. Or China."

"You think the Chinese government wants to hear about your sexcapades with a hot daddy?"

"I'm here. I need to go," I say, pulling my car into a parking spot marked "visitor."

"Vincent, what things? What did you do to him? Wait. What did he do to you?"

"Marvin, I'll see you Saturday."

"Fine, but we're finishing this conversation, friend. Illona will go to bed by eight."

"Goodbye, Marvin."

I grab my bag and head inside, hoping I have enough time for a brisk scrub down in the bathroom.

My quick trip to the bathroom lasts closer to ten minutes. Talking with Marvin about last night, recalling the details I didn't share, I get stuck washing. The automatic faucets are on timers. Six seconds is not enough nor advised as sufficient hand washing by the Centers for Disease Control. Pulling my hands out and thrusting them back under, I count, and that never ends well. I've been on intervals of four lately. It changes sporadically, but the numbers are always even. Once I hit thirty-two, the soap vanishes, my hands wrinkle, and I reach a standstill.

Already late, I rush into the school's office, past the secretary, who shoots me a kind but curious look as I barge into the conference room.

"Sorry about that," I say, catching Geoff's narrowed eyes. Of course, he was here on time. Of course, he's the first to meet them. Yes, I'm late. Yes, it was my OCD. Yes, he knows. As Project Leads, technically, Geoff and I are peers, but his father sits on Hopscotch's board, so in his mind, he runs the show.

Fumbling for an excuse, I blurt, "Your bathroom sinks weren't cooperating and …"

Scanning the room for an empty seat, my heart drops through my stomach, out my ass, and straight to the floor. Kent. Our eyes meet, and the vision of him from last night flashes in my head. In my bathroom. Standing above me. Calling me a "good boy" as he fucked my face while I shot my load everywhere. Dear Goddess Stevie, help me.

"This is my colleague, Vincent Manda," Geoff says, filling the air with confidence and presumed authority.

"Shreya Shaan, STEM Teacher and Tech integrator." A beautiful Indian woman nods, and if I weren't so distracted by Kent in the room, I might get lost in her sweet perfume. There's notes of jasmine and vanilla.

After polite greetings, he's there. Next to me. Smelling like campfire and sex, or maybe it's just my nose reminding me of his cock dripping with my spit?

"Kent Lester, principal." Kent extends his hand. My eyes fall on his fingers. The dusting of hair on his knuckles.

Okay. We're playing strangers. At least for now. For Shreya and Geoff, and maybe even for me. This seems prudent. Last night was a blip—a stain on my record, like Kent's shirt, covered in wine, bleeding out.

"Nice to meet you," I reply, my hand—still tacky from the sanitizer—in his. The warmth of his fingers around mine. He takes his other hand and sandwiches mine. His skin on mine. I'm not supposed to be aroused. Here. Now. But my body apparently has a visceral reaction to Kent Lester. I close my eyes and, for a moment, wish it was just us, alone, without all the noise surrounding us.

"Same." Kent's warm smile peeks out, reminding me how patient and caring he was last night. Why would someone like Kent waste his time with me, anyway? He might have been tripping over his feet with a half-tucked shirt covered in merlot, but I'm the mess. Inside.

"So," Geoff interrupts, clearly ready to start the meeting, "Vincent and I work collaboratively. I'm the technical lead. My job is to work on the back end, ensure all the wires connect and talk correctly, and the devices play nicely."

He nods at me. Shreya and Kent both turn their attention my way. Kent's wearing a navy cardigan over a peach polo. The collar of his shirt is half up, forcing the sweater to fall unevenly across his shoulders. There are three buttons on his shirt. I typically button the bottom two and leave the top one open. Kent left all three open. Perhaps on purpose, but my guess is he didn't give it a thought. My eyes spy the soft smoky hair peeking out, and a trapdoor in my stomach gives way. Geoff clears his throat, and oh, this is the part when I'm supposed to talk.

"Yes," I say, blinking four times to focus. Kent's stare falls on my face as my eyes open and shut. "And I'm the implementation analyst. I'll gather information from users—teachers, manage data transfer, and training. Basically, all the ways Hopscotch interfaces with, well, people."

A satisfied look overtakes Geoff's face. Now that we're getting started and, for the most part, falling into our routine, he's content. The district has already bought the product. Our job is to come in, get it up and running, and ensure everyone's satisfied.

"I'll need access to your servers, any devices teachers might use, that type of thing," Geoff says, giving Shreya his attention. This young woman—with her purple sweater covered in florals, and tattooed bees swarming around her arm—does not appear to be someone to take shit from anyone. Perhaps Geoff has met his match.

"And I'll need …" I begin, and before I can finish, Kent says, "Me."