Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
CALLUM
“Wow, you’ve got a nice place,” I say as we step into Ian’s apartment.
He shrugs like it’s nothing, but it’s not nothing. We’re both sophomores, but Ian is an adult, at least based on where he lives.
For how excitable Ian is, the place is neater than I would have thought, but that’s me making assumptions again.
Sure, there’s stuff lying around, but that’s what happens when you have more than five outfits and college supplies.
He has a dining table. And a couch. And lights that aren’t harsh white—they’re almost candle-like.
It's comfortable here. I imagine this house is what people would call “homey.” Ian's place is as warm as he is, which I guess makes sense.
“Yo, Cal,” he calls out from the kitchen. “Beer?”
“Yeah, sure.” I have no idea what to expect, given that the only alcohol I’ve ever had before was an accidental sip of the diluted communion wine at church.
Yeah. That got me a whack to the head from Mom when she saw me “going astray.” Still, that didn’t stop her and Dad from drinking for fun.
Hypocrites.
Right as I settle down at the dining table, my darkening thoughts are halted by Ian, who’s carrying the promised beer.
I do a double-take. He’s carrying the biggest glass mug I think I’ve ever seen, and he sets it down in front of me with a sweet smile.
“If you’d like, I can add a shot to that,” he offers, walking to a cart stacked with various bottles. “I’m making myself another drink anyway.”
“Uh, I’m good, but thanks. Also, weren’t you at a party fifteen minutes ago?”
Ian chuckles as I take a long sip of beer, and I can’t tell what warms me up. “Hey, I’m not about to make you drink alone,” he says, uncapping a small brown bottle.
I linger on his long, solid fingers as they shake a couple of drops from the bottle into a short glass.
With a smooth movement, he adds something clear from a different bottle, a generous pour of what I’m guessing is whiskey, and then he stirs before placing one single giant ice cube in the glass.
Everything about that is so precise and graceful, and it takes Ian turning toward me to make me snap out of it. I can’t get caught staring at him.
“What’s that?” I ask him, hoping to deflect any suspicion.
“An old fashioned.” He takes a sip. “You want one?”
I let out a quiet laugh, nodding to my almost-full mug of beer. “Not much of a drinker,” I say, stretching the truth before deciding to be completely honest anyway. “Haven't drunk before, actually.”
Ian stops mid-drink and widens his eyes. “Oh, shit, sorry. I didn’t know when I poured you all that beer. No pressure to finish it.”
Smiling, I wave him off. “It’s okay. I’m good to try. I’m not twenty-one yet, so I have no way of getting any.”
“Nothing in high school, even? At least one person always has a fake ID.”
“I was sheltered,” I say simply. Avoiding the full story is the best option right now.
He nods. “Well, you’re free now,” he says, raising his glass. “Allow me to be a bad influence.”
My stomach gets even warmer, and I’m almost certain that it’s because of his warm, kind expression, and not the beer.
No. Nope. I cut my thoughts off with a sip of beer that becomes a chug.
“Woah, go easy there.” Ian grins. “Don’t go too hard.”
I’m about to say I’m fine again, but he claps a hand on top of mine after I put the glass down, presumably to stop me from taking another drink too soon.
If my core is warm, my hand is burning in the best way. Ian fixes me with a naughty, joking expression that makes my stomach flip, and I chuckle to release some of the nerves that are coiling in my gut.
He’s trying to be your friend. Get a grip and let him.
The weight of his hold shifts from my hand to my wrist, and he leans in. The alcohol clouding my mind stops me from recoiling how I usually would, and I smile instead.
“Dude, your shirt is so fucking soft,” he mumbles, rubbing the cuff of my shirt between his fingers. “Where did you get this?”
He makes contact with the underside of my wrist, and it’s electric. Shifting uncomfortably, I try to make the annoying, inconvenient sparks of affection in my tailbone disappear.
“I don’t know,” I reply. “It might have been my dad’s?”
“I don't know your dad, but you wear it better, that's for sure.”
Where is Ian going with this?
“Looks great on you,” he continues.
Humor, apparently.
I let myself laugh at my own expense, the self-deprecation gnawing a little less than usual, before realizing that Ian isn't laughing. Confused, I open my mouth to speak, and he narrows his eyes at me.
“I wasn't kidding. It’s warm and rugged…” He trails off, almost like he's on the cusp of saying something else.
And depending on what comes next, it might clue me in as to whether he's actually being sincere about my lack of options.
“I’m fucking starving,” is what he says, reclaiming my attention with what seems to be his favorite word, fucking.
“Oh, okay.” There aren’t too many other ways for me to respond to that, are there?
“Do you want anything?”
My reply is automatic. “No thanks. I’m not hungry.”
Right on cue, my stomach grumbles, betraying me.
Ian grins. “Doesn’t sound like it. What’s your favorite food?”
I shrug. “Don’t know. Italian? Or the kind of Italian you get in a small town.”
“So, like chicken parm, pizza, that kind of stuff?”
I nod, and Ian taps around on his phone before setting it down. “Okay, I got you chicken parm and breadsticks from the place downstairs. Hope you’re okay with that.”
What? I jerk the almost-empty mug of beer away from my lips and freeze. “How much… How much do I owe you?” I ask, trying to play it cool while reconstructing my growing but precarious bank balance from memory.
“Nothing.” Ian ignores my confusion. “You’re my buddy, and I invited you over.”
“That’s…” That’s so nice of you, Ian. Thank you. “That’s a lot. Are you sure?”
Ian backhands my shoulder. “You bet. Think of me like your college grandma who feeds you, whether you want me to or not. We’re eating Italian, so call me Nonna. Nobody leaves Nonna’s house with an empty stomach.”
That manages to get a quiet snicker out of me. “Okay, thanks, Nonna.”
The way his face lights up at me playing into the joke makes my chest tighten, and I shove the inconvenient feeling aside. Or at least I try.
“So what’s your story?” He asks, putting his phone down. “A cool, mysterious stranger like you showing up halfway through the year doesn’t happen a lot.”
I let out a noncommittal huff, a little taken aback at being called cool by someone who actually is. “Yeah,” I start, buying myself time. “I needed to get out of my small town. I transferred here for some room to breathe.”
He nods, taking another sip of his drink, and my eyes catch on his defined throat jumping as he swallows. All I can do is try to disguise my leering as polite eye contact.
“Makes sense,” Ian says. “No better time to make a change than when we’re young.”
Sighing, I raise the emptying mug of beer to my lips. “For sure. I’ll have to wait and see if that was a good choice, though.”
“Why’s that?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure if I’m making the most of it here,” I admit. “I don’t need to tell you how quiet I am, and honestly? You’re the only person who’s talked to me outside of class since I got here.”
“That’s gotta mean I’m smarter than everyone else,” Ian says, grinning. “But in all seriousness, that’s New England for you. Don’t take it personally.”
“I’m not.” If that was supposed to be convincing, I failed.
His face softens. “Aw, shit, you are, aren’t you? I’m sorry, man. It’s not you. It really, really isn’t.”
Was that a compliment? And is that why my heart is flipping out of control?
Oh, god.
He’s buzzed. Buzzed and therefore passionate about everything, including me, for some reason.
“No, it’s fine,” I reply, hoping to steer us toward a safer, less intimate conversation. “I like my space.”
Ian tilts his head, and it’s clear he isn’t completely buying it, but before he can say anything, his phone beeps.
“That’ll be the food.” He stands up and pushes his chair back hard, and he has to fumble around to catch it before it falls over and onto the floor. Ian shrugs and offers me a sheepish grin before heading out, leaving me alone in his cozy, welcoming apartment.
I lean back in the padded dining chair, allowing myself to relax.
Ian’s so sweet.
Gah, no. I can’t think that. He’s sweet, and it’s not for me. It’s for everyone, and I have to live with the fact that I will never, not in a million years, have a chance with him.
Even if he was single and also liked guys, there’s no way he’d go for the likes of me and my emotional baggage. Besides, he’s so much better-looking than I am.
At least that stuff doesn’t matter as much for being friends.
Shaking my head, I push my swirling thoughts away.
I’ll get better. In fact, I’m already in a better place than when I got here, and even though there’s still a long way for me to go, progress is progress.
If anything, Ian can be something for me to aspire to, even though his brand of charm is probably something you have to be born with.
The front door clicks, and Ian returns, snowflakes melting on top of his messy hair.
“Sheesh, it’s wild out there,” he says.
“Is it?” I ask, and he nods while putting the bag of food down. I swivel my head to peer out of the window, and sure enough, it’s snowing. Again.
Ugh.
My face must give me away because he tilts his head and narrows his eyes. “You good?”
I shrug. “Yeah. The waterproofing on my coat is wearing out. I’ll be fine, though.”
He hands me a wooden disposable fork. “You can crash here. No big deal,” he says, even though it’s a huge freaking deal. “I don’t mind.”
What? “That’s okay. I don’t want to impose.”
“That’s not imposing, Callum. I’m offering.”
“Oh, I prefer sleeping in a bed.” I hope that excuse is polite enough.
Ian waves me off. “No problem. You can take my bed if you want.”