Back when we were still in high school, everyone had to take a special elective called Community Communications. I thought it was the best course, second only to home economics, where we’d sometimes make food. My classmates saw it as busy work, however. 

Each week, students had to find a way to help the community. We could do anything. Volunteering in a food kitchen was the usual choice for most students. Some people got creative and did stuff like handing out water bottles to soccer moms who walked around the neighborhood. It was an easy enough class to pass. As long as we showed up on time and kept records of our work, it was impossible to fail. 

Of course, since Tom was a football player, he hardly had enough time after school to do anything. But we took Community Communications at the same time. Had he still hated me, I probably would have let him fail. But we were dating, so I pushed him to try harder. 

I didn’t realize then how hard he worked in football practice every day. My boyfriend was dead set on an athletic scholarship. Most days, after working out, he’d have had just enough energy to bother me. 

Tom didn’t have it in him to be as proactive in helping the community as I was. But Meathead could be motivated. 

“If I do this, you’ll come over on Saturday?” Tom asked. 

“Don’t you want to help?” I said.

In my grandmother’s backyard, we had been working on a sign. It was my idea for Tom to hand food out at his dad’s dealership. I worked on painting letters on a wooden board in the grass while Meathead sat by the pool behind me. He reeked of sweat from coming over right after football practice, but I didn’t mind since we were outside and he was shirtless. 

“Not really. People are lame,” he answered while sitting up and, without warning, began getting into the pool.

“You’re not wrong. But not everyone is bad,” I started to speak until I noticed him moving, and I said," What are you doing?"

“It’s hot,” he told me, wading deeper into the water as if it weren’t filthy. 

I hadn’t cleaned the pool in weeks, so the further he moved, the more leaves and dirt clung to his body. Judging by the look on his face, it must have dawned on him how filthy the water was only after it was too late. Of course, Tom tried to pretend he didn’t care. 

“You think we’re helping good people with all this charity shit?” he asked, already on his way back out of the pool.

“I think helping the less fortunate can help them avoid becoming bad people,” I answered with a chuckle. 

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he argued, stepping out of the pool.

His basketball shorts and underwear didn’t want to leave the water, so for a brief but memorable moment, Meathead flashed his dick at me before pulling his clothes up. 

“You have to do this if you want to pass the class,” I told him. 

“Say you’ll come over,” he said.

“So you can get me naked around your house?”

“Well, yeah, but you’ve never seen my house before. Never seen my room or anything.” 

Tom moved to walk into my grandmother’s house, but I quickly stepped in front of him before his hand could reach the door.

“I’ve seen yours. Don’t you want to see mine?” he joked.

“Stay here. I’ll get you a towel,” I told him, but when I turned around to open the sliding door, he followed me inside. 

“Tom,” I said. 

“Your old lady ain’t home, is she?”

“She’s sleeping,” I whispered.

“Then I’ll be quiet,” he grinned at me.

“Tom,” I spoke again, but he leaned in to kiss me. 

His lips didn’t touch mine until I gave in. And I gave in. He hugged his arms around me and soaked my clothes as we stumbled down a hall to my bedroom. It was gross. It was soggy. It was wet, but I hardly flinched when I felt the dirt from his body staining mine.

That was the first time we had sex. On a Wednesday afternoon, on the carpeted floor of my teenage bedroom, we had finally gone all the way. And though it was far from anything I’d have ever wanted to film, it was perfect for me.

I must have replayed that day in the back of my mind a hundred times. Years had passed, and that memory remained vivid. The fun we had, despite our trying not to wake my grandma, was clean. 

“Nick.”

I hadn’t felt Tom in too long. Like a drug, my body and my mood were going through withdrawals. 

“Nick.”

“What?” I answered and fell from my daydream back to reality.

“I said this is Liam Park, author of Cousin Shawn,” Harriet introduced me to another face, but I knew of Liam. 

“The book about two teenagers who become hitmen?” I said. 

“You’ve read it?” Liam said. 

Of course, I had read it. His book had set gay people back by 20 years thanks to its lead, an evil prick who happened to be gay. 

“A little,” I answered before looking around the room and adding, “You made a gay bad guy.”

“The point was to draw a distinction between the two,” Liam explained with an uneasy smile. 

I wasn’t making it easy on him. My mind was elsewhere, but that was no excuse for how little I thought over the words coming from my mouth.

“Some people would say you took a risk that did the opposite,” I said.

The convention was packed, and while plenty of people had come to see my table, I hadn’t sold anything yet. It was to be expected. My first issue of runaways had only been out a few months. I’m not sure what sort of reception I expected. I had no name recognition, no nothing yet.

“What’s a story without risk,” Liam argued and got my attention back to his face. 

Were all authors as handsome as him? With his perfect teeth and grunge apparel, he looked more like a skateboarder than a person capable of writing a best-selling novel. I knew most creatives weren’t as successful at a young age as Liam was. Did I want his success? 

Why else had I gone to the convention? It all felt tedious and annoying without Tom there. He wouldn’t have understood half of the things I was dealing with, but Meathead would have made it fun. I could see him. I could hear him behind my ear under the white noise of idle conversation surrounding me. 

“I think you took plenty of risks in your comic,” Liam’s voice dragged me back to reality again. 

“You do?”

He had read my comic.