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Interest piqued, I turn my menu over and skim the choices.

A young woman in fitted, black clothes trots over with our iced teas, introduces herself, and asks if we know what we’d like to order.

“A couple more minutes?” Rowan says.

The woman nods sweetly, eyes flitting to me and staying there long enough for it to feel intentional.

After she’s gone, I see Rowan is eyeing me like he saw exactly what I saw. He smirks a little, turns his menu face down and asks, “When did you start thinking you were a little gay boy?”

I don’t know what it is about Rowan that makes me ingest that question like it’s a compliment, but I’m all smiles when I answer, “When I was twelve, I was playing a juniors club match. Almost won, but the opposing team had this one guy who was just unstoppable. Rowan fucking Hughes. I thought he was incredible and the cutest boy I’d ever seen. I was star-struck when he shook my hand after the match. Then, he called me a faggot and told me to suck his dick. Made me wonder if maybe I really was gay.”

The smirk that was fixed on Rowan’s face falls along with his shoulders. A jarring shift from playful to downright morose. It isn’t the reaction I expected, but maybe I should’ve.

Just above a whisper, he says, “I’m sorry.”

I lean forward. “It’s okay—”

“It’s not okay. I was fucked up then, Tommy. I never should’ve called you that, and I sure as hell didn’t really think you were gay. I was just angry and hating the world, and I took it out on you. I took it out on a lot of people. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” I reach my arm across the table, but I pull it back when I remember that while this is a date, it’s still a baby step. “I forgive you, Row. I forgave you a long time ago. Now it can just be a funny story we tell our grandkids one day, in our mid-century modern.”

While his eyes stay soft, his mouth offers a bit of that smirk back. “You better cut that shit out.”

I breathe a chuckle through a fresh grin, and I decide what I’ll order for lunch. Whatever Rowan’s having.

There’s just enough time before our server comes back for me to tell Rowan about Anthony, about the kiss and the kids who jumped me. As hard as it is to see Rowan sad, it’s comforting that I can talk about this with someone who receives it with genuine sympathy. Like he gets it.

“I’m sorry that happened, baby,” he says. “I’ll never let anyone fuck with you, okay? You might be stronger than me, but I’ll go feral on any motherfucker who comes at you for anything.”

Our server saunters back to our table side, touching her fingers to the table and leaning forward like she’s trying to elongate her slim form. Her cat eyes fall to me, putting me on the spot before she’s even asked what I’d like to order. When she does ask, it feels like she wants me to say her name.

Ick.

“I’ll get the french dip,” Rowan interjects, handing over his menu.

“Same,” I say and hand her mine.

She takes both and stacks them in her hands, glancing between the two of us. “You two brothers?”

“No,” I answer immediately.

Rowan helpfully adds, “But we do share a bed sometimes, if you know what I mean.”

My eyes widen for no other reason than I’m stunned Rowan would go so far as to even insinuate intimacy between us. A baby step of his own, maybe?

“Oh, really?” The woman’s expression grows devious now, and that’s when Rowan’s expression changes from amused to annoyed.

“And we’re one hundred percent not interested in sharing one with anyone else,” he says firmly enough that the woman gets the hint and leaves our table with her tail between her legs. “I can’t stand people.”

“Says the communications major.”

Between sips of iced tea, we talk about the emails Rowan has traded with recruiters, and the meetings he’s scheduled at coffee shops and Matt and Xia’s dining room table. We talk about sports, of course, and I ask him about how he grew up, because I’m desperate for any morsel of backstory Rowan is comfortable enough to share.

All he says is that his upbringing wasn’t very interesting. “Only difference between my childhood and the average kid’s childhood is no one ever even pretended to love me, and it was a heck of a lot easier for my guardians to kick me out when I became inconvenient.”

“Is that what happened? They kicked you out?”

“In one way or another. Either way, they walked me out the front door, and I never saw ‘em again. Can’t even remember some of my foster parents’ names, and those were the decent ones.”