“Thanks,” I deadpan before continuing. “Anyway, I wanted to try to kiss him or ask if I could, or something, I don’t know. We got close, but I chickened out and told him I’d be there if he ever wanted to talk about his birth parents.”
He sucks on his teeth. “Ooh, mood killer.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Well.” He draws out the word in his “I have an opinion” voice. Or maybe it’s the “I have gossip” voice. “Maybe that is for the best.”
I eye him suspiciously. “Why do you say that? What do you know that I don’t?”
“You do know, but maybe you forgot. Remember that first Rubies game I went to where I ended up sitting with the Ellingsworths? Willow told me that I looked like one of Tahegin’s ex-boyfriends. That I’m—”
“His type,” I finish, suddenly remembering.
“Yeah, and . . .” Micah gestures to himself—his petite frame, thin build, pretty face, and perfect hair. “Usually, guys who like twinks don’t go for jocks, too.”
My mouth forms a silent “oh.” Yeah, that makes sense. Kind of like how a man who prefers thicker women won’t usually try to pick up a size zero—nothing on the girl, it’s just his preference. I haven’t ever been one to pick and choose, but I understand that some people do. “Right. Yeah.” I had mentioned that conversation to Tahegin, too, and he hadn’t corrected me, so his sister must have been telling the truth.
Micah makes a face, clearly sympathetic to my situation. “We can go to an inclusive club if you want to see if any guys catch your eye there—”
“No, no.” I hold my hand up to stop him, trying not to grimace. “I appreciate the offer, but I think it’s just a fluke. I was probably vulnerable from telling him about my past. I’m sure it’ll go away.”
He doesn’t look as if he believes me. “Okay, but I’m here if you want to talk.”
“I know, Micah. Thank you.”
The silence that follows quickly becomes awkward, so I ask how he’s been, what’s going on in his life, how things are with Aleks—literally anything. It’s more of an effort than I usually make, and I think he realizes that because he tells me why more than I ask for. We’re both grateful for the change of subject.
Micah tells me all about Aleks, their hookups, and even how they’ve been on a few not-dates. Since neither is interested in a relationship, they aren’t labeling whatever it is they are doing. It’s cute how much they like each other—though I will never say that to his face—but I am glad they are taking things slow. Micah has had his delicate little heart broken too many times already.
“And I have a job interview in January,” he gushes excitedly. “I wouldn’t begin working—if I even get the job, that is—until around August next year, but I’m excited to put myself out there.”
“Shit, for real? Congrats, man. What job is it?”
He mimes zipping his lips. “Huh-uh, can’t jinx it. But I was referred to them by—” He breaks off, gulping.
I raise an eyebrow. “By who?”
“Erm, Tahegin.”
There goes taking my mind off him.
“Hey.” Micah touches my arm, wobbling slightly on his perch. “You know, I could ask Aleks about him. Test the waters a bit. Though, he might think I’m interested in Tahegin.” He frowns at that.
Shaking my head, I thank him but kindly decline. “I think I’m just going to forget all about it. I’m sure this crazy feeling will go away.”
He shrugs. “If you say so— Oh! Did you hear about Kit?”
“. . . No? Should I have?”
Micah slides onto the couch beside me, nervously fiddling with his colorful fingernails. “Well . . . no, I guess not. It’s supposed to be a secret, but Aleks told me. He’ll probably tell Tahegin, too. Maybe. So I can tell you, right?”
I stare blankly at him. Either he’ll tell me, or he won’t. He has to make that decision himself.
“Don’t look at me like that!”
I am literally not looking at him in any type of way.
“Aleks told me not to tell anyone.”
Okay, so he won’t tell me.
“But you’re not just anyone. You’re my other brain cell.”
I’m what?
“My brother. My twin.” He peels off one of his stick-on nails, then moves to the next, completely unconscious of his nervous actions. “My—”
“Dude.”
“Kit’s dating a referee!” Micah shouts in a rush and claps his hands over his mouth as if he didn’t mean to tell me.
Too late.
But then his words register, and . . . “He’s what?”
Micah nods from behind his hands, only opening them to squeak, “Larson,” before closing them again.
Larson . . . the name rings a bell. I shuffle through my memories, trying to pinpoint a face to go with the name. It comes to me slowly because— “Larson isn’t a ref. He’s a judge.”