Ctrl + Alt + Dalt (BxB)

Ctrl + Alt + Dalt + 1

"The whole thing isn't really clear—"

"Still, no."

"But, it was all from a misunderstanding—"

"Look—I think there's a bigger question you need to ask yourself here." He blows on his tea, all the while, never taking his amber eyes off of me. He sets his drink onto the counter. "Is that what you really want to do?"

"It would be the right thing to do."

"Right? Right for whom?" He reaches for a tin at the corner of the countertop as I chew on his words. I quietly blow on my tea, realizing that perhaps he's right—maybe that wouldn't be the right thing for her—nor for me. He offers me biscuits from the tin, adding, "obviously, they go great with tea."

"I guess you're right," I say, retrieving a plain digestive.

"Well, why else do they exist?"

"I meant about the whole Beth thing," I say as he sighs.

"I know, it was an attempt at some dry humor to lighten the mood," he clarifies.

"Right." I continue blowing my tea.

"About what you've said earlier, what do you think is the real reason behind why everything feels so wrong for you?" he asks from behind his cup of tea, his amber eyes regarding me intently.

"I don't know," I say, opting to blandly regard my digestive rather than his powerfully piercing gaze.

"Dalt, you're one of the smartest guys I know—probably, the smartest guy I know—I think you have some idea as to why you feel the way you do."

"Obviously, I don't—you're mucking about—go on, spit it out." I snap into my digestive and let it melt on my tongue as I chance a small sip of tea. He sighs, deeply and loudly. Offering me another biscuit as he blows across the top of his mug, but I put my palm up towards him in a gesture to turn down the offer.

"You said you felt uncomfortable with her. Well, what if it's not just her your uncomfortable with?"

"What do you mean? Girls, in general?" I ask, sarcastically, chuckling at how ridiculous that is.

"Yes," he says, flatly. He closes the lid on the tin of biscuits as I take another small sip of tea, realizing that it is, in fact, true that I've never felt comfortable around girls.

"But, that's normal—almost every boy always says that girls make them uncomfortable. But, they go on, and they date, and they get over it, and then it all works out—right?" I shudder, shifting uncomfortably in my seat.

"Maybe—maybe not. I mean, you are talking to me—a gay male, in case you've forgotten." He chuckles, before swiftly continuing, "you said that she seems fake—that everything feels fake, like you're living—"

"The wrong life," I admit again, setting my mug onto the table between us as the words seem to resonate within the dark space between my ears. There is a long silence between us as we blow onto our cups of tea. He narrows his eyes at his cup, seeming to hesitate before he looks back up to me with a raised brow. "What?"

"I'm hoping you've put it all together—I mean, come on—and then you go and meet up with me after you said you were staring at my text, wondering why you felt the urge—the need—to reply to me—to reply to someone you stopped talking to after they came out, because you wanted to protect your popular status—"

"That's not true—"

"What part?"

"You're right, I was protecting myself, but it wasn't about my status with the popular group. If I'm being honest, it was about my general image."

"But why? Was it really about your image? Why would associating with someone who's gay affect your image?" He sips his mug, his amber orbs burning into me. He raises a seemingly knowing sort of brow from behind his cup. "Your straight image, perhaps?"

"I'm not gay."

"Come on, Dalt—everybody knows—"

"Everybody knows that I'm straight."

"You avoid girls like a germophobe avoids infectious diseases."

"I've had girlfriends."

"Spare me—each lasted no more than a few weeks—Beth being the longest. I highly doubt you've gone any further than making out. In fact, I don't think you've gone any further than a single, small, light peck of a kiss—if that."

"Hate to break it to you and your theory, but I've kissed all three."

"Did you ever make out?" He asks and I fall silent. We stare at each other, sipping our tea.

"No," I finally admit.

"Look—when you kissed any of them—did you feel anything? Did you even like it at all?"

"No," I admit as my gaze drops to the swirls of white, gray and black within the faux marble of his countertop. "No, I didn't, but that's because things didn't work out between any of us."

"Have you ever been attracted to someone who wasn't a girl?"

"I'm straight. So, obviously, no, I have not," I shoot back.

"Okay—have you had any feelings for someone—?"

"Who wasn't a girl? No," I shoot back just as quickly as I did for his previous question, annoyed that he's continuing with the uncomfortably offensive topic, but this time, some vague memory, one that's been locked deeply within and long forgotten, threatens to bubble up. Trying to impede the thoughts from reaching my surface, I distract myself with Jordan's bed in the corner of the nearly empty room as I sip my tea. I feel bad for him, seeing that his bed is simply a mattress lying nearly naked upon the carpet—it's a far cry from the luxurious lifestyle that he once enjoyed, and the one that I, gratefully, still do.

"So the rumors were true."

"I didn't say anything." The mug still still at my lips, I turn to face him again, narrowing my eyes in annoyance that he wears a look of someone who has just perhaps had a Eureka moment.

"No, but the rest of you said it all."

"What rumors?" I ask in utter bewilderment. His eyes crinkle as he seems to hesitate as if he doesn't want to go any further than he already has—he seems perhaps as if he wants to protect me from something.

"That you had to change schools because you were being bullied about something involving you and some guy—"

"Don't," I warn, pointing at him, shaking my head—he's taken it too far, reminding me of too many, painful things that I've long since locked away and forgotten. I can't believe that he knows this much—how did this rumor even manage to follow me from such a distant part of California? "You have no right—you don't know what happened."

"Right. Well, what would I know? What would anyone, really?"

"Thanks for tea, Jordan. It was a pleasure seeing you again," I say, bitterly, returning the mug onto the counter. I don't even know what I'm doing here to begin with. What gives him the right to sit there and stir up my painful past? Why did I even bother to meet with him at all? There seems to be a slight inkling of remorse in his amber eyes as I get up and walk off. "I'll see myself out."