I already know Micah. Not to mention that he also needs experience!
And if things become awkward, we’ll only have to stick it out for a year and most likely won't ever see each other again. Once he’s done with his senior year, Micah can happily go off and become a big NFL star, and I'll hopefully start my junior year with my first real boyfriend. Win-win on every front.
“You’d do that? What about your…date?” Micah hedges.
“We’re…open, while he’s in Europe. And there are some things I want to try out before he gets back.” Hopefully, Micah will just fill in the stereotypes about a young and adventurous couple.
“You don't have to make a decision right now.” I defuse the tension. “Just an option.” I'm proud of how nonchalant my voice sounds.
Like my heart isn't hammering against my ribs and I have a hard time prying my hands off the steering wheel to shift gears.
“This…I don’t know what to say.” Micah laughs, raising one hand to run it through his hair. His fingers knock against that obnoxious orange cap. “Are you sure about this? You don’t have to—”
“I might not be over six feet tall,” I say as I turn into our street and let my truck roll up our driveway, “but it’s still pretty hard to make me do something I don’t wanna do.” I wink at Micah, hopefully looking as casual and easy as I want it to be.
Micah, June 9th
Iloved summer rain as a kid. There was no better feeling than running around the garden, wet grass under my bare feet, fat drops of rain coming down on me, soaking me, hugging me in a warm embrace. My biggest joy was jumping into puddles—no rubber boots necessary, just mud squelching between my toes. One day, however, I completely misjudged. The puddle wasn’t wide, and the edges looked shallow. I got a running start, then jumped with both feet—and screamed when I didn’t just sink in to the ankles but went in over my knees.
My mom quickly grabbed the straps of my overalls and pulled me out, laughing. I remember how my mud-crusted legs stained her pretty summer dress when she put me onto her hip. She didn’t care, reminding me that clothes could always be washed. That day, she taught me always to test the waters first—and that the stillest surfaces might hide the greatest depth.
I feel like that right now. Like I misjudged Linden because of his quiet exterior. Who would have thought my kind roommate, the one who avoided parties like the plague and never broughtsomeone home, would offer to become my personal gay sex trainer?
“Oh God, this summer is not what I expected it to be.” I laugh, nerves tingling in my stomach. This. This feels wild, even to me.
“As I said, it’s just an option. You don’t have to take me up on it,” Linden quickly reassures me as I fold my hands over the top of my snapback.
“No, no, I know. I just…didn’t expect this from you of all people.”
“Wow, thanks, I guess. Is that how you always accept help?”
I cringe at his dry comment, realizing how that came out wrong. “Sorry,” I groan as I sink back into the seat of his truck. We’re still sitting in the driveway, neither of us making a move to get out and unload the groceries.
“I just mean…well. You never struck me as the type who’d…be in an open arrangement? Relationship? I don’t know; what sort of dynamic am I entering into here? I don’t want to risk a jealous boyfriend kicking down our front door.”
“Colin and I are dating,” Linden clarifies, arms crossing over his chest. “But, as I said, we’re open. We talked about this before he left for summer break and agreed that we wanted to make the most of our time apart. We’re looking to have some fun before we commit to a serious relationship.”
He says this so lightly, I wonder if I know my roommate at all. But before I can say anything, he reaches out to pat my knee.
“Also, don’t worry, you’re not my type.”
“Ouch.” I laugh because that kind of stings in an unexpected way. “So you just offered to fuck me out of the goodness of your heart? Does this mean I’ll have to wear a paper bag to cover my ugly face?”
“Shut up, Micah, you know you're gorgeous.” Linden rolls his eyes, and I can’t help a small grin. My self-esteem is halfway restored.
“Okay, so why ain’t I your type then?”
“Because,” Linden starts, leaning in and fixing me with a serious look out of gray eyes. I’ve never noticed them before, but they feel intense now, like a storm brewing in the sky.
“A pretty face isn’t everything. For one, I don’t do footballers—especially not those planning to go pro. And I also don’t do straight guys because that would be stupid.”
“Okay, fair point—I wouldn’t want to date a pro athlete or a straight guy, either,” I have to admit.
“See? No reason for Colin to get jealous because he knows my type.”
Now I’m kind of curious about this Colin guy. He doesn’t sound like a fellow athlete. I’m guessing he’s an English major. Or a theater kid? Maybe art history. Definitely a student from St. Bernard’s. Someone who reads his own poems out loud while Linden puts his head in his lap before they fuck in a field of wildflowers. I’m pretty sure he wears linen pants, too.
“Okay. So what’s in it for you then?” I ask. If Linden’s all set with his linen-wearing poet, why would he make an offer like that to me? Even with an open arrangement, he just named two pretty good reasons to disqualify me. And that didn’t even take into account my lack of experience.
