It all started when a substitute teacher paired Weston Brooks and me for a biology class assignment—an unlikely pair. And that was when my love for science and his love for sports combined got us into trouble . . .

When I heard both our names called out at the same time, I felt a) confusion, because that's not a combination I'd heard before, b) disappointment, because I was always paired with my BFF Nia, and working on a project with her just felt like hanging out, c) anxiety, because the prospect of working together on a project with a jock made me feel queasy, even though Weston Brooks was—by no extent of imagination—the prom-king level of jock, more of a benchwarmer kind of jock, but a jock still; and me, I was just an athletically-challenged closeted gay boy, bringing nothing but my smarts to the table.

“Don't give me that pouty look of yours. I'm happy to get you off my hands for a change. You know, you've been extra needy lately,” Nia said, and before I could rebut that, added, “Just keepin’ it real, hon. You know me, I don't care for all that spare-your-feelings kind of bullshit. Besides, it'd be healthy for you to talk to someone other than me for a change, ya know.” And before I could refute that, she added, “Teachers don't count! Your parents don't count either. I'm talking someone your own age, smart ass,” She jabbed her index finger at me. “And don't you argue with me! I’m lookin’ out for you, and you know it.”

Well, she wasn't wrong there—I didn't exactly have a lot of friends. But what was the point of making friends in high school anyway when we were bound to bounce to college in just a few years? And who even had time for this? There was so much to do, studies-wise, I was college-bound and stressed out already. I couldn't even make time to hang out with Nia these days, aside from our joint assignments and extracurricular activities. And even then, we didn't spend nearly as much time together as we used to, and we used to be inseparable like a dirt-trapped Velcro.

“Weston Brooks, though?” I said, aiming for low mopiness but hitting full mopiness anyway. “We have like nothing in common.” I wrinkled my nose.

“Well, now you have this project in common. That's a start,” Nia said, optimistic as ever, diverting her attention away from me (and the wrinkles on my nose that she didn't care for) back to her notes. She wasn't wrong. Again. I just didn't think the project she was referring to was going to be enough of a reason to make me get along with someone like Weston Brooks. All he cared about was sports, and he made no damn secret about it.

The bell rang. Nia gave me an ironic wave, adding, “You'll figure it out, hon,” and was out of the classroom.

I lingered, pretending to fumble with my backpack, so I could surreptitiously take a glance at Wes. Our eyes met then and there. Dang! He was already looking at me. And I could tell, our inevitable collaboration had instilled the same sense of dread in him as it did in me, or maybe it was more of a ‘Do I really have to do it with him?’ kind of feeling.

I looked away. Unfortunately, it was a thing now; it was happening. And we were just going to have to deal with it.

Weston Brooks cornered me in the hallway right after class. I suppose he wanted to deal with it sooner rather than later (I would have done the opposite).

I was kinda glad, though, he cornered me, because now I didn't have to. If I were to approach him first, it would have been awkward and embarrassing. Trust! But when he did it—he was totally the smooth operator. Where I was utterly maladroit and socially inept, he was the opposite, cool, coordinated, and charismatic. He was quite good at talking, too, actually. Watching his lips move so busily kind of entranced me there for a second. I may or may not have just stood there with my mouth ajar just listening to him, unable to utter a single word—like a weirdo. But what else was I supposed to do?

We ran into our first problem right then and there, and it was kind of indicative of our problematic future. If only I had the wherewithal back then to notice the red flags. But instead, all I noticed was the pink of his lips, and oh my, did it look like a candy . . .

The problem, though, was that we couldn't agree on the time we would meet to start working on the assignment. Turned out, both of our schedules were pretty busy.

“I have practice after school,” he told me (those busy lips). “And then I have to pick up my little sister from her ballet recital at four. Would five-ish work for you?”

I shook my head. “I can't at five. I have to meet up with Nia. We're doing this matching outfits thing for prom, and she wants me to—” I trailed off, suddenly realizing his eyebrows drew closer together. He probably thought the idea of matching outfits was lame. But it was kind of the only reason I wanted to go to prom in the first place—all the extra time we were going to spend together with Nia working on our outfits, and then the whole practicing-our-dance-routine thing. I was pretty sure she was going to find a way to make the outfits look cool, too (not that someone like Weston Brooks was going to care or notice).

“Never mind,” I said. “I can't at five. Maybe seven? Ish?”

He shook his head dismissively. “Can't! I have this dinner thing to go to with my parents. It's the Kellers, the longtime friends. I can't just not—” now it was his turn to trail off as he must have realized it was too much information. “Never mind!” He pressed his lips into a thin line (ooh, those lips). “It has to be six then. I jog at six, but I'm afraid there isn't any other option. You could join me!” He lit up at the idea; me—no, I did not. “We'll discuss everything while hitting the trail, what do you say? Do you jog?”

I shook my head slowly. “Nuh, no, I don't jog . . . Why can't you just jog in the morning like a normal person?”

He inhaled loudly. “I jog in the morning and in the evening, all right?” Now there was a hint of irritation there, and it didn't seem like it had necessarily anything to do with me. I mean, if jogging two times a day bothered him, couldn't he just like—stop jogging two times a day? I studied him, looking for the answer, and he caught me studying him. “Are you gonna join me or what? Six is my final offer. Take it or leave it, man.”

‘Man’, huh? I don't think anyone in my life ever called me that.

Me? Joining Wes Brooks for a jog? I considered it . . .

“Fine,” I conceded, scrunching up my nose. He brightened substantially. I think he was ready to be done with this conversation now.

“Where you at?” he asked. “I'll pick you up at six sharp, is that all right?”

“1217 Oakwood Drive,” I mumbled, writing it down on a scrap of paper. He waited for me to hand it over to him. Sigh, now it was official. We were really going to do this thing. What in the world did I get myself into?

“Wear shorts and kicks, okay?” He pointed his index finger at me authoritatively. “I'll take you on an easy trail, I promise.”

A wink, and he was gone without so much as a ‘Bye!’ And I was left standing there, wondering what have I ever done to deserve this.