Ethan waited for me outside the bathroom, leaning against a cardboard Roman pillar. My little sanity anchor. My reminder that the past was the past and this was the present, and the present was pretty fucking great. He was doodling something on his wrist with a Biro pen and leaning beside one student’s collage rendition of a Monet, looking like he was waiting for someone to snap his Polaroid and label it Too Hip for Hipsters.
I’d known Ethan since I came to Islington. We were given peer mentors before the start of term to help us newbies acclimate to the school’s quirks, and Ethan had been mine. He’d attended Islington since his freshman year and knew the place inside and out. During our first meeting, while our group lounged on the leather sofas in the Writers’ House with the electric fireplace going despite the late-summer heat, Ethan had presented us with a particular dilemma: Each of the mentor groups had been given a stipend to spend for group activities, and he wasn’t interested in doing the usual tie-dyed shirt and movie night thing. He recommended we use the money to fund a weekly café trip in hopes of finding hot men. He affectionately called the project Fishing for Dick. Then and there, my love for him was affirmed.
“Come on,” I said. “Spill it.” I nudged up beside him and looked down at the notes on his skinny wrist. Sadly, they were just reminders of upcoming assignments and project ideas. Nothing juicy.
“What?” he said. He glanced around as though we were already discussing his sex life, cheeks blushing. Save for a few girls chatting as they went into the bathroom, the hall was empty.
I grabbed the pen from his hand, grasped his wrist with the other, and wrote in my hastiest cursive: “will u fuk?”
When he looked at what I wrote, he went an even brighter shade of crimson and tried to scrub it off. He didn’t succeed.
“You’re classy, you know that?” he said. Then he looked up at me, and a stupid little grin perked up the corner of his mouth. “And yes, probably. Maybe. Definitely. Gods I hope so.”
I sniffed and wiped an invisible tear from my eye. “My little boy’s all grown up,” I said, making my voice crack.
“Yeah, well . . .” But he didn’t say anything else because the girls came out from the bathroom then and it was clear our short break was up. He cleared his throat. “Did you want to go fishing or not?” he asked. Even though the mentor group eventually disbanded, Ethan and I had kept up the good fight: Nearly every Friday we went to the same teahouse, though it had become more a ritual for finishing homework before the weekend than finding men. Especially since Ethan had found Oliver at the beginning of this year.
“Of course,” I said. I’d never miss out on these tea dates. Ever. Even if we did have to shuffle them around a bit now that a romance was in the picture.
“Good. If you’re nice, I’ll tell you more about my planned seduction. Casanova’s got nothing on me.”
“There’s still lunch,” I offered, because we didn’t have any more classes together today.
“And my boyfriend still sits with us,” Ethan said.
“Then you can tell me on the way there. You know I hate waiting.”
Ethan just rolled his eyes.
? ? ?
“I swear to Paula Deen, if Andy assigns us one more still life this term I’m going to scream.”
I snorted into my hot chocolate. We sat in the far corner of the cafeteria, nestled between a wall of past students’ art and a window overlooking the frozen lake. A flock of crows circled lazily in the sky. Sorry, a murder.
“Did you really just swear to Paula Deen?” I asked Ethan.
He nodded and crossed himself, holding a packet of butter in his hand as he did so.
“I don’t think praying’s going to help,” I muttered, looking out at the lunch crowd. “Andy does love making us sketch the most exciting of subjects.”
There was a groan, and then a thud, and when I looked over Ethan had his head on the table in defeat. I reached over and rustled his hat. His hand snatched up and caught my arm.
“Watch the hair,” he mumbled from the tabletop, not budging an inch.
“I am,” I said. “I’m giving you that hot disheveled look.”
“He’s already hot and disheveled,” came a voice behind me.
Oliver stepped around to the other side of the table, setting his tray beside Ethan’s. Ethan immediately sat up, grinning at his boyfriend.
“Hey babe,” Ethan chirped. Oliver grinned, leaned over, and gave Ethan a quick peck on the lips.
“Afternoon gorgeous,” Oliver replied, then sat down.
Oliver was, as my mother would say, a tall glass of water—not that I’d ever say such a thing to his face. Six foot two, gorgeous coffee-color skin, and brown eyes to match, he looked like he should be playing bass in some smoky jazz club in Paris. His penchant for wearing button-downs and vests—and the fact that he actually did play bass—only made the image more tantalizing.
“How you doing, Kaira?” he asked. He reached over and took my hand, raising it up to kiss the backs of my fingers.
“Better now that my Prince Charming is here,” I said with a grin.
His smile could have lit a cave.
“You look tired,” he said, studying my face. “Have you been sleeping okay?”