I glance away, suddenly overcome by the fact that this is actually happening. I’ve slept in Aaron’s bed when, only a few days ago, I had no idea he was the stranger I was hooking up with.
“Come on,” I say, sitting up. “We need to shower and get ready.”
“No,” Aaron groans, pulling me back down so I flop onto his chest. “We have heaps of time. I’m driving you, anyway, and school’s not far. I promise we’ll arrive on time.”
I decide not to protest and do as Aaron says, savouring a few more minutes in the warmth of his arms.
When we do eventually get up, Aaron lets me shower first and goes in after I’ve finished. I get dressed in front of Aaron’s mirrored closet doors, using the gaps between artworks to see myself. I’m looping the tie around the collar of my shirt when Aaron walks in with a towel slung around his waist. He watches me, but I pretend not to notice, focusing on completing the Windsor knot.
I only learned to tie a tie this year. My old school didn’t have a uniform half as fancy as Easton Grammar’s — we just wore a cotton polo shirt, any bottoms as long as they were navy, and an itchy wool jumper for colder days.
Aaron’s still watching me.
“What?” I ask.
“You tie that every day?”
“Yeah. It’s part of the uniform.”
Aaron grins and starts getting dressed. I’m awed by how easily he drops his towel and gets naked around me, even in a non-sexual context — soft dick, skin raw from hot water and scrubbing — but then I’m flattered that he feels so comfortable around me.
I watch silently as he pulls on boxer briefs, then pants, and buttons up the shirt. When he picks up his tie, I notice it’s still partly done, resembling a noose. He places it around his neck and shimmies up the knot so it’s neat against the centre of his collar.
“I learned this hack in Year 7,” he explains. “I just loosen it and pull it back up, and that way, I don’t have to tie it every day. Here, I’ll show you.” Aaron steps closer and slides the knot of my tie up and down.
“Oh,” I say. “I feel dumb for not knowing that earlier.”
“Nah, don’t be. You’re probably way better at tying ties than me. Sometimes, it accidentally comes undone, and I have to watch a YouTube tutorial to remember how to do it. You want breakfast?”
“Sure.”
We head to the kitchen. His parents must’ve already left for work because the house is quiet. Aaron rummages through the pantry. “We have Weet-bix, sultana bran, cornflakes, toast and porridge.”
“Weet-bix is fine, thanks. Do you have coffee?”
“Yeah, we have instant coffee over there.” He points to a porcelain container on the countertop. “Sugar’s next to it, and milk’s in the fridge.”
“Do you want some?” I ask, pulling out two mugs.
“Yeah, I’ll have a cup. Make it the same way you make yours. I’m not picky.”
I make two cups of coffee with milk and a teaspoon of sugar each and sit down to eat Weet-bix with Aaron. As I eat, I look around the kitchen. It’s the opposite of my house. The fridge is covered in magnets holding up family photos, council rates and brochures for plumbers and electricians. One wall is decorated with framed photos, including what looks like Aaron’s parents’ wedding and some of Aaron’s traditional artworks, such as paintings and realistic pencil drawings of bees and dragonflies.
Aaron glances at me, then flicks his eyes away.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I just…” a shy smile. “I can’t believe this is real. Everything that happened. You’re sitting in my house, eating breakfast with me. And last night —” he cuts himself off.
“I know,” I say. “If someone told me last week that this would happen, I would never believe them.”
We take our time finishing breakfast. Aaron shoves stuff into his school bag, and we make two sets of recess snacks and lunch. Then, with nothing else to do, we head to school early.
It’s about 8:30 when we pull into the student car park. Aaron drives to the back row of the lot, which is where he parked last time when he gave me a lift to his family’s shop for an interview. Back then, the ride was awkward as hell, but now it’s funny to me. Everything seems funnier to me right now. I must be high on the drug of love.
“Oh,” Aaron says after he turns the engine off.
I follow his line of sight. About ten metres away, his friends are crowded around a car.
