Trying

Chapter Eight

"Want to come to my improv group instead?"

The question came as a surprise to me for two reasons. One, it's just generally bizarre to be asked to attend improvised comedy shows. That's the joke, right? Nobody likes improv because it's not funny. There's always stupid skits about policemen and bananas. There's always bananas involved for some reason. Two, Iain, introverted, hates-public-speaking Iain, never struck me as an improv kind of guy. This was a whole other aspect of his life. A secret identity of sorts. Iain by day, Actor Iain by night. I have to imagine him in a cape and skintight costume, flying through a swirling 80's cartoon theme. Na na na na na na na na na na na na na na na na IA-IN.

"Don't we have another chapter to get done before Monday?" I ask, hoping it doesn't come across as a rude declination, which it is. I'm not so different from the rest of society, after all. I don't enjoy improv as a form of entertainment. My ideal form of entertainment is making up impossible scenarios and writing them down.

And what I said wasn't exactly a lie, either. We did have to finish an eleventh chapter before Monday's class if we ever expected to finish the novel before winter break. Iain and I had been meeting in the library every weeknight since the beginning of November, working on the novel a little but mostly goofing off. If it weren't for the kind old librarian woman with the strong southern accent, assuming us to be a couple and enthusing about her deceased first husband, we would likely have been kicked out on the first day. It's not that we're loud or disrespectful. We're just bursting-at-the-seams excited, all of the time. Writing with him makes me forget about real life. Real life, where I have an unhealthy obsession with a guy who would never like me back. There's a reason I don't like existing in real life.

"We have some time," Iain says, quirking his head to the side and biting his lip. His 'I'm trying to persuade you, is this working?' habit. I crack into a grin. "So?" he asks, picking at my fingers where they lay on our worn library table next to my untouched lunch tray. I had been spending most of lunch period on homework instead of food, except for when Iain stole my textbook away and forced calories into me. Always concerned over my health, that one. It's quite annoying, in a sweet, brotherly way.

"Not tonight," I reply, flicking his hand away and letting my laughter consume me for a moment. It's not so bad, getting lost within your own glee. It happens more and more often now that I'm hanging with Iain.

"Okay," he replies with a gentle grin and an unreadable expression in his eyes. The new glimmer was gone as I noticed it, and he continued sharply, "But you're missing out."

"I think I'll be able to survive a night without awkward attempts at comedy," I reply half-heartedly, immersing myself into my homework instead.

"Improv isn't awkward."

"I wasn't talking about the improv, I was talking about you."

Mock hurt shone across his face, and he brought his hand exaggeratedly to his chest before relaxing into his eager smile again. "That is actually the most accurate description of myself I have received. Thank you for that."

"You are very welcome, Iain Oldman."

I was almost finished with my homework when I caught Iain muttering to himself, eyes fixed on something behind me. His expression was very 'heart eyes emoji'. It was like watching a younger brother have his first crush. He was so adorable. I envied his innocence. I envied his ability to have crushes on people who he might actually have a chance with.

"Who's the girl?" I ask with a slight smirk, barely glancing up from my textbook.

"What?" Iain was startled out of his haze. "Oh, nothing."

"Hm, I'm not accepting that answer. I know you too well, Iain."

"It's nothing, promise," he replied coldly. It was so out of character for him to be so shut out and exclusive. That was my role in our relationship. I was supposed to be the secretive one. Taking matters into my own hands, I turned my head around, feeling oddly like an owl stalking her prey.

The only female behind me was Mrs. Drew. There was, however, a small group of guys stood near the check out desk. A Chris Evans look-alike senior checking out a stack of books, and even I was attracted to him. Then came the crashing realization. Iain liked guys.

That explained a lot about Iain, now that I thought about it. I immediately wonder if and when he would officially come out. Had he already told his parents? Did his old friends know? Was I the first to suspect it? Do I confront him or wait until he's ready to tell me? I hastily choose the latter, forcing my head back down and clearing the thought from my mind.

The rest of the period goes by in silence, Iain reading a 59 cent romance novel while I did homework and tried to remain calm about this new discovery in my best friend. Mostly, I thought of how much more similar this makes us. We're both writers in love with guys who would never like us in that way. Somehow, he handled it so much than I ever could. I have so much respect for his courage, his optimism. I felt like a proud parent all of a sudden, struck with an urge to get a bumper sticker of a rainbow reading 'My Child is Gay, and That's Okay!'. I can put it on my non-existent minivan. I try to bite down a laugh at that thought, but I can't quite do it, and Iain hears my chuckle.

"Hm. I never knew that math homework did better stand-up comedy than I do," he jabs, then laughs at my half-offended, half-amused expression.

"Oh yeah. Conic sections have a great sense of humor."