Chapter 1

CHAPTER

ONE

NATIE

Thirteen years ago

I swear I'm not lonely. Yes, technically I'm at my senior prom without a date, but I chose to do this. My friends in the Queer Pride Union club and I have all decided to come as a group. With my best friend being gay, it's safer for us to travel as a pack. I'm not simply an ally―no one knows, but I'm slowly coming to terms with being bisexual.

We're dancing around the linoleum floor to the latest house and hip-hop beats playing overhead. Our high school gym has been decked out in purple paper streamers. We don't have the biggest budget here in Newlantic, Connecticut, but all of the student body seems pumped to be here. It's the biggest social event of our young lives, one last hurrah before we graduate next week.

I'm dressed in a powder blue suit, and the jacket is one size too big―that's what happens when you have a larger older brother. Meanwhile, my best friend, Firass—he hates when anyone calls him Fee or Ross—is wearing a bright violet ensemble. Our friends, all queer in some way, are donning bold colors. We may be the school misfits with no love-lives to speak of, but we have each other.

The football team, meanwhile, is dressed in the finest tuxedos teenagers can afford. Girls are draped over these dudes, and they laugh since the faculty and community love them. They're all tall, muscular, and handsome, and admittedly, I've fantasized about kissing a couple of them. None of the jocks have ever laid a hand on me, Firass, or the others, but they used to laugh at us for being nerds, and now they make fun of us for being queer nerds.

One of them gazes at me across the gym floor, the one dude I kind of, sort of, used to know. He's the tallest of them all with broad shoulders and short, dark hair, and his soulful eyes catch mine. Santos "The Handyman" Hand earned that nickname by always coming through when the football team needed him. When you're a six-foot-two, two-hundred-pound brick wall of a teenager, I bet you'd be a prized asset.

I'm a board game nerd. We haven't had anything in common for years. So why is he intently staring at me?

"I'm gonna get a drink!" I shout to Firass over the music. He shifts his glasses and gives me a thumbs up.

The food and beverage table is tucked far away from the rest of the prom. I wipe my forehead and grab a cup. All that group dancing worked me up a sweat, and that punch is calling my name. I fill up my plastic cup, then hear the DJ switch to a Britney Spears song. Oh, this is my jam ! I turn around to head to the floor when―

Bam ! I've crashed into a large mass that definitely wasn't there three seconds ago. I look up, shocked and confused. Santos Hand is standing before me.

And I've spilled punch between us. Crap . He looks almost as mortified as me. This jock is gonna murder me on prom night. I shake off my arms and look down. The red punch has gotten mostly on me, thank goodness. The last thing I want is to give Santos a reason to beat me up the week before graduation.

Fortunately, everyone's preoccupied on the dancefloor, and no one seems to be watching us. While he's unharmed, things aren't looking so hot for me, since the punch is going to stain my blazer. I can't keep walking around looking like this.

"N-N-Natie," he says.

"I'm sorry," I mutter, refusing to look at his eyes. "Just leave, I'll um…take care of it… shit ." I'm embarrassed, flustered, and livid that I ruined my brother's jacket.

"Here," he says. A moment later, my wrist is tugged forward. Santos Hand is manhandling me―ha!―and he's dragging me away. I'm mostly afraid of the idea of him whisking me off, but I'm also a little turned on. Damn these eighteen-year-old hormones .

Before I realize it, we're in the boys' bathroom. "Here…w-w-water," he says with a stutter. He's anxious for some reason, but I can't interpret why when he's yanking my jacket off of me. I nearly shiver at the feel of his hands prying a layer of my clothes off. In the next second, he shoves it in the sink and runs water over it.

I stare at him, feeling exposed. While I'm wiry in my white button-down, Santos has clearly completed puberty before the rest of us. He's filled out his dark blue suit with mounds of solid mass. He looks like a sports magazine model.

When Santos eyes me up and down, I bite back a shudder. This is the longest we've interacted since middle school, and suddenly, the boys' bathroom feels smaller than ever. "Your shirt," he says calmly.

"What?"

"It…might stain, too."

I look down―indeed, I managed to get punch on my torso as well. Moving to the neighboring sink, I begin to unbutton. That's when it strikes me―Santos Hand is helping me? He's finished washing my jacket, an almost chivalrous act.

"Thanks for that," I mutter. I take off my shirt completely, thankful that I remembered to wear a white tank top underneath. I scrub my shirt for ten seconds before draping it on top of a stall. When I turn around, Santos hands me my jacket. He towers over me and looks all sorts of uncomfortable. "You didn't have to."

"I…I know." He shrugs and looks away. I toss the soaking wet jacket on another stall door, wondering when I'll come back for it. When I turn back around, Santos is down to his white button-down as well. He's handing me his dark blue blazer. Huh ?

He stares at the floor and reaches out, as if I'm the last person he wants to talk to. I get it: I'm a skinny Japanese dude, not a big blonde cheerleader girl. I haven't heard of Santos dating anyone, but considering all the girls the football team came to prom with, I can presume that's what he likes. "It's…the same size." He shakes the jacket in his hand like he's giving a rabid dog a treat.

"So?"

"Take it," he replies.

"Huh?"

"You…don't want to go out there in just your, um…undershirt."

I look down at my torso, then scrunch my eyebrows when I look at him again. He's offering me the jacket off his back? Why is The Handyman being nice to me? I'm the one who bumped into him with punch.

When Santos doesn't move, I weigh my options. I don't want to go back out there in just a tank top or my soaking jacket. So, I take his offering and back away. "Thanks," I mutter.

I move to look at myself in the mirror; I look pretty good despite the size difference. Of course, Santos looks mighty fine in just his white button-down. Those biceps are the size of my entire body. So strong…

"I can get this back to you later," I say.

"No worries. We'll, uh, trade." He gives me a sheepish grin and points to my wet jacket.

I snicker. "That makes sense. I only wore that because it used to be my brother's."

"Your brother, Johnny?"

"Yup." My brother was a legend at this school for being tall, muscular, and a proud advocate of the Queer Pride Union. Everyone respected him, while people like Santos didn't want to talk to me. Except for tonight, it seems.

"The uh…gay one?"

I huff and shake out my hands. "Yeah," I murmur.

"And your friend, Fee?"

"You mean Firass?" I ask with a frown.

"Fee…Ross. He's, uh…" He scratches his eyebrow and looks away. "He's also gay, right?"

That does it . Something snaps in me. "You and your friends really can't stand gay people, huh?"

"No!" He rushes up to me, and I scowl. "That's…n-not…"

"You think you and your jock buddies can treat me like shit for years, then what, expect me to forgive you the week before graduation?" I shake with animosity, staring down at the tiled bathroom floor.

"Natie, that's not―"

"Forget it, Santos," I say with a scowl. I begin to shimmy off his blazer. "I'd rather go home with no shirt than take something from the likes of you. Here, take it back, and—"

"No!" he shouts. I startle, shocked by his deep voice. While I'm stunned silent, frozen in place, he nods at me.

"K…keep it, Natie," he mutters. Something about his tone makes me pause. The energy in the room shifts as he tenderly replaces the jacket on my body. Slowly, he buttons his way up the front. He's so close to me and so gentle that I can't even breathe. "It…looks g-good on you."

Then, in the strangest maneuver yet, he drags his palms up my arms. The jacket is just as big on me as my brother's was, so the sleeves scrunch up. Then he puts his hands on my neck. Why is he putting his hands on my neck? Is he still mad? Is this massive football player going to break my bones?

I shut my eyes to brace myself, but instead, he's…caressing me? Santos moves his soft hands gradually up my neck and to my jaw. When I open my eyes, all I see is him. His gaze seems distressed, yet inviting. Stubble paints the faintest traces of dark brown hair along his cheeks and jawline. "I…I…I want…"

Before he can say more, the door squeaks open. He all but pushes me away, and I happily oblige, since I don't want anyone to see us. I don't know what was happening with the two of us, but now, it's over.

"Yo, Santos." Three of the other football dudes have walked in, laughing. They smell like weed, and fortunately, pay me no mind. "Man, Corinne and the other girls have been looking for you. They want you, dawg."

They all laugh and make kissing noises as they jostle his shoulders. Friggin' jocks.

"Right. My…um, coat got wet," he mutters.

They move to the back, and I take that as my cue to leave. The last thing I hear before I walk out of the bathroom is one of them asking, "Was your coat always this color?"

I shake my head and pull the jacket closer to me as I walk down the unoccupied hallways. His suit smells like cologne and a musky, masculine scent, and it does nothing to quell my hormones. I know I like dudes more than I like girls, but it's all been theoretical. Athletic guys don't look my way.

Until tonight. I don't know what Santos was doing, but I hope I never find out. As I walk back to the thumping music of prom, I swear to forget the last few minutes of tonight. Or, at least, I can try. But my high school bully's fingers on my skin is a memory I doubt I'll get over soon.