Page 15 of Men in Shorts

“Not exactly.” Brodie told him about his illness and the mystery of its source.

“Aw, ya poor lad,” John said. “Well, you didnae get it from me. I had it five years ago when I was sixteen.”

“Did you kiss anyone else that night we snogged?”

John gasped. “Brodie! What sort of slut do you take me for?” He paused. “Aye, I did, actually. But it was later, after you. So are you still at home?”

“No, I came back to uni. Still ill, though.”

“You need anything? Soup, tea, a naked man or two?”

“Only if you can spare them.” Brodie rubbed his aching forehead, feeling stymied. “I must’ve got this virus off someone’s cup or fork or something. Knowing my flatmates, they probably just lick the cutlery clean before putting it back in the drawers.”

“No other kissing candidates, then?”

The launderette door opened to two girls with matching neon pink laundry baskets. Brodie got up quickly, making the blood rush from his brain, and crossed to the far side of the room by the ironing board. “There was another lad,” he said into the phone, “but it happened the night before vacation. Incubation period is a month or two, so it couldn’t have been him. But he thinks it is, and he’s been bringing me breakfast and tea and all, out of guilt.”

“Brodie, ya wicked bastard.” John’s tone was admiring, not condemning. “When you gonnae tell him the truth?”

“Soon. I mean, I should do, right?”

“Do you fancy him?”

“Aye, but we’re just pals.” Brodie traced a burn mark on the ironing-board cover and thought of Duncan’s sponge-bath offer. “Pals with potential.”

“Then you should totally tell him. But—maybe not quite yet. Maybe it should slip your mind for a wee while. You must be pure glaikit, what with the fever and all.”

Brodie smiled. John was always one to play the angles. “My brain is pretty foggy.”

“And it’s about to be distracted by news of my summer internship.”

“With who?”

“A charity helping asylum seekers get humane treatment from our inhumane government. I’ll work with LGBTQ folk who’ve had to flee their home nations’ anti-gay laws.”

“That sounds amazing.” Though John was studying Economic and Social History, his new position seemed applicable to Brodie’s psychology degree. “Have they got any other openings?” he asked as he went to the dryer to check the time left on his load.

“I think so,” John said, “but they cannae pay. This charity’s pure skint. I can only afford to work for free because I’ve money saved from my gap years.”

Brodie frowned at his tumbling sheets and T-shirt through the dryer window. “I need a paying job, but maybe I can volunteer some hours.”

“That’d be brilliant. You could help me fundraise. My goal is twenty-five thousand pounds by the end of summer.”

“Wow. You’ll need more than a cake sale, then.” Brodie’s phone beeped. He pulled it away from his ear to look at the screen, hoping it would be Duncan. “My mum’s on the other line. If I don’t answer, she’ll think I’m dead.”

“See you at our dance party a week on Friday?”

“If I can walk, I’ll dance.” Brodie hung up, then switched lines. “Hi, Ma.”

“Brodie! Fit like?”

“Good, ta. You?”

“You sound trachled,” she said.

“A wee bit, but that’s normal.” He moved his laundry bag from the end seat and sat down again. The two girls had finished sorting their loads and seemed to be using top-up cards and laundry apps to pay for it, which probably meant they’d leave and await the email announcing when their washing was finished. Brodie would have done the same if he could have managed the walk across the student village and back again.

“I’ve been worried,” Ma said, “thinking maybe I shouldn’t have let you away to uni so soon.”

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