Page 26 of When Ben Loved Tim

Tim groans. “Mood killer!”

“Unless you have a better idea,” I say, instantly backpedaling.

“Nah,” Tim says easily. “Grab your backpack.”

We have some of the same classes and teachers, despite being in different periods, so there’s some overlap in the assignments. I’ve never been too fussed about my grades. I’m normally the kind of guy who does his homework at the last second, but I don’t want to give the school an excuse to come snooping around. That’s my job!

“So I was thinking,” I say when we’re both occupied with math problems.

“Uh-oh,” Tim replies.

I smile before forcing myself to press on. “All this running around is kind of exhausting. What if I stayed the night?”

Tim shrugs. “Yeah, okay.”

That was easy. “I don’t think I could get away with staying both nights,” I continue. “So I figured tomorrow would be best.”

Saturdays are my favorite. We’ll have the entire day together, that night, and the next morning. Twenty-four hours of non-stop Tim!

“Sure,” he says, looking up from his homework. “We’ve gotta do something fun though.”

“Like what?” I ask, hoping he’ll suggest that we wrestle naked like the ancient Greeks used to.

“I dunno. This is your hometown. Show me something cool.”

“Something cool,” I repeat, already feeling like it’s a tall order.

“Yeah. Whatever is fine.”

I’ve imagined myself going on a multitude of romantic dates over the years. Surely I can repurpose one of them. “I’ll think of something,” I promise him.

I don’t stay as late as I want to. Tim is confused that I can’t spend both nights with him, which is flattering, or maybe indicative of how lenient his parents are. Although he often makes them sound strict. All I know for sure is that my own parents have to be carefully played. I don’t usually feel that way, but at the moment, I feel protective of what Tim and I have together. Which is a bad sign because all we’ve got is friendship on his side and a blossoming crush on mine. So I spend Friday night where my parents can see me, and much of the next morning being sociable, all while trying to think of a plan so exciting that it will turn Tim gay.

I still haven’t decided the next day, when I’m on the way to his place, although I have the options narrowed down. Tim doesn’t demand an answer when I get there. Instead it feels like any other day. He’s hungry and wants me to feed him, which of course I do. When he complains that he’s out of jogging shorts, I start a load of laundry. Then I run him another bath and straighten up the living room while Tim is in the tub. I’m arranging the magazines on the coffee table when I notice the black book. The one I saw in his underwear drawer. I pick it up, assessing the heft. I’m grappling with the temptation to open the cover when he calls for me. Or more accurately, my services. But not in a hot way.

“I’m gonna need some clean clothes soon! The water is getting cold!”

“Then it’s a good thing you married such a patient guy,” I murmur before setting the book down and going to the laundry room. I scoop the clothes out of the dryer and dump them into a basket before plucking an outfit from the contents. After delivering this to Tim, and trying to sneak a peek for my efforts—without luck—I take the rest upstairs to his room. I fold everything into stacks on his dresser and am puzzled when opening his underwear drawer, because the black book is still in there, even though I just saw it in the living room. I stare at it a moment before noticing the corner of another. I carefully begin removing folded underwear like an archeologist revealing ancient treasure. It soon becomes apparent that more than one black book is hidden there. Enough to line the bottom of the drawer, in fact.

They must be journals. Which would explain why pencils and pens were on the table downstairs, even though I put all that away yesterday after we finished our homework. I decide not to invade his most private of thoughts, but only because none of the books here will mention me. The journal downstairs is likely the newest. If he feels anything for me at all, that’s where the evidence will be.

Tim is on the couch in the den when I return.

“I’m so bored!” he moans.

“Yeah, me too,” I say, plopping down next to him. “I’ve been sitting around all day.”

Tim winces. “Sorry. The house looks nice though.”

“Thank you.” My gaze moves to where I last saw the black book. Except now it’s gone.

“I’m going stir-crazy,” Tim continues. “I’m not used to being home this much. Let’s go somewhere.”

I sigh for dramatic effect before standing and offering my hand.

Tim ignores it. “I can get up on my own.”

“Yeah, but that’s not the point,” I reply.