I'm Not Gay

8

“He got sick of me.”

“I think you’ve had enough, mate,” the barmaid said.

Harry shook his head. He wasn’t drunk. He might be a little tipsy, just a little, but he wasn’t drunk. Nope, nope, nope.

“He got sick of me,” Harry said.

The girl sighed. “Yeah, you’ve already said that. Like, ten times.”

Harry pouted. “You’re sick of me, too. I can tell.”

The barmaid laughed. “Dealing with moping drunks is part of the job description. Trust me, you aren’t the most annoying one. You’re kind of cute in a pathetic way.”

Harry frowned, not sure if he was being insulted. Besides, he wasn’t drunk. He was just…he was just…

He stared at the brown liquid in his glass. “Everyone gets sick of me.”

“Here we go again,” the girl muttered, sounding exasperated.

“They do,” Harry said, and threw his drink back.

“Go home, mate.”

“Mum once told Dad that she wasn’t surprised that I don’t have any other friends besides Zayn,” Harry said into his glass. “I overheard.”

He could feel the girl’s eyes on him. She didn’t say anything. 

“People get sick of me,” Harry mumbled. “They always do. I’m too much—too needy.” 

He knew he was  likable—at first. People always said he was easy to be around. He was loud, a little cocky, a bit of a whore for attention, but always well-meaning. People generally didn’t mind him. He’d always had plenty of buddies—but just one friend. Zayn was the only friend who’d stuck around for years, the only one who hadn’t eventually gotten tired of him, the only one who didn’t seem to mind his dumb jokes, his immaturity and his neediness.

Everyone but Zayn always told him to grow up. Zayn was the only one who seemed to like him the way he was.

But it looked like Zayn had finally gotten sick of him, too. It was probably bound to happen. If his own parents found him a total disappointment, of course Zayn would get sick of his shit too. It was inevitable. So there was no reason to be so upset. It was fine. He could deal.

Harry bit his trembling lip, hating himself a little for his inability to be tough. Fuck, why was he such a mess? Men were supposed to be tough; his dad always said so. His dad hadn’t even cried at Harry’s granddad’s funeral. If his dad could do it, Harry could fucking deal with his best mate avoiding him and refusing to take his calls.

“I don’t miss him,” he said stubbornly. “Screw him.”

The girl sighed, sounding long-suffering, as if it wasn’t the first time Harry had said that tonight.
Maybe it wasn’t.

Harry’s shoulders slumped. 

“I do miss his cock,” he said wistfully.

“Okay, you’ve definitely had enough,” the barmaid said, looking at him with a crooked smile. “Go home and sleep it off, pretty boy. I’m sure your boyfriend will answer your calls eventually.”

Harry scowled, his stomach clenching into something uncomfortable. “He’s not—not my boyfriend. I’m not gay.”

“Ah.”

Harry looked at her suspiciously.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

The girl shrugged. “Whatever. Anyway, my advice is the same: go sleep it off. Things will look better in the morning.”

“It doesn’t work.”

“What doesn’t?”

“Sleeping it off,” Harry said. “I keep waiting, and hoping, but nope. I’m still me, and I’m still the same loser he got sick of.”

The girl heaved a sigh. Her eyes were almost the exact shade of Zayn’s. “For Christ’s sake. Are you sure he wasn’t your boyfriend? I definitely didn’t mope this much when my actual boyfriend dumped me a while back.”

Harry shook his head with a weak laugh. “I told you I’m not gay. I’m not moping. I’m just…”

“Getting smashed,” the girl said, very dryly. “You sure look like you aren’t moping.”

Harry glared at her, but it was half-hearted at best. He didn’t feel too good, both physically and emotionally. He was just…so damn tired. Tired of not knowing what the hell he wanted from his life, tired of his inability to be someone people would want to stick around for.

Maybe if he were a better person, someone more put together, someone more selfless and less pushy, Zayn wouldn’t have gotten sick of him. Maybe if he hadn’t pressured Zayn into fucking him, zayn would have still been his friend.  A friend? a voice at the back of his mind said.

Yes, friend, Harry told himself stubbornly. Zayn was more important to him than a few great orgasms. He could survive without zayn’s cock, but he definitely didn’t want to lose the best mate who had always been there for him. Maybe Zayn had been right and it was a mistake to mix friendship with sex, but it wasn’t like he could tell Zayn that when he wasn’t answering his calls.

“Gimme another bottle,” Harry told the barmaid.

“Nope,” she said. “You’ve definitely had enough. Look, go home. Or call your boyfriend and tell him to take you home.”

“He isn’t my boyfriend,” Harry said, his brows furrowed in confusion. He thought he’d already told her that. Or hadn’t he? “I’m not even his type,” he mumbled. “He doesn’t want me, not like that. Even if I were gay—and I’m not—he wouldn’t choose someone like me.” Harry’s lips twisted. “He’d never choose someone like me. I’m…I’m me. He always goes for interesting, successful guys, not losers like me.”

“I think you’re being too hard on yourself, buddy. Like, I don’t know you, but didn’t you say you manage a pub?”

Harry shook his head. “It’s my granddad’s. And it isn’t much. I barely make enough to cover my bills. Someone smarter could maybe make it profitable. My parents don’t think it’s a real job anyway…think I’m too stupid to get a real one. Zayn probably thinks so, too. He’s…he’s smart. Not like me. I dunno why he’s stuck around for so long...No one does.” He smiled crookedly. “Even my parents gave up on me when I told them I was faking it. They think I’m going to hell for not really believing in their God. Like, I sometimes believe in him, maybe, but I don’t, like, believe believe, and they take it as a personal insult.” He snorted a laugh. “Though they still think ‘it’s just a phase,’ as if I’m doing it just to spite them. They don’t take me seriously. No one bloody does.”

The barmaid was frowning now. “Okay, you have more issues than I thought. Maybe try dealing with them one at a time? You’re kind of a mess. No offense.”

Harry didn’t take offense. He was a mess. One didn’t get offended by the truth.

“I don’t know how,” he told her, looking at her with wide, unblinking eyes. 

She sighed. “Please don’t do that. Your green eyes are stupidly effective.”

Harry nodded. “They always work. Even on zayn, even though he denies it.” Or at least they had worked on Zayn.

Harry’s shoulders slumped. “Why is he ignoring my calls?”

The girl sighed and turned to another customer. Harry hunched over the bar, feeling very sorry for himself.