Page 15 of Hey, Stepbro

My jaw drops as I spot Waxley, one of my closest friends from the LGBTQ+ Student Union, studying as usual with his nose buried in a textbook.

Waxley is a freshman like me. He’s five foot ten with round wire-framed glasses and a mop of unruly red hair. He has a penchant for rainbow-colored overalls and Converse high tops, and is never without the stack of activist pins on his denim jacket.

"Holy shit," Stella hisses. "That’s Waxley."

"Damn right it is."

"Well, don’t leave him all alone. Poor thing needs company."

"He’s studying," I say.

"Offer him moral support."

Leaving Stella, I weave through the tables toward Waxley. The scents of coffee and pumpkin spice lattes fill my senses, the delicious aromas relaxing me.

"Fancy meeting you here," I say, coming up beside his table.

Waxley startles, then breaks into a smile when he sees me. "Blakely! I didn't expect to see you on a Saturday morning. I figured you’d be at the shelter."

"Stella wanted a peppermint mocha." I sink into the seat across from him. "And I needed to get out of the shelter for a bit. You know how it is."

"Ah, I get it." Waxley nods sympathetically. "Busy?"

"As shit." I rake a hand through my hair, gaze drifting to the window. The golden sunlight makes the red and orange leaves glow, like the coffee shop is filled with autumn fire. "And I was supposed to meet my pen pal, but he didn’t show up."

"Maybe I’m your pen pal," Waxley drawls. "Wouldn’t that be a twist?"

"Very funny."

Waxley reaches over to pat my arm. "Don't worry too much. The right… pen pal is out there somewhere."

I roll my eyes. "Okay, quit being dramatic."

"As a former theater kid, drama is what I do best."

"Maybe my pen pal was afraid I’d try to jump his bones. He found out he was into dudes last week."

"Well, there are certainly worse fates. But I’m sure you two will meet up eventually. Don't lose hope."

Waxley has always had a way of making me feel better, even when I'm in one of my melancholy moods. "I appreciate it."

Waxley nudges his coffee toward me in a silent toast. "My pleasure. Now"—he leans forward, eyes glinting with curiosity—"don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve been curious as shit to ask how your dating life is going ever sincewedidn’t work out. Such a loss for you."

Waxley and I tried to go on a date last year. It was an epic fail by all metrics. It wasn’t because we’re both bottoms or anything, because we’re not. We’re simply too geeky to be with each other. I blabbed about animals and Book Tok for three hours straight, and Waxley chatted about math. Yeah, math on a date. Ridiculous.

He also wanted someone who was rough as fuck with him in bed. Someone who’d ram him against a wall and rail his twink ass, which is so not me. I mean, maybe it could be me in a crack dream, but not in reality. Not a lot of crack being smoked around me.

"Terrible as usual." I’m nothing if not blunt.

"You look like you’re blushing. Are you lying to me?"

I gape at him, mind racing. This little twink has always been too perceptive for his own good.

"Okay," I say slowly. "Here's the thing…"

"I’m listening."

I internally debate whether I should confide in Waxley. At last, I decide to admit half of the truth.

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