Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
But alas, I’m not a straight guy, and this is not my fantasy. I never really hide who I am, but I don’t announce it either. My private life hasn’t been a topic of discussion between me and any of the other counselors or teachers here, so I doubt anyone knows I’m gay unless they just suspect it or happen to know an ex of mine. And they would have to do some serious haystack sifting to find the one or two rusty needles that are my exes to whom I don’t speak anymore.
So when single, giggly, bubbly Dana bats her eyes and asks me to go with her for a drink, can you blame me for suspecting her intentions have to do with the zucchini in my khakis?
Turns out, however, that after a day with teens like Frederick, a drink is exactly what I need right now. Maybe I have this wrong and she’s not hitting on me at all. Come to think of it, that’s rather presumptuous of me, isn’t it?
“I haven’t been to the Tin Can in quite a while,” I confess, “but I think I could totally go for a Manhattan or two.”
“Oh, we’re not going to that dump. We’re hitting Beebee’s.” She gives me a wiggle of her eyebrows. “The downtown joint.”
I don’t argue. I don’t fuss about the thirty-minute drive. I just smile at her, clutch my lunch box, and say, “See you there.”
An hour later, I’m freed from my stuffy shirt and tie and donning a loose pair of jeans with a blue polo. I burn rubber on my way to Beebee’s, desperate for that first sweet taste of alcohol. The bar is a noisy joint at the end of a long street full of other pubs and dance clubs. I find Dana at a booth in the back—where she has already ordered up chicken wings and fries—and join her.
The first question she asks is, “So tell me who you’re dating.”
Okay, it’s not a question; it’s a demand. “I’m not.”
“Whaaaat?” She cackles, all her blonde curls bouncing. “Lies,” she says, clicking her long red nails together as she chooses a fry from the basket. “I won’t believe it.”
I chuckle, still chewing my last bite of chicken wing. “Believe it. Single as a Pringle.”
“No, seriously. A guy like you?” She shakes her head. “You, my new office friend, should have enough suitors lined up to fill the gymnasium of Morris High!”
“The sad truth is, I make for a lousy date. I’m super boring.”
“Disagree.” She shoves two fries past her lips.
Dana is a very sexy woman, there’s no doubt about that. Even cramming fries into her mouth, I recognize her heart-shaped lips, her cute nose, and the catlike way her eyes taper out to the sides. She’s got curves an hourglass would envy, and a dimple that pops out every time she laughs. If I were straight, I’d turn this little meet-up into a date.
“Speak for yourself, Dana. You’re a bombshell.”
“Nope. I’m just a bomb. Pfft.” She laughs, showing me all her half-eaten fries, then throws one from the basket at me. I dodge it. “You need to open up more! You’re such a mystery. What goes on in your life when you leave the school? You got any siblings? A weird hobby? Are you a pornographer? Spill.”
“One sister,” I tell her. “She’s older. She studies rocks, lives up in Washington. She’s always had a fascination with them. I have no weird hobbies … except maybe for socks. I love socks. I have a whole drawer of them.”
“Seriously. Rocks and socks. I’m snoring over here. Answer this, Ryan: If you were a fetish pornographer, what would be your fetish?”
I’m already fighting off laughter. Dana tickles me; I can’t help it. “I don’t know. Socks, probably?”
“Socks?? Goodness, Ryan. Leave your house every now and then. Alright, I know why you’re still single now. Mystery solved.”
I hide my face in mock embarrassment. “I’m all exposed!”
“Totally.” She laughs and gives my arm a playful shove across the table. “Don’t worry. The secret of your sock fetish is safe with me. But really, how does someone as young as you land the job of a school counselor? You’re totally not a fifty-year-old woman.”
“I’m not that young. I’m twenty-five. And not all counselors are old. Marcy’s only thirty or so.”
“Twenty-five isn’t young? Ugh, shoot me. You’re a baby. Marcy’s thirty-six, by the way. And I’ve got five years on you.”
“Five??” I shake my head. “No way. You can’t be thirty.”
“In a month. Yep. I expect a birthday present now that you know.” She winks at me over her glass while coyly taking a sip of her beer.
I try on a smile. I hope nothing I’ve said can be misconstrued as flirting. I’m irrationally nervous about leading her on in any way, which I know is pretty foolish on my part. I wonder if it’s rooted in fear. Maybe I think if she finds out that I’m gay, she’ll tell everyone in the office, and then I’ll be set up on so many fugly “Oh, I know a gay guy” dates that my head will come right off. Why do I always expect the worst in people?