Chapter 23

TWENTY-THREE

Owen

" O wen, it's so great to be able to sit down with you."

I smile tightly and nod.

Remember to act like a person—remember to act like a person—I panic.

What does a person act like? My publicist said I should act like a person. But I need more information than that. And now I'm sitting with an interviewer, and I don't have any fucking information.

The interviewer is smiling at me expectantly, and I remember acting like a person requires replying to her.

"Hi. So glad I could too." I force the most awkward smile onto my face. I probably look like a fucking sim.

"You seem to be a little nervous, Owen."

"I am nervous." The words come out harsh.

"What's making you nervous?" she presses, leaning in like she's filled with compassion and not a shark wanting to expose me.

"I'm a bit of an anxiously, depressed introvert, so being interviewed on camera is not my favorite place to be." Why did I just say that? What the hell is wrong with me?

"We expect a lot of anxiety. I don't think most athletes are natural at this." She's lying.

I've seen Michael Phelps do these. Man is as smooth as fucking butter. Here I am like static electricity. A blanket that just came out of the dryer.

"I'm sure it's some people's strength, but it's not one of mine."

"Well, we'll treat this like a conversation."

That sounded fucking worse. I don't have any friends. Do people even like me? I only talk to my brother and my fake husband.

I realize I haven't replied again when she blinks aggressively at me. "That sounds great."

"You're the new addition to the men's national fencing team. How does that feel?" She pivots, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

"Feels pretty good. I'm excited about being with the team, and our tournaments coming up." Maybe I can do this. This line of questioning feels okay.

"I've heard wonderful things. That you've been on the coach's radar for a while, so when he took over the national team, he was super excited to invite you to the team."

"I'm proud to be given the chance to represent the United States. It's such an amazing honor."

"If you don't mind switching directions, let's talk about you being the first openly gay male fencer."

I swallow. Here it is.

Listen, at least I've had some gay sex now, but I still don't feel like that made me the poster boy for gay male fencer. At most, it makes me the poster boy for confused.

"Sure," I say, because what else can I?

"I'm sure there are so many queer kids who are looking up to you. How does it feel to be a role model?"

"No little kid should be looking up to me." I shut my mouth. Fuck! Why do I speak? I've got to make it better. I clear my throat and put my words together before speaking so I don't fuck this up again. "I don't think it's really anyone's place to make athletes or movie stars, or anyone in the spotlight, a role model, and someone for little kids to look up to. I think we're all complex people, and that is a lot of pressure. I'm here to be a good sportsman. And I'm here to do what I love. But I don't really want to hold the burden of parents having their kids look up to me. It's great for people to see their queer adults and gay men out and open about who they are. But aside from that, I don't really think it should be more."

"Oh, good point. That has been something that has been highly debated for years. Whether kids should be looking up to athletes is controversial."

"Well, I mean, I do think it's okay for kids to look up to athletes. If they want to train harder and work towards their dreams. But making us people on pedestals and above reproach isn't good for anyone. Along with the pressure. We already have a lot of stress on us to perform at such a high level." I breathe out. That seemed to go better.

"You mentioned having anxiety. Do you think that adds into your anxiety?"

"How could it not? Everything adds to my anxiety. So I don't need that piled on top." My publicist is either going to love me or hate me after this.

"Even so, we'd love to tell your story. Can you tell us a little more about your relationship with your husband, Colin?"

"Of course. Colin and I met on the New York Gods fencing team."

"Was it love at first sight? Because Colin only joined the team a year ago, and you're already married?" she asks the question so kindly, but it feels razor-edged.

Fuck.

Why didn't I think to make up a story with Colin? I feel like I'm bailing out a sinking ship. This lie is going to be exposed for everyone to see. Why didn't I assume?

"We were into each other immediately." I begin searching for the words. "Colin has an energy about him that is intoxicating and addicting. And I've always loved spending time with him. He's like a box of joy. And for somebody like me who spent a lot of my life with severe depression and anxiety, he is a breath of fresh air all the time." It's easier to tell the truth, and it pours out of me. "Living with him has changed my life."

Even if that didn't sound like someone else's normal happily ever after. I actually realize I loved living with Colin and spending time with Colin. He's my best friend. So if they didn't like my answer and it isn't good enough, they could fuck off because that's how I feel.

"Wow, I love hearing that. He really does seem like a great guy. We would love to have a sit down with you and your husband at some point." Her smile is pressing. Like she wants a yes right here.

I laugh awkwardly. "I don't know. I'll have to propose it to him. He's trying to focus on his studies and didn't really sign up to be in front of the national media like I did. So I will pass it along. I don't know."

"Totally fair. He's young."

"He's only three years younger than me."

"That's quite a gap at your age." What is she trying to say?

I give her a funny look. "Not really—we are in the same peer group."

"Maybe I guess…" Is she trying to play this off some kind of way to spin the interview? But she switches topics before I can figure it out. "What has life been like with him in college and you being so far away training?"

"Difficult. We've done lots of video calls, and he's planning to come out to stay with me during training camps. We're making it work." At least I hope we still are. I hope he's still happy.

"I bet it is. I hope we see him by your side at competitions."

"I'm sure you will." I haven't even asked Colin to come yet. I put it on my mental to-do list.

"It was great speaking to you, Owen."

"You too."

I bolt out of the studio the second I'm free, getting into my waiting town car on the edge of a panic attack.

"What's wrong?" Oliver asks, and I jump, slamming my head into the roof.

I crumple into my seat, hands on my head. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Coming to see what's gotten into you," Oliver says like its nothing, but I know him better than anyone else.

"What do you mean?" I'm far too exhausted and on the edge of a panic attack to deal with him.

"You've been short." He slips closer, prying my hands off my head to examine it. "Have you been taking your meds while you're at camp?"

"Yes, I have alarms set."

"And I've talked to the dietician. She said you've been wonderful." He's scanning me, looking for something.

"I've been busy training. Nothing is wrong."

"Who made you set alarms for your meds?" Oliver asks like my words just registered.

"It was Colin's idea."

Oliver's face turns to a mixture of disgust but also somehow impressed. "He's doing a better job than I considered possible."

"Do I pass your test?" I ask, putting my hand back on my head to rub the sore spot.

"No, you haven't seen me in weeks."

"I was gone for two weeks…" I stare at him.

"And you return and I don't see you, but your fake husband does?" Is Oliver upset?

I didn't think that could happen. "I live with Colin."

"But you don't make time for me?" Oliver presses his lips into a hard line. "Not even at family dinners?"

"You go to those?"

"I mean dinners with my family and yours."

I scrunch up my face. "Are you dying?"

"No." His tone tells me not to test him.

"I'm sorry. I've been preoccupied and didn't know you wanted to have dinner with us." Or see Colin at all for that matter.

"I sent an invitation," Oliver snaps.

"A what?"

"An invitation," he says, over enunciating the words.

"You sent an invitation to my house?" I haven't seen anything.

"I had Isaac do it. He got embossed stationary and everything."

I pull my phone out of my pocket, calling Colin. "Did we get an invite for dinner at Oliver's?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?" I ask.

"I thought Oliver was making fun of us. It was addressed to me like I'm your wife," Colin scoffs.

"Is he a moron?" Oliver asks. "There is proper etiquette for addressing invitations. Is no one even civil any longer?"

"Fuck you," Colin snaps back. "Mr. and Mr. Owen Godfrey," he mutters, but his voice softens. "Oh…"

"I am literally surrounded by idiots." Oliver rubs his temples. "Dinner is tonight. Do not be late." Like he's James fucking Bond, he throws open the door as the car glides to a stop with his last word, and he gets out in front of his office like he timed it that way.

"That was the weirdest encounter I've ever had with my brother."

"That was the weirdest?" Colin asks skeptically.

"Yes, he hates family dinners with my parents, and now he's making us come to them? Like we are really married." I can't wrap my head around it. "Is he becoming our mother?"

"That is weird…"

"I know. What is going to happen at this dinner, and why is he treating us like a married couple?"

"Now I'm worried. I think I need a new crop top for this."

"Colin, do not poke the bear. Please."

"Oh, I'm gonna poke the bear, husband."