Page 11 of Cool for the Summer

“Thanks, but it was harder than you might think. I went to a small college in a small town. The odds were not in my favor.”

“Shoulda gone to college in the city.”

“I’m not really a city person. I grew up in one and it didn’t exactly work out, either.”

“What city was that?” he asks.

“Austin.”

“Was growing up gay in Texas the nightmare I’m picturing?”

“It was okay.” I’m not lying. It wasn’t great, but it could have been much worse. But high school sucks for everyone, and I don’t like to live in the past. “I wasn’t out, so it was a little lonely.”

“Yeah,” Donovan says simply, as if he knows what I mean. I can’t imagine growing up gay in Upstate New York was much better than my experience. We don’t talk for a while and I enjoy the breather. I started the twenty questions routine, but my headache’s coming back. I want to go to sleep and wake up feeling like a different person.

Which reminds me—“Hey, where are we going to sleep?” I ask as we near the turn back to Wild Rose Lane.

“Where are we…oh, which rooms?” he asks, his brow clearing as he figures out what I mean.

“Yeah. What did Jack and Pete say?”

“Well, there are three bedrooms upstairs, if you count their room, and the one off the kitchen.”

“I’ll take that one,” I say quickly. “If that’s okay with you.”

“Sure. I’ll take one of the guest rooms. Probably the one in the front.”

“Sounds good.”

“They said Cleo gets up early to be let out. You want me to do it tomorrow?”

“No, you’ve already done more than your share. I’ll get up with her.”

“Okay.”

Negotiations concluded, we walk in silence back to the house. Cleo flops on the bed in the kitchen. Donovan disappears upstairs, and I bring my bags out of the car where they’ve been roasting all day. I set the paper bag with the mixing bowl and eighties-era cookbook I bought that morning on the kitchen island and let my shoulders drop. My lungs expand as I breathe in deep, then let the air out slowly.

This day has not gone at all how I thought it would, but after waking up with the worst hangover of my life, I’m ending it in a pretty good spot. I have a place to live. I have a gorgeous kitchen to bash around in. And I’ve made a new friend.

Sort of.

FIVE

DONOVAN

I always sleep badlythe first night in a strange location. But after a shitty night’s sleep at the motel, I sink into the comfortable guest bed at the front of Jack and Pete’s house and fall into a rare deep sleep, waking up to birdsong outside my window at the civilized hour of eight o’clock. I’m weirdly rested. I wasn’t woken up by emergency sirens or upstairs neighbors or slamming doors.

Huh.

Maybe there’s something to small-town life after all.

I take a quick shower before checking the weather on my phone. We’re due for another warm, sunny day. Aside from the lightweight suit I wore to the wedding, I packed mostly jeans and T-shirts. I did remember my swim trunks at the last minute, but maybe I should have brought more shorts. I throw on the only pair I have, army green ones that accentuate the olive tones of my skin, and tug a plain dark gray shirt over my head.

I wonder how Beck’s doing. I assume he got up with Cleo because I haven’t heard anything to the contrary, but I steel myself to find a hungry dog and a still-hungover man when I get downstairs.

I’m still adjusting to the idea of spending the next two months living with Beck. We’ve gotten along so far, but then there’s the pesky attraction that pops up at seemingly random times. Like last night—we’d gotten through a picnic-style dinner of wedding leftovers. Then while we walked Cleo in this Stepford-perfect neighborhood, Beck stopped to admire the most rundown house on the block and I wanted…well, I’m not sure what, exactly. I’m used to wanting sex—and yesterday morning, that’s exactly what I was picturing with the guy.

But twenty-four hours later, Beck isn’t just a random guy. He’s my roommate. And that means it doesn’t matter what I want, even if I could figure it out. Roommates are a hard no. I’m going to keep things purely friendly for the next two months. Easy as pie.

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