Page 41 of Men in Shorts

Where P = probability

E = I’m falling for you.

m = My heart stops.

N = You look at me.

An arrow with the wordANSWERpointed to the edge of the page. Brodie flipped it over.

P = 1

He’d thought he was too ill to feel any misery but the physical sort. But this…thiswas like an ice pick jabbing through those layers of treacly cotton in his head. This hurt.

Just then, his phone beeped with a Facebook notification, probably another get-well wish from one of his mates. Even the Rainbow Regiment had sent him a “Bowl of Bunnies” e-card after seeing the state of him yesterday.

Brodie checked his phone, needing a pick-me-up. The notification read,Duncan Harris also commented on Spotted: Glasgow Uni Library’s post.

Heart pounding, he tapped to read the comment.

Duncan Harris: You’ve got your wish.

Brodie squinted at the four words, trying to recall their context. What had he publicly wished for during their day-long flirtation that began with a misunderstanding and an autocorrect-induced Spongebob Squarepants reference?

He tapped theSee Postlink for the full context. What he saw there squashed the sodden remains of his heart.

Duncan hadn’t commented on the sponge-bath thread. He’d commented on the original poster’s subsequent rant, where she’d savaged Brodie and Duncan for highjacking her message to her ex-boyfriend:

It must be nice not to know what love is, to never feel the pain when the person you want more than anything in the world won’t even look at you, much less touch you again. Wherever you are, all I wish is that ONE DAY SOON you’ll know what it’s like.

In what seemed a superhuman feat, Brodie got out of bed and started moving. He didn’t stop for shoes or socks, didn’t stop to comb his hair. His shirt was pure manky, and he hadn’t showered since yesterday morning, but he didn’t care. There was no strength for hygiene. There was only strength for reaching Duncan.

The hallway in their flat had never felt so long. He passed one bedroom, then another, then the toilet, then the shower, then three more bedrooms. At the halfway point, he paused beside the kitchen door, hoping Duncan would be in there, making tea or microwaving an extra-spicy curry. But the room was empty.

He trudged on. With each step, the pull of gravity seemed to double. If Duncan turned him away, he’d need a wee nap on the hallway floor before making the return trip. The prospect was humiliating. Still he continued.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,his mind chanted as he walked—I’mwith the left foot andSorrywith the right, followed by a moment’s rest and an added plea.

I’m. Sorry. Come back.

I’m. Sorry. My bed is so affa, affa cold without you.

I’m. Sorry. Please…please.

I’m. Sorry. I’m. Sorry. I’m. Sorry. I’m.

Brodie was there. After a deep, steadying inhale, he knocked on Duncan’s door, then held his breath, listening.

Silence.

He knocked again, then looked down to see no light leaking under the door. He knocked harder, hoping Duncan had merely gone to bed early, which seemed unlikely the night before his chemistry exam.

Finally, footsteps. Brodie lifted his head, ready to say?—

Petra’s door opened to his right. She leaned out and gasped. “Brodie! God, you look a state.”

His hopes sank. “Welcome back,” he said. “You cut your hair.”

“You like it?” She drew her hand forward over her scalp, ruffling the short blond bob. “I feel sorta naked.”

---