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22: Definitely Not a Date
🕑 Added 2021-04-19 22:24:08 +0000 UTCStephen didn’t answer his text right away, and Inho spent the rest of his shift sneaking peeks at his phone. Jasmine found this hilarious and teased him relentlessly. Inho knew she was probably just relieved to see him focused on something other than his breakup. Jasmine was a good friend, annoying, but good.
The reply came hours later, when Inho was in bed reading a few chapters of his drama novel before sleep. He had been tempted to drink again tonight, but had resisted, and was maybe not going to feel like trash tomorrow. His phone vibrated and he sat straight up when he saw who it was.
“Sorry for the late reply,” it read. “I had to drive my nephew back home.”
Inho scrambled up, folding his legs in front of him. What to say now?! All he’d said before was that this was Inho.
“Cool.” He typed. “Sorry about what I said earlier.” Inho hesitated, then added the tongue-out smiley emoji, “:P” to soften the tone. He hit send, then sat staring at his screen, watching for the symbol that Stephen was typing back. After a few moments, he sank back into his pillows.
He’s probably not even going to answer…
His phone buzzed again.
“Which part? Calling me Stephy or calling me a pervert? Because I don’t enjoy either title.”
“No!” Inho yelled out loud into his empty room.
He’s so harsh! What do I say now?
Inho fumbled for a response. He’d really fucked up, and he legitimately felt bad for what he’d said. Finally, he settled on what he knew best. Acknowledging fault and making amends with a meal.
“You’re right” he typed. “I won’t say it again...I was an asshole.” He saw that Stephen was typing a reply, and quickly sent another message before he could get chastised further, “How about I buy you lunch as an apology?”
Stephen’s typing stopped.
It stopped for five whole minutes, and Inho nervously watched his phone, chewing the skin on the edge of his thumb.
Finally, when Inho couldn’t take any more tension the message came.
“Make it dinner and we’re good.”
Inho hid under his blanket, shocked by both his own boldness and Stephen’s reply. After kicking his sheets to release his nervous energy, he composed himself to reply. He suggested Sunday night. He had the evening off. Stephen replied his agreement, and Inho flipped over to scream into his pillow.
Saturday was a blur of work and playful jabs from Jasmine. She was calling it a date, and he was vehemently disagreeing. He just had to make things right for his transgression. For his own peace of mind, that was all. She dismissed his words and started a constant stream of whispered demands to know if he understood the intricacies of gay sex.
Inho’s embarrassed blush deepened when Nathan, as usual, asked what they were talking about. The three of them were in the kitchen along with another server and a couple of cooks.
“Inho’s got a date with that guy from the other night. Remember the one he was freaking out about?” Jasmine told Nathan, ignoring Inho’s wide-eyed glare for silence.
“But Inho,” Nathan replied in a somber tone, “Weren’t you straight just a couple weeks ago?”
“I, I am straight.” Inho’s struggling response was cut off by Nathan laughing heartily, joined by Jasmine and the cooks, who had been quietly listening in.
“You guys are jerks,” Inho snapped back, but he was smiling. Their laughter didn’t feel cruel; they were laughing with him, not at him.
Inho still wasn’t sure himself what he wanted from Stephen. Despite his Google research, he didn’t feel confident that he was bisexual. What if his attraction to Stephen was just envy? Jamie was right, he didn’t’ have anything going on in his life to be proud of. So maybe he coveted Stephen for what he represented. The thoughts were a little too confusing, and every time he thought of Jamie it felt like hot water on a sunburn.
So he shook off his worries, determined not to be unhappy today. He snagged the cook’s phone that was playing music in the kitchen and swapped to his favorite online playlist of hyper pop music. The others gave a collective groan, but he ignored them, grinning.
When Sunday evening finally came, he found himself standing in front of his mirrored closet door in his underwear. His few items of clothing scattered around him. He should really have done laundry earlier; everything was wrinkled.
When his phone buzzed with a text from Stephen, his stress levels skyrocketed.
He read it over twice before responding politely. Out loud, he said,
“Why? What the fuck?”
He assumed they’d meet downtown and walk somewhere close by. But now, Stephen wanted his address and was coming to pick him up in his car.
That seemed a lot more like a date.
What did Stephen think this was? Inho fiddled with his hair nervously. Should he wax it back? Would he look older if he did? He checked the time, then scrambled to pull out his iron.
His only button-down shirt was wrinkled but smelled fine. Inho didn’t own an ironing board, so he smoothed it out carefully over a towel on the floor. It was loose and boxy, and he wore it tucked but unbuttoned over a striped t-shirt.
Why do I care so much how I look?
He was a little embarrassed, but he still adjusted his hair for another ten minutes before Stephen called to say he was parked out front.
