Page 80 of Muscle Cub

This time, I went beyond the gilded descriptions of the veins that corded his arms and the ever-present glint of mischief in his warm brown eyes. I attempted to dissect how he’d charmed my family despite his cheesy fashion choices and his shameless vocal stylings. How he cloaked his worries in the joy he channeled for others.

Even though the words flowed, his charisma evaded my vocabulary. I transcribed his jokes, but I failed to do them justice.

My inner critic sneered at the pages and declared them self-indulgent, but it felt good to write them. Like singing in the shower.

I logged the word count anyway and vowed to keep going.

I wrote through the hours until he called and counted the days until I could see him again.

Wednesday morning, I received a work email with a schedule of the department meetings coming up in August ahead of fall semester. Writing about Austin’s motivation to teach, I questioned whether I deserved to be called a professor. Austin’s passion humbled me. I couldn’t recall a time when teaching had been more than a job to me or if it had ever been more than an aspiring author’s backup career.

I marked the email as unread. I’d come back to it.

Taking a lunch break in the kitchen, I couldn’t get “Wonderwall” out of my head. I shouted at the smart speaker on the island to play something random from my general Likes playlist, and “Bouncing Off Clouds” filled the room.

Listening to Tori Amos and writing about a boy in your diary.

A bark of laughter escaped my mouth. Busted. Someone with a deeper faith—someone who believed in magic—would’ve felt seen by the universe. I felt…

What did I feel?

I felt fucking happy.

As a high concept, happiness was difficult to define. As a personal experience, it was a total distraction. Terrible for discipline. Happiness didn’t give a fuck about the novel I was supposed to be writing, not when a real-life love story was an option.

Austin sounded exhausted that night on the phone. He said he was bummed he hadn’t been able to come see me.

“Two more days,” I said, mimicking his usual cheery countdown. I listened for the sound of his smile, and when I didn’t sense a shift in his mood, I said, “I miss you.”

He hummed a low sweet sound and sighed. “I miss you too.”

By Thursday morning, Austin’s enthusiasm had returned.

I had just sat down at my desk to work when I received his text: It’s Bear Run Eve!!!

It’s 9:15 in the morning.

What do you call 9:15 a.m. on December 24?!!

I smiled, closed my laptop, and fired off a few tips about exclamation point usage.

I’d known the risk. Aggravation was his love language. For the rest of the day, he sent me sexually suggestive messages with an ever-increasing number of exclamation points.

What he likely intended as playful promises, I processed as expectations. The effects of anxiety and excitement were difficult to discern, but my therapist said if it was something you were looking forward to that would likely go well, then it was excitement. I vowed not to spin out about it. I needed to be inside him again, more than anyone I’d ever known, and I had plenty of advanced notice on this occasion.

I took a pill that evening, twenty-four hours before we were likely to be alone together.

Austin called even later than usual. He’d spent all day with Jim and Ryan decorating the Cubby Hole for the dance party.

“It’s circus themed. ‘Under a Big Top.’” I pictured him making a sweeping grand reveal gesture. “You don’t have a black leotard, do you?”

“Is there anything about me that makes you think I would own a leotard?”

“I have some running tights that’ll work.”

“For…”

“Your costume.”