Just after I took this awesome shot of Cage at the diner he told me to put my phone away, that I was being a, quote, “technology-obsessed weirdo.”
“Fuck you. But you look so good. See?” I showed him the photo.
He cringed. “I look like an idiot. Does my hair always look like that?”
“Oh shut up. Let’s get some fries. And I could go for a milkshake.”
He raised his eyebrows and smirked.
“Oh my god, how old are you? Seriously.”
The server, a middle-aged man with a scruffy beard and grey hair, came over to take our order. After he’d left, Cage reached out and touched my hand gently, before pulling back and scanning for danger. But the room was almost empty at this hour.
“I had a good time,” he said softly.
I smiled, relieved. “Me too. It was … a good movie.”
“How do you know? We barely watched it.”
He had a point. “Well, the parts I actually paid attention to were pretty good. But the audience was better.” I winked and he blushed.
I’d never kissed a boy before. I’d never kissed anyone in public, ever, even the girls I’d dated once upon a time. Before Cage. Before my bisexuality became a fact and not just a theory.
It had been risky too, that’s for sure. But we’d been in the very back and the movie had been loud. And I just couldn’t help myself.
Our fries arrived and we ate in silence, sharing a paper cup of ketchup. All I could think about was the softness of his lips and the urgency of his kiss. I wanted more.
“Do you –” I said, as he said, “Yes.”
We both smiled and blushed.
“What were you going to ask me?” he said.
“Do you want to come back to my place?”
“Oh good. Because if it was Do you like mustard? I answered wrong.”