Nobody ever would have guessed that Dodge Mason was bisexual.

He didn’t look queer (harmful stereotype, yeah, whatever). He didn’t act queer. He had the most southern name on the planet, and he was only ever rumored to have relations with the girls at school. By all accounts, he was not only not queer, but also potentially homophobic.

At least… that’s what you thought, until he kissed you at a party one night.

See, you were sort of like Dodge. You didn’t dress or act queer for fear of having the ever-loving shit beat out of you. You didn’t go around looking for female companions, but you didn’t reject them when they came onto you, though this was just you overcompensating.

But Dodge knew. Well, he hoped really hard. And after a couple beers and a lot of mental preparation, he kissed you on the front porch of Natalie’s house while the party went on the back yard. After a few minutes of confusion and apologies on both sides — and then a few more minutes of intensive making-out — it was decided that you two were to be together. In secret, of course.

Secret, you’d asked one night while you and Dodge sat on top of the water tower, looking down on the faint lights of Carp, Texas. Why secret?

Dodge had been contemplative. “Because,” he says. “Small towns like these… they don’t really like boys like us.”