Page 19 of Locked & Loaded

Huh.

That’s all I’ve got. One syllable, dead in the air between us, and now the silence is taking up all the space in this compartment.

Rodriguez sits across from me on his bunk, wearing my hoodie, looking like he already regrets every word that came out of his mouth.

“So yeah,” he says finally, clearly trying very hard to sound normal. “That was the reason I ignored you at first. And then apparently you noticed I was ignoring you and started looking at me with that death stare, so it all kind of spiraled.”

I hear the words. I register them the way you register a weather report playing in the background when you’re not really paying attention.

But my brain is stuck on used to.

Used to have a crush on you.

The past tense hits like a sucker punch. It shouldn’t matter that Christopher Rodriguez, the guy who’s been driving me insane for the past three months, used to be attracted to me and isn’t anymore. That’s good. That’s a problem solved. I should be relieved.

But I am not relieved.

I am disappointed.

So disappointed it takes me a second to even recognize the feeling, because it makes no sense. Ten minutes ago, I thought the problem between us was hockey. Miscommunication. Bad reads. Three months of him looking through me like I was part of the wall while I got more and more pissed off about it.

Now he’s sitting there in my hoodie, flushed and embarrassed, telling me he used to want me, and apparently my first reaction is not relief or awkwardness or even surprise.

It’s disappointment.

Which is inconvenient, because Rodriguez is still sitting there, waiting for me to react like a normal person, and I have no idea what my face is doing.

So I just stay where I am, on my bunk, trying to look like someone who isn’t having a minor emotional crisis and some kind of sexual awakening on an overnight train from Oslo to Copenhagen.

“…So we can agree to try to communicate better from now on,” Rodriguez continues, his voice almost weak, like he’s talking just to fill the space. “I’ll stop avoiding you. You can stop glaring at me like I murdered your entire family. Very mature of us.”

I should answer. Say yes, fine, good plan. Say something that gets us both out of this conversation with the last scraps of dignity intact.

The problem is, if I do that, this thing—the honest, vulnerable thing Rodriguez just dragged out of himself—gets shoved under the rug, and neither of us will ever touch it again.

I’m gay.

And I sort of used to have a crush on you.

“The hockey part, yes,” I say, stalling because I need a second to figure out how to turn the conversation back without making it worse. “Fine. I agree. We should communicate better. Obviously.”

“Yeah,” Rodriguez says. “Cool.”

Except it doesn’t sound cool. It sounds like the door closing.

Before I can decide how to stop that from happening, the overhead light goes out with a soft click.

Bedtime. The train’s automatic system, cutting the lights in every compartment at once. Darkness drops over us, leaving only the moonlight spilling through the window.

For one second, neither of us moves.

“Okay,” Rodriguez says into the dark. “This is getting awkward by the minute.”

“It’s not,” I say, too quickly.

It absolutely is.

He doesn’t answer. I hear him shift on his bunk, the mattress creaking under his weight.