Our messages from the last two weeks are sparse. I request a time slot, he sends me a thumbs up emoji. I scroll all the way back to the message from the game. “Good luck.” Still no response.
I drop my phone onto the desk and try to get back to studying. The words slide off my brain—I switch subjects, switch from studying to outlining my final paper, draft an email to my advisor…
Dear Susan,
I think I lost the ability to read with an ounce of comprehension. I would love to blame this all on some bender, but I haven’t had a sip of alcohol in months. How am I supposed to connect to our great American authors without being a bit of an alcoholic? How did these guys write such masterpieces while being blasted on moonshine? I’m crashing out.
Maybe I need to bite the bullet and change my major to sports communication. I know ball.
Do you have any open office hours?
Below my window, a party of students walk past, talking way too loud. My window is already shut, but I double-check it’s locked. They’re all in sparkly fairy outfits, wings fluttering as they parade through campus. They aren’t even being subtle with their solo cups. A girl at the front of the line exhales a thick vape cloud before passing it back down the line.
I’m tempted to open my window just so I can slam it shut. I grab my jacket. There’s no way to fail a mental health walk. The parade of intoxicated college students is as obnoxious as it is entertaining.
I pop into the library, expecting to find over-achieving nerds with their noses in books. Instead, I walk into a crime scene. They’re doing some murder mystery scavenger hunt. While people scurry around for clues I linger at the tape outline of a body. There’s barely a winter chill in the air, but here I am feeling like Scrooge amongst all this whimsy.
Already on the edge of campus, I head into town, passing by kids in costumes carrying pillowcases full of spoils. Every porch is decorated, some going all out with animatronics and spiderweb-covered bushes, while others boast a single carved pumpkin. I think I prefer pumpkins. The ones with sharp triangle eyes and uneven mouths are my favorites, especially when they sit between more mature and manicured designs.
Somehow, I end up in front of Christos’ house. A big, fuzzy spider hangs from the top of the covered porch. I get closer, finding I have to stand right under it to ring the doorbell. And I do in fact, ring that bell.
Christos opens the door, holding a bowl of candy. His brows lift, but he makes a quick recovery. “Aren’t you a bit old to be trick-or-treating?”
I reach into the bowl, riffling around to try and find a candy I actually enjoy. It’s a lot of chocolate and taffy, the stuff that always gets stuck in the grooves of my teeth. Hard to have a cheat treat when it lingers in your mouth for so long, the guilt eating away at more than my enamel.
Empty-handed, I pull my hand from the bowl. We’re left staring at each other. “Can I come in?” I point up at the cheesy spider decoration. “I’m about to be spider food.”
He opens the door wider before leaving the candy bowl on anactual end table, not boxes. I wait till his back is to me before entering, being a good guest, and shutting the door behind me. There are still a few boxes shoved in corners. No TV stand—but the couch has a new blanket, and at some point, he hung up a coat rack where his familiar Dingbats windbreaker hangs.
With his back to me, he says, “You have to go, Roderick.”
“I just got here?”
He lifts a hand and I can so easily picture it running down his long snout. “Why are you here?”
“I don’t know…” I admit. “I was studying—trying to study— and getting nowhere, so I went for a walk and ended up here…” It’s the truth but it sounds like utter bullshit.
His tail is stick-straight, an intentional stiffness.
On the arm of the couch, I recognize a familiar tome.To Frost the Thaw. I pick it up, flip to the dog-eared page. He’s made progress. He’s still got 350 pages to go, but he hasn’t thrown it out the window which is commendable. “You’re still reading it,” I say absentmindedly.
“Roderick, I can’t have you here.” He marches over and reaches for the book. I let him pry my fingers from the hardcover, his touch tender despite his harsh expression. “If someone saw—” He looks past me at the windows covered with wood blinds.
“Should I go back to campus and message you instead?”
His throat bobs. He holds the book in front of him like a shield.
“Should I remind you of all the things you want me to do to you?” I grab my phone, only to toss it onto the couch. “Or—should I do the one thing you haven’t admitted you want from me?” I reach for his face.
He says my name like he’s never said it before, pathetic and needy. “Roderick…”
The fur on his cheeks is coarse but soft, like a well-maintained beard. “You’ve been avoiding me.” It’s less of an accusation and more of a plea. I want to see Christos, not 3dge-m3, not Coach Chris. I push up onto my toes to limit the space between us.
A single word slips out right as I bring my lips to his. “I’ve…” Whatever he wanted to say is lost in the kiss. I keep one hand on his cheek and wrap the other around his neck, steadying myself. My chest bumps against the book. He leans down and my soles drop to the floor. My lips slide off his.
“I’ve been avoiding that.”
He’s in a daze, his dark eyes hidden behind white eyelashes. He throws the book onto the couch, free hands grabbing me, pulling me in for another kiss. There’s nothing but our clothes between us, but it’s a passing dilemma. He slips a hand under my shirt to better caress my lower back. My palm dives under the waistband of his sweats to grab the ass I’ve only admired on my screen.
