Page 47 of Shroom for Improvement

Claude laughed, and I found myself laughing too. Perhaps it was that I couldn’t see him well. Could only make out the silhouette of his ear, his cheek, his neck, and the duvet pulled up to his chest. Perhaps the darkness was lending us—him—the protection to be earnest and free.

I ignored the wave of butterflies that had stirred in the wake of learning Claude liked men, and pretended that finding this out hadn’t been my intention all along.

“What about you?” he asked.

“You have to say truth or dare first.”

Ifelthim roll his eyes. “Fine, truth or dare? And don’t say dare because I’m extremely comfortable right now and I don’t want to move.”

That Claude had admitted he was comfortable enough sharing a bed with me and didn’t want to leave it caused the butterflies to stir again in the most delicious, agonising way.

“Truth,” I whispered.

“First crush?”

“My grade-ten biology teacher.”

The sheets rustled again. Bed bounced. “What was their name?”

“Dr Sampson.”

“First name?”

I smiled, so hard my cheeks ached. “Caddy.”

“Oh,” Claude said. “What . . . um . . . sir, or . . .”

He was doing it, too. Claude was trying to find out if I liked guys. The butterflies in my stomach were practically climbing up my throat. I placed a hand on my face to physicallysmother my smile. “She was a woman,isa woman by all accounts, is still alive.” Claude tensed. “But like, I’m bi, pan, whatever label you want to attach to me. Not sure what you’ll do with the information, but there is it.”

I was certain I imagined the little “whew” that escaped his lips.

“Another one. Truth or dare?” Claude said.

“Truth.”

“What’s your favourite . . . uh, biscuit?”

“Woah, holy gods. Can you really just ask a man that? Awfully personal, don’t you think?”

He slapped my arm. He actually slapped my arm. I had no idea he could be playful. “Shut up,” he whispered. “But... tell me, I want to know.”

“Shortbread. That’s my favourite biscuit. What about you?”

Claude sucked in a breath like he was putting serious heavy thought behind his answer. “Probably ginger nuts. But anything spiced. Winter Fest cookies. Those little Harvest Fest ones with apple and cinnamon. Wait... whose go is it?”

“Um, I think it’s my go to ask you something.”

“Okay,” he said. The bed wobbled again and Claude settled onto his back. I stared at the sliver of light kissing the line of his nose, the slight bump on the bridge, the pout of his resting mouth, his relaxed, stubbled jaw. “I’m ready.”

“Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

I wanted to ask him why, if he was this easy to get on with now, he’d never given me a chance previously. Why he’d spent so much effort doing everything in his power to make our interactions as brief as possible. I wanted to ask him if he was having fun with me. If he liked me. If he could ever see me as a friend. If I could hang out with him in this bed every night.

Instead, I went with, “Did you always want to be a train conductor?”

“Since I was a kid,” he said in a whisper.

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