You're not gay. You're not and to prove it you pick a fight with the boy you're not falling in love with. You snark and snarl and just generally make an ass of yourself. He's hurt and snarls back to hide it and the two of you spend the rest of the day pointedly not talking as long as the cameras aren't rolling.
That night, you apologise. He tells you he forgives you, but he doesn't mean it. He drinks too much and laughs too loud and you end up driving him home even though he was the one who brought his car, the designated driver.
The next morning, when you wake him up with asprin and coffee, he smiles, and you know that now you're forgiven.
You're not gay. You're not and to prove it you flirt with almost every girl on set. Especially when he's watching. Not that that's why. Not that you even notice him watching, not really. You strike up a conversation with Liv, even though she's engaged, angling your head towards hers and smiling. You sit with Cate at lunch, even though she's married, working hard to make her laugh and letting your fingers brush against hers when you pass the salt.
He doesn't say anything, just watches from his table across the canteen where he'd been saving you a seat. You spend the rest of the day feeling guilty at the hurt he can't quite hide, not beneath a snarl, not beneath a smile, despite the fact that he is, in your estimation, an incredibly good actor.
You go out for dinner that night, just the two of you. He forgets to be hurt sometime between the time you arrive at the restaurant and the time you order drinks and you know you're forgiven, even though you didn't apologise this time. Not that you don't want to apologise; you're just not entirely sure what to apologise for.
When you drop him off at home much later, after dinner and dessert and an almost obscene degree of loitering, it doesn't feel like you've been on a date, not really.
You're not gay. You're not and the sight of him emerging, sleek and shining, from the ocean, surfboard tucked under one arm and laughter dancing in his eyes as he calls out your name, does absolutely nothing for you.
He teases you for spending this surfing weekend on the beach and you hand him a drink from the cooler next to you. You've put your book down in your lap because you don't want to get sand in the pages and for no other reason.
You're not gay. You're not and you're not thinking about leaning over and kissing him as you sit beside him on the deck of the beach house that night, a bottle of beer cool and sweating against your fingers. It's too dark to see more than the outline of him, a tracery of edges, and you think that might be a good thing as he leans over and kisses you. His lips are warm and soft and he fumbles a little trying to find your mouth in the dark. He cups your face between his hands and the edge of his leather wrist cuff brushes against your neck.
And you're not gay, you're not, but he's kissing you and you're kissing him back and you think that maybe, just maybe, that doesn't matter.