“This gym,” she said quietly. “Didn’t you notice? Marc, it’s not a gay gym!”
I stared at her. “So what?”
Her face worked for a second in frustration.
“Because, if you flirt with straight men—well, they just might beat the shit out of you!” When I didn’t respond to this, she frowned, staring at me. “You’re in a funny mood.”
“Fey?” I said, grinning. It was one of Carmen’s favorite words, meaning courting deathor something. She scowled. I pulled my arm from her grasp and drew myself up.
“You’re being paranoid. Those things don’t happen, anyway. The world is far more tolerant of gays than it was—” I stopped myself. I had been going to add, “When youwere young”—Carmen is ten years older than me. But I realized that would be a bit toobitchy.
“You mean they don’t happen to you,” she snapped, adding, “That’s what everyone thinks. Until it does.”