Page 8

8

Atlas

My favorite time to be on campus is after midnight; bonus points if it’s a night like tonight and the moon is full. Tipping my head against the back of the bench, I stretch my legs out in front of me and look up at the stars. It’s not perfectly dark, what with the lamps positioned along the walkways, but the stars are still visible. It’s beautiful.

Taking another drag of my cigarette, I fiddle with my cellphone in my other hand. I’d called my dad earlier, struck with a sudden madness that left me feeling strangely homesick. He hadn’t answered, and only just texted me back (seven hours after my call) to let me know he was busy, and that if I needed money, he would put some in my checking account. I shouldn’t be surprised. Our relationship is little more than a transactional one, at best. It’s a good reminder of who not to call, should I ever find myself in an emergency.

I could just call Henri again , I think, and like I’m some sort of magician, the thought makes him appear out of the mist .

He’s strolling along the path, hands tucked into his pockets and chin tipped upward as he looks at the sky the same way I just was. He’s wearing a polo shirt, because of-fucking-course he is, and khaki pants. Even from a distance away, I can tell he looks good.

Taking another slow drag from the cigarette, I watch him. He hasn’t seen me yet, and there isn’t any reason for me to call out and make him aware of my presence. Twisting my phone around in my hand, I think of my dad. I think of my call history from the night Henri picked me up from the party. How I’d called seven other people before him, but none of them had answered. Only him. I think of the gentle way he took my shoes off, and how he let me sleep in his bed.

“Polo Shirt,” I yell, just loud enough for him to hear and know I’m talking to him. He looks around, sees me, and smiles. When he raises a hand in greeting, I don’t return the gesture, but continue watching as he makes a beeline toward me.

“Good evening, Atlas,” he says once he reaches me.

“You lost?” I ask, gesturing around the dark, empty quad. His dorm is on the complete other side of campus.

“No. I was with a friend and walked her back to her house. It is a lovely night.” He shrugs. “I thought a walk might be nice, instead of driving.”

“A friend, huh? Good for you.” Tapping the ashes off to the side, I gesture to the other half of the bench. He hesitates and I see his eyes flick to the smoke curling up from my fingers. I feel like I can see the actual war going on in his head as he tries to decide whether he wants to be friendly or health-conscious.

Friendliness wins out and he sits next to me. I give it a solid minute before I glance over at him, eyebrow raised .

“What, no lecture on smoking?”

He shrugs. “You already know you should not be smoking, I think. I do not need to tell you.”

“True.” Sitting up and bending over, I stub it out on the sidewalk before pocketing the butt. I’m not so much of an asshole that I would smoke this close to someone I know won’t like it. I’m the one who called him over, after all.

“How are you this night?” he asks.

“Fine. I got laid, too.” Hooking a thumb over my shoulder, I indicate one of the dorms behind me. He glances behind us, mulling this over for a minute before speaking.

“That sounds like you’ve enjoyed yourself,” he says evenly. I snort. Jesus, this guy .

“Sure, yeah. It was fun. What about you? Must have gotten lucky since you walked her home.”

He looks surprised, eyebrows crawling up his forehead in an almost comical way. Again, I notice how fucking nice his face is. What sort of genetics does this guy have, to look like this?

“We had a pleasant evening. It was merely a date, and there was no…getting lucky,” he says, shifting on the bench so he’s facing me with one leg pulled up. The man has the meatiest thighs I’ve ever see. It would take both of my hands to circle one.

“Such a gentleman,” I tease. “No banging on the first date and you walked her back to her house. Love match?”

“Oh, I do not think so. Probably just friends. And yourself?”

“No. I don’t do repeats. No point, when we’re all going to end up miserable and alone anyway.”

Henri sighs, but doesn’t say anything. I let it go. Having an orgasm puts me in a good mood, so I’m less inclined to pick at him tonight. Closing my eyes, I tip my head back and breathe in the cooler night air. Maybe I’ll sleep out here.

“Did you wish to get together and work on communications this weekend?” he asks carefully, voice low. Similar to his face, he’s got a nice voice. I can’t explain it, but it’s a warm voice. The kind of voice that makes you feel like you swallowed a mouthful of hot coffee. A pleasant sort of burn.

“Sure,” I agree, surprising myself. “Want to meet up somewhere off campus?”

“I could pick you up, if you prefer?” he offers. I shrug. It doesn’t matter to me either way. Smiling, he nods. “I shall pick you up. There is a nice café where it is quiet to do homework.”

“Whatever.” I shrug again. Straightening out of my lazy sprawl, I rub my fingers idly on the bench. My skin catches on the rougher wood, and I pick at a splinter. “Thanks again, for helping me the other night.”

I still don’t remember everything that happened, but my fragmented memories are enough for me to piece together some of the story. I don’t have to remember everything to know it was humiliating, but Henri hasn’t said a single thing about it since I left his dorm that morning. If our roles had been reversed, I would have given him hell for weeks.

“You do not have to thank me for this—that,” he corrects, waving a hand. “Anyone would have done so.”

“Apparently not,” I muse dryly. “I called seven people before I got to you.”

This seems to stun him into silence for a few moments. I can practically feel his brain trying to think of something polite to say. He’s probably never ignored a call in his life. If he had, it surely would have been mine .

“You deserve better friends,” is what he eventually settles on. He’s probably right.

“Whatever,” I repeat, with another indifferent shrug. I’m better off alone—less people to let you down that way. He looks like he wants to say more, but is holding himself back. I can practically see the words crawling up his throat and knocking at his teeth. Rolling my eyes, I curl my fingers in the universal gesture of give it to me . “Just say it, Polo Shirt.”

“I think you should be careful drinking so much alcohol, and I also think you should not be taking pills that others give you. Especially those people you were with. They are not people you should be friends with, Atlas,” he says firmly, giving me the kind of stare that probably shouldn’t be sexy but is. I struggle to remember why I used to think the way he said my name was annoying.

“They probably weren’t my friends, dude. They were probably just people I was partying with.”

“You do not remember still?” he hisses, incredulous. I laugh, surprised to have worked up so much emotion from him. Apparently, the cardboard man does have normal emotions.

“No, not really. I remember asking you to take my pants off, though, so that’s great for me.”

“It was nothing sexual,” he assures, and I laugh again. He smiles tentatively, apparently happy that we’re getting along so well.

“Sorry, the way you said sexual was just funny.”

“Sexual,” he repeats, in that fucking accent.

“Stop it, Henri.”

“I had to throw away my trash can. I was worried about it being clean,” he admits.

“I bet you were. Your room looked like an IKEA ad for a serial killer’s bedroom.” He laughs softly, the sound dangerous and lovely in the midnight haze. Shivers crawl up my forearms at the sound. Frowning, I look down at my pocket. What the hell was in that cigarette?

“Yes. My mother was very strict about things being orderly,” he admits. “But I, too, prefer it that way. The house I picked you up from was filthy.”

He shoots me a look. I nod. “Sounds about right.”

I’m wishing I had another cigarette, if only so I could have something to do with my hands. Trailing my fingers along the bench seat, I go in search of another sliver of wood I can pick at. Henri is quiet beside me, comfortable enough in his own skin to not need every silence filled with words. This is the most palatable interaction I’ve had with him yet. Maybe Nate was right, and he’s not so bad after all.

“I tried to call my dad today,” I tell him, voice sounding too loud in the dark. He looks over at me and smiles, like he thinks talking to parents is a good thing.

“Oh? That is nice.”

“Might have been, if he’d answered. He never answers when I call.” I shrug. “Busy guy and all.”

“Oh,” he repeats, frowning.

“I don’t call him often. Or, ever really.” Tiring of destroying my fingernails on the bench, I rest my hands in my lap and play with the ring on my finger. It’s my mom’s wedding band, because I’m pathetic and love her even though she never loved me.

“I do not speak often to my father, either,” Henri says, drawing my eyes to his. “I am closest to my elder brother, Jakob. He is a sports agent. He lives in New York, for most of the time, but flies to Los Angeles a lot.”

“Cool. No older brothers for me. ”

“You can share mine. He is sometimes a lot,” Henri says, with absolutely no inflection at all. I laugh again, not sure whether that was even a joke, but finding it funny nonetheless. I have the same buzzy feeling in my head that I get when I smoke weed, like Henri’s company tonight is an intoxicant. “Sometimes Jakob will send me money. ‘Fun-time money’ is how he calls it. We can study together over dinner, the next time he sends it, yes?”

“Sure, Hen, I’ll help you blow Jakob’s fun-time money,” I tell him.

His head whips toward mine and his eyes widen. I didn’t mean to drop a nickname so casually into the middle of the conversation, and there won’t be any pretending I didn’t say it, because he clearly clocked it. Looking away from him, I spread my knees and stretch my legs out. I need to go home and go to bed.

“I have an interview tomorrow afternoon,” Henri says quietly, drawing my eyes back over to him. He has one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, and his khaki pants are stretched obscenely over his crotch and thighs. I definitely don’t look. I don’t even like him like that. “I am nervous.”

“What’s the interview for?” I ask his dick, because who the fuck am I kidding, I can’t look away.

“It is for the local NHL team. It is a summer internship, so less involved with the team and more involved with things such as management and media. It would provide many good experiences and connections for when I am looking for a job after school.”

Clearing my throat, I compromise by closing my eyes again and leaning my head back against the bench. I’m starting to see the appeal of khaki pants.

“Sounds boring as fuck,” I tell him, and his chuckle zings across my skin and sets my hair on end. I must have been body snatched. There is no other explanation for whatever the hell is going on right now. You will not become attracted to Henri Vasel , I tell myself sternly.

Standing, I stretch my arms over my head and bend backward, earning a satisfying crack in my spine. I peek at Henri and see him watching me, eyes on where my shirt has ridden up my stomach. I pull it back down. I do not have the abdomen of a hockey player, or that of any sort of athlete, actually.

“You better get some sleep before your big interview,” I tell him, the words coming out a little harsher than before. I’m annoyed that I caught him checking me out, even though I’d been doing the same to him. Mostly, I’m annoyed that I liked it.

“Yes.” He sighs, standing up. I take a step away from him so he doesn’t brush against me. The entire sidewalk at his disposal, and he has to stand that close? “Do you live on campus? I can walk back with you.”

“Fuck that.” I wave a hand and step around him. “I’m not your girlfriend. Catch you in class.”

The wall in my bedroom is shaking. One eye cracked open, I watch the lone picture frame reverberate and swing back and forth. Lifting my head off my pillow, I shout at my roommate.

“Nate! It’s too early for this shit, go back to bed!”

“Come here ,” he yells back, and bangs his fist against the wall again. Growling in frustration, I throw my covers off and stalk over to his room. Stepping inside, I slam the door shut behind me and stand with hands on my hips, glowering at him. He’s sitting up in his bed, back against the headboard and laptop balanced on his legs. His brown hair is wild from sleep and he’s shirtless, which, at any other time of day, I’d appreciate.

“What do you want that is so important, it can’t wait until a reasonable fucking hour?”

“You like dudes, right?” I stare at him. He clarifies: “Dick.”

“I swear to God, I have never hated you more than I do in this moment.”

He sighs, scrubbing his hands vigorously over his face and groaning.

“All right, all right. I’m having a minor identity crisis and I need the expert opinion of someone on the inside. Someone who won’t fuck around and will just tell me like it is.”

He gestures to me. My eyes narrow nearly to slits.

“And by someone on the inside, you mean the inside of someone’s ass?” I clarify.

“Well.” Nate shrugs.

“I’m going to get coffee. I’ll be right back. Jesus fucking Christ,” I mutter, leaving his room and walking downstairs in my boxers. Nobody else is awake, naturally, because it’s way too early and no self-respecting college kid would be awake before six if they had a choice in the matter. I lean against the counter and close my eyes as the coffee percolates. The smell makes me feel marginally better, and I decide to bring Nate a mug, too. Nobody should have to go through an identity crisis without coffee.

“Here you go, jackass,” I mumble, setting down a mug on his nightstand. He glances away from his computer screen.

“Thanks. So, here’s the situation.” He closes his laptop and leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I fucked a dude and now I’m pretty sure I’m gay. ”

Sitting down on the end of his bed, I close my eyes and take a sip of way-too-hot coffee. I can’t believe this is my life right now.

“Fucking a dude is a pretty gay thing to do,” I agree. Nate nods, vindicated.

“Three times,” he says.

“This isn’t an identity crisis. Sounds like you’ve got a pretty firm grasp.”

“Listen, okay?” He waits for me to nod before continuing. I wish I had a fucking cigarette. “So, last year I was at a party, and there was this guy there I’d never seen before, and I was feeling some type of way, so I sucked his dick. But I was drinking, right? So, I just wrote it off as alcohol-induced gay insanity.”

“Sounds believable,” I mutter, taking a sip of coffee and wishing I’d put a shot of Baileys in.

“Right?” Nate agrees, not hearing the sarcasm. “But then I went to one of the baseball games and there he was in those tight pants and I just thought, ‘huh.’”

He stops, staring at me and waiting as though he said something profound and is waiting for me to offer advice.

“Yeah, sounds super gay,” I tell him. He makes an aggrieved noise and scrubs a hand over his face again.

“I asked for his number and we had phone sex and more blowjobs and talked all summer. Like, normal stuff, not sexting or anything. But both times we’ve hung out, I literally could not keep my hands to myself. So, that’s where I’m at. Now, help me.”

“I’m not sure what you want me to say. You’ve had more gay sex than I have, apparently.”

Nate’s eyes nearly bug out of his head at that.

“What the fuck do you mean I’ve had more gay sex than you?” He practically shouts it, apparently on a mission to inform the entire household.

“I’ve never slept with a guy,” I tell him and enjoy the way he nearly goes apoplectic.

“I thought you were bi?” he asks, sounding so offended I can’t help but laugh.

“I am. I just haven’t slept with any guys.”

“Oh my god , how are you supposed to help me with this?”

I laugh again. I can’t believe this is the conversation I’m having at 6 a.m.

“I honestly don’t even know what you’re needing help with. Sounds pretty clear that you like this baseball guy even when you’re not drinking.”

“I’m low-key obsessed with him,” he admits. “And that’s the problem. That first time? At the party? I wasn’t drunk—I remember everything. And me putting his dick in my mouth was the hottest sexual experience of my life. Hotter than that time I slept with Jenny Goldstein freshman year.”

I raise my mug in a cheers motion. Jenny Goldstein is a stunner.

“So, yeah, I think I might be bi, like you. Especially because I’m sort of noticing other guys, too, you know? Like, all over campus. There are a lot of hot guys around here. I’m probably not straight gay, is all I’m trying to say.”

“Not so straight,” I correct, and then hiss when he kicks me. “Sorry. Why am I needed for this, though? I repeat: this doesn’t sound like an identity crisis.”

“He won’t let me go over to his place, or meet his friends, or like…go out on a date with me. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

“Maybe he just likes it when you blow him, but he doesn’t actually like you,” I point out. Nate’s face falls, green eyes widening and mouth opening on a small gasp. Goddamnit . “Just kidding. That’s probably not it.”

“Atlas.”

“Listen, I’m just being realistic. Why the hell do you care, anyway? Sleep with him and move on, it’s not as if any relationships we have will last.”

“You are impossible.” Groaning, he rests back against the wall and slides his laptop to the side. “Why are you so anti-love?”

“Love,” I scoff. “Love is a concept developed by commercialism to sell greeting cards and shitty chocolate. You can’t tell me you believe in true love—soulmates—all that crap?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know, but I think if those things don’t exist, then that’s pretty sad. I’d rather believe, and?—”

“—be let down,” I finish harshly.

“I need someone else to talk to. Your version of help is actually pretty unhelpful.” He sighs dramatically, but cracks a smile when I flip him off. Nothing keeps Nate down for long.

“Isn’t half of your hockey team queer? Why the hell are you coming to me with your questions?” I finish my coffee, place the mug on the floor, and flop backward onto his bed. Nate stretches out as well, feet pushing hard into my thighs. I scowl up at the ceiling but don’t bother moving him. It is his bed after all.

“I mean a few of the guys, yeah. But I can’t just walk into the locker room and announce I sucked my first cock.”

“That’s literally what you just did with me,” I point out. He chuckles softly.

“So anyway. Where were you last night? I gave up waiting for you once it passed midnight.”

“Just around. Hooked up with Raquel and then nothing.” I shrug, thinking about khaki pants, scruff, and big, meaty thighs. “I was just chilling on campus. Nothing special. Talked with Henri a bit.”

“Vas, you mean?” He sits up, propping himself up on an elbow and jabbing me with his toe. “Fuck yes, you guys are friends now? I knew he’d get you.”

“We’re not friends.”

“You so are. You just called him Henri and didn’t sound like you were going to hurl.”

“We’re not friends,” I repeat more forcefully.

“Whatever.” His phone dings, and I watch his face as he picks it up and reads whatever is on the screen. A smile creeps across his cheeks and I roll my eyes.

“Don’t sext when I’m in here,” I tell him. He ignores me, thumbs flying over the screen of his phone. He’s grinning like a fool and biting his lip. It might be cute, if it wasn’t so disgusting.

“That’s him,” Nate tells me unnecessarily, dropping his phone back to the bed.

“Yeah. You’re good, then?” I ask carefully. He doesn’t seem like he’s in a crisis, but he did also just come out to me. It’s kind of a big deal.

“I’m good. I mean, freaking out and all, but I guess I’m good. It’s funny, isn’t it?” He laughs under his breath, slumped back against his pillows. “How can it be possible to think you’re straight your entire life and then one day it’s just boom —gay!”

I snort, shaking my head.

“Maybe you weren’t straight, man. Not everyone figures out attraction right away. Maybe you’d been brainwashed by all the heteronormative bullshit we’re forced to swallow our entire lives. ”

“Fuck ’em,” Nate says, raising his hand and flipping off the ceiling. He drops it back down, mouth twisted as he thinks. “Actually, now that I think about it, I did have a lot of cowboy posters on my wall growing up. No cowgirls. ”

“I’m going back to bed,” I reply, chuckling as I picture Nate papering his walls with pictures of men in Wranglers. Groaning, I pull myself up and snatch my mug off the floor. Nate’s smiling at his phone again. “Dude, seriously? Have some self-respect.”

He raises his middle finger again, this time directing it at me. Stopping downstairs to refill my mug, I head back to my bedroom and crawl into bed. Sipping my coffee, I fiddle with my cellphone and think about, of all things, Henri. We’re not friends, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be friendly . Before I can talk myself out of it, I pull up our text message thread and type out a message.

Atlas

Good luck in your interview today.