Chapter 6

CHAPTER

SIX

NATIE

T he morning sunlight streams on my face and I'm forced to get up. I should be thrilled it's another day off from both jobs. I could go play board games, read, take a walk on the beach, or anything fun. But instead, I'm forced to reflect on the shame that was last night.

All was going well with Santos. He made my Valentine's Day less lonely, even as just a friend. And then I had to ruin it by admitting the truth: I've resented him for years. As I go about my morning routine and get dressed, I recall all the times he bullied me, wondering how true those memories are.

In gym class senior year, we were forced to play basketball for a month. I was in a batch with several fellow non-athletic types of boys mixed in with Santos and a couple of his football friends. The teams were a random assortment, and we switched teams around each class. I thanked the high heavens we wore different colored jerseys instead of some awful shirts-versus-skins scenario. It was my mandatory physical education class, none of my good friends were in my period; suffice it to say, I wasn't thrilled about being there. But basketball was a sink-or-swim moment. Something about Santos―a walking tower of bulging muscles, dark stubble, and obscenely short gym shorts―high-fiving his buddies made me want to rise to the occasion.

And so I did. I was no athletic savant, but I put my heart and soul into those four weeks. I didn't give up or purposely foul anyone. I made passes, guarded when I could, tried not to double dribble, and even made some shots. Did I sink any? No, I would have remembered that, but I gave it my all. And because of my ball-playing, fueled only by bitter fury, the bigger guys couldn't make fun of me, at least for that month. I was by no means friendly with Santos Hand, but my fear and resentment of him dissipated for that brief, fleeting moment of the school year.

One day after the final basketball class, I was drenched in sweat, heading to the locker room. I was bone-tired, and despite not sinking any shots, I was proud of myself for participating at all. After opening my locker, I noticed none other than The Handyman himself walk in. Why we were alone, I had no idea. But he approached me, and I used all my strength to ignore him.

"Good, um, hustle out there," Santos said, standing by my locker. So much for avoiding him.

I whipped off my gym shirt and frowned. This guy and his sarcasm really got under my skin. "Sure," I replied curtly.

He took off his shirt, warm skin inches from mine, and I once again avoided his gaze. In my periphery, I could tell he was huge, built, and already hairy in the right spots. I felt like a beanpole of a teenager standing next to him. I chalked it up to adolescent hormones making me feel self-conscious, but simply by standing near me, Santos Hand made it worse.

When I glanced at him, I noticed he was eyeing me up and down. That only made my skinny shame worse, because I knew he was winding up to mock me. I was exposed, and I was sure a big, athletic dude could take a jab at me. "You're…pretty b-b-built," he said.

There it was, a sarcastic comment about my tiny abs . I huffed and yanked my day clothes on with aggressive force. I muttered some nonsense as Firass and several other students from the oncoming period walked in. Relief flooded my chest and I waved at my best friend. Hiking my bag up, I brushed past Santos, not looking back at him.

In every high school memory I ever shared with Santos, he made me feel like garbage. I didn't think he'd gaslight me all these years later and paint me to be the bad guy. He's lying—there's no way he was the victim…right?

With my morning bathroom routine complete, I stomp through my living room, a man on a mission. Valentine's Day is over, so the happy couple needs to wake up so I can get some answers. On the opposite side of the house, I know Firass is sleeping in Johnny's arms or whatever. I knock on the door and hear some rumpling movements.

"It's me. I need to talk to you," I announce sternly.

When the door opens, I'm met with my brother. The door is opened only a crack, and fortunately he's wearing a towel over his waist. I grimace at his half-naked body and disheveled hair. "What?" he asks in a groggy tone.

"I need to speak to Firass."

I hear a small voice from somewhere behind the door mutter, "Can't it wait?"

I roll my eyes. "Seriously, Firass, it's a best friend emergency. I'm cashing in on a you-owe-me-one."

Johnny eyes me skeptically. "Please," I say, with a pleading tone. He seems to consider my desperation, then looks behind the door.

"Give him a minute to get dressed," Johnny says.

"Thanks." I smile at my brother. "I'll go start the coffee!" I say over my shoulder as I stride away.

Ten minutes later, Firass and I are sitting on lawn chairs on the balcony, watching the marina in the distance. The late winter air isn't so cold, especially since we're holding steaming mugs of fresh brew. A couple of seagulls fly by, but otherwise, we're all alone. Johnny knows better than to interrupt this crucial, private conversation.

Firass takes a sip and looks at me expectantly. He's wrapped in a white hoodie while I wear my gray cardigan. "So…" He pushes up his glasses. "You wanted to talk?"

"Yeah." I fixate on the brown liquid in my mug. "Why did you hire the printing company run by Santos Hand, of all people?"

When I look up, Firass is staring at me like I just admitted I'm joining the circus. "Um, because he's local, his prices were cheaper, and he had good production samples?"

"Ah." I take a sip and nod.

"Why do I get the feeling you're not talking about board game printing?"

I smack my lips on the hot liquid. "I met up with him last night."

"What?"

"Well, I went out to Seashell, and he was there." I lean back. "Did you know he was gay?" He never confirmed his label; I'll add that to the laundry list of things I need to ask Santos.

"I…had my suspicions." Firass leans forward. "What did you guys…do?"

"We chatted about old times. Had some drinks, had some laughs. And I told him I forgave him for being a bully."

"Oh?"

I swirl the coffee in my mug. "Then he played a Reverse Uno card. He told me I was the bully, that I made life hell for him in high school, and to ask you to confirm it."

After a beat, Firass simply replies, "Okay."

"Is it true?" My mouth is sandpaper as I ask him the question that's been on my mind for twelve hours. "Was I…a bully to him?"

Firass taps his mug and bites his lip. We both look out at the marina, and I breathe in the salty air. "From what I recall…you weren't particularly nice to him."

My shoulders tense. "What do you mean? Of course I wasn't nice to him. He was awful to me."

"How so?" My best friend leans back and his lips quirk up in a cocky, challenging grin. This maneuver has historically meant he's about to seal a victory on whatever board game we're playing.

"All he and his friends ever did was mock me."

Firass takes a sip. "We were teenagers. A lot of kids were mean to us, but Santos was never a perpetrator."

My eyebrows jump. My best friend can't be right, can he? I try to reframe my memory of Santos, but I've held onto this resentment for so long. "What…what about that time in the locker room? You were there, walking in when my class ended. We were getting dressed and he made fun of me for being skinny."

Firass looks up, pondering, then back at me. "That's not how I remember it."

"Yes, it is!" I say with an exasperated tone. "He sarcastically said I was built and had good hustle. I recall those exact words!" I point at Firass for emphasis.

"How do you know he was being sarcastic?"

"Because…" My brain tries to churn a counterargument. "Because he was never friendly to me when his football buddies were around."

"We all gave in to peer pressure." Firass shrugs like warping my memories is no big deal. "If I was around my team of fellow jocks, I probably wouldn't argue with them just to talk to an outsider, even if I liked them. Plus, it's not like you were nice to him."

"What?!" I yelp.

"Yeah. In the locker room, he said you were built, then you shot back, saying something like, ‘I don't want to look anything like you ,' then you ran away."

My breath hitches at the memory. I was in shock and muttering; there's no way I said those spiteful words years ago. "I…said that?"

He grimaces. "You did."

I frown, then shake my head. I'm not ready to admit defeat yet. "Well, he was awful to me, too. Did you hear about that time he went out of his way to make fun of me for not having a prom date?"

"Was that during lunch?"

"Right, and you were out sick."

"Cupper and Amalia told me about that day."

"Thank you, I have witnesses. Santos was bullying me as usual." I lift up my chin with indignant pride, then sip my drink.

"They said he was trying to ask you to prom."

At this, I spit my coffee all over the railing. "Woah, buddy," Firass says, patting my back. "Glad I wasn't the spitter this time."

I cough and wipe my mouth. When I catch my breath, I ask, "What…what do you mean?!"

"They told me Santos gave off major gay vibes, but only with you. They said he was trying to test the waters to see if you didn't have a date." Firass shrugs. "I think everyone assumed we were dating. And I love you like a brother, but that was my bad for clinging to you all those years."

I hyperventilate, and my heart hammers in my chest. The Handyman, Mr. Huge-and-Popular was trying to… ask me out?

"Wha…what?!"

Firass shrugs like my whole universe wasn't inverted just now. "Santos wanted to go to prom with you. And after Cupper and Amalia told me, I started to see the signs." The bastard I call my best friend actually laughs. "He kept like, eyeing you in the halls. I think he genuinely had a crush on you or something."

All of my teenage memories warp in my mind. I recall him attempting to bring up prom, and me shunning him. I remember he gave me his jacket at prom, then caressed my neck, and I froze. I see visions of Santos eyeing me up and down in the locker room after playing basketball. And I insulted him.

The heavy revelation makes me clutch my chest. Firass says something, but his words are drowned out by an overwhelming wave of regret. Santos…liked me?! He wasn't my high school bully. Shit, I bullied him .