I haven’t heard him so disappointed since last hockey season, back when losing was the Dingbats standard.
“I appreciate the thought. You’re a good roommate.” They announce a flight on the intercom and I press my phone closer to my cheek to try and muffle the sound.
“Man don’t get all mushy on me. You’re one of the greatest athletes in the world.”
“I don’t know about—”
“Of course we’re gonna celebrate that. Right boys?” Shouts and screams crackle over the line. “Also he’s not coming.”
The triumph is overtaken by a wave of disappointment. Someone shouts a husky“What?!”
I get the same feeling in my gut as when a plane hits bad turbulence. “Tell the guys I’m sorry.”
“You can do that yourself,” He’s trying to sound chipper but there is an edge to his voice I can’t hold against him. “See you tomorrow, right?”
I swallow. “Tomorrow.”
“Catch you then.” He hangs up and for a moment everything is eerily silent in the bustling airport.
On the drive back to campus, I blast music, a bizarre mix of psychedelic-rock and music scores I’ve considered using in competition but haven’t figured out the right choreography for. Soon I’m on Christos’ street, parking a block away from his house as per usual. By now, I’m sure the neighbors have noticed my car coming around. A patch of ice on the sidewalk sneaks up on me and I slip, catching myself just before I fall on my ass.
I don’t get a chance to knock before he opens the door and scoops me into his arms and spins us around. He sets me down in the living room and bends down to kiss me. In an instant, I forget about the airport, my roommate, and the ice. He pulls away from the kiss and starts massaging my cheeks with his thumbs. “You’re freezing.”
“I feel plenty warm now.” I kiss the grey freckles on his broad nose.
“Hungry?” He holds my hand and leads me to the kitchen. “I made chicken and a spinach salad with pears and walnuts.”
“Have I mentioned how hot it is when you make me dinner?”
He says nothing, but his ears flap with delight. “I made dessert too, kinda.” He goes to the fridge and pulls out a big bowl of cut fruit; strawberries, kiwi, tangerines, blueberries and pineapple. He grabs something off the top of the fridge. “I got us dipping chocolate too, but that’s optional.”
I take the container, not bothering to read the nutritional facts because I know damn well this isn’t in my dietary plan. “Should we cover them now or later?”
“We can let them cool while we eat.”
He takes the container back and pops it in the microwave. Soon we’re shoving toothpicks into various fruits and dipping them into viscous chocolate, laying them on parchment paper to dry.
“When was the last time you cooked?”
“It’s been a while,” I admit. I roll a pick between my fingers, trying to make the chocolate even on a piece of pineapple. “Not sure this counts.”
His ducks down to grab the pineapple with his teeth. I have to move to avoid getting knocked by his wide head.
Still chewing, he responds, “I say it does.”
“You’re going to spoil the nice dinner you made.”
He offers me a piece of kiwi. I take it, the tart of the fruit and warm chocolate pairing perfectly. His eyes light up.
“You really like feeding me, huh?”
He shrugs. “I like cooking together.”
I haven’t thought about what makes Christos’ heart go pitter patter. If I should offer to do more about the house I spend so much time in or if he just wants to do things together like go on hikes. I guess because we’re so physical... Am I a bad boyfriend? It’s not like we’ve ever made things official. Like we have anyone to tell.
By the time we sit for dinner, I feel compelled to tell him, “You don’t have to do all this for me.”
He’s already cutting into his juicy chicken breast. “I like cooking. Not a huge fan of doing dishes.”
