Chapter 8
Rafe
“You guys are going to fa-reeeeeeak. This is going to be the dopest dinner you’ve ever had in your entirelives.”
The flatmates sat around the table, while Rafe stood over the stove stirring. The sauce aroma fluttered up to his nose, and it reminded him of home for a second. Even though it was canned food, he believed his parents would be proud of him. More importantly, he was proud ofhim.
Rafe turned off the stove and carried the saucepan over to the table. “And…here…we…go,” he said as he spooned ravioli onto everyone’s plate. Some of the sauce burned and pieces of ravioli fused to the bottom of the pan, but his flatmates didn’t need to peek behind thatcurtain.
“This looks amazing,” Eamonnsaid.
“It’s just canned ravioli,right?”
Eamonn thwacked Heath on thearm.
“I love ravioli,” Louisa said, mostly to Heath. She ate her first piece. “This is delicious. The pasta part just melts in mymouth.”
“Louisa moonlights as the chief food critic forThe London Times,” Heath said. “She’s going to write you a smashingreview.”
“Bugger off,” she said to him in that way that meant anythingbut.
“It was incredible. Asda is so cheap. And there was all this food, just everything you could want,” Rafe said, still on a high. “I can’t wait to goback.”
“You don’t get out much, doyou?”
Eamonn gave Heath another thwack on thearm.
“I’m just taking the piss out of you, mate,” Heathsaid.
“And I’m going to put the piss back into you, with my sincere appreciation,” Rafe said. The more sarcastic his friends would be, the more he played up his American perkiness. “That sounded better in myhead.”
“That’s pretty gross, Rafe,” Louisasaid.
“Not dinner conversation. At least, not here in the U.K. Maybe in Arlington, Virginia.” Eamonn used his fork as a spoon and scooped up a load of ravioli, cramming it into hismouth.
Why do I find that attractive?Rafe askedhimself.
“Sounds like you had a great day.” Louisa went to the fridge and got out a pitcher of water.I forgot aboutdrinks!
“Yeah, it was a rollicking good time. Rafe learned what condensed soup was.” Eamonn glanced at him from across the table, and goosebumps rolled across Rafe’s lower back, right at the spot where Eamonn guided him. He’d had moments while cooking dinner where his mind would wander, and he’d think of being with Eamonn in the store, of that squinty-eyed smile fixed on him. It’d left him with butterflies swarming his stomach—and burned ravioli on his brand-newsaucepan.
It’s not going to happen, Rafe reminded himself. Eamonn was just being nice, and he obviously still had feelings for his ex-boyfriend. And more importantly, there were no butterflies allowed in Operation:Slut.
* * *
Dinner didn’t take long.His flatmates cleaned up the dishes, and a few minutes later, they all headed out to Apothecary to drink. Going to the bar every night? Rafe could get used to this. It was so much cooler than a cramped party in some senior’s apartment or playing games in thedorm.
They grabbed what Rafe deemed their usual table in the pub, with a view of everyone. He saw across the room the American students from his orientation, being just as antisocial as he remembered. They all crowded around one table, all looking at their cell phones, with no other British students. So much for the culturalexperience.
“Do you know them?” Eamonn asked. This time, they were sitting next to each other in the booth rather than across. Rafe felt something heating up in the narrow space between theirbodies.
“They’re Americans,” Rafe said with a tinge of disgust. He told them about how they didn’t talk to him at orientation and made no effort to befriendly.
“Those cunts,” Heathsaid.
“Massive cunts,” Eamonnsaid.
“Tremendous cunts,” Louisaadded.
