Chapter 22
“You’re what?”
“You heard me correctly. I’m gay.”
Jefferson Pennington Bogart, wearing only his typical jogging shorts and a wife-beater T-shirt, tapped his bare foot on the kitchen’s scuffed linoleum floor. By the way his handsome face became a map of wrinkles and ridges, and the way he avoided direct eye contact with me, I could practically see the wheels spinning frantically in his head. He pointed toward the apartment’s living room, littered, as always, in empty pizza boxes and beer bottles. “I suppose he put you up to it, huh?”
Skylar stood beside a huge stereo speaker, his hands buried in the pockets of his blue jeans. He gave me a look of encouragement, but said nothing. He had come with me this morning to lend only his muscles and moral support, and had promised me e
