Chapter 3 #2
Ryan Abrams has that look. The one my youngest brother gets when the older kids pick on him at school. The one that says Please don’t make me do this alone.
“Stay put,” I tell him. “Drink more water. I’ve got this.”
Five trips later, Ryan’s side of the room resembles a luggage store explosion. The guy wasn’t kidding about seven suitcases. My arms burn, but it’s the good kind of burn. The helpful kind.
“You really don’t have to help me unpack,” Ryan protests as I pop open the first suitcase. “I can manage perfectly well on my—”
“Dude. You passed out.” I pull out a stack of sweater vests in various shades of beige and navy. “Consider this roommate bonding.”
Ryan hovers nervously as I work through his belongings.
The second suitcase contains khakis. So many khakis.
Pressed and folded with military precision, each pair is identical to the last. The third holds dress socks arranged by color gradient—black to navy to gray to brown—and enough bow ties to fill a department store.
“You own zero T-shirts,” I observe, holding up yet another button-down.
“T-shirts are too casual for academic pursuits. My father believes proper attire reflects proper thinking.”
I bite back another comment about his dad. Instead, I move to the last suitcase, a smaller one tucked behind the others.
The zipper sticks. I yank it hard, and the lid pops open to reveal—
I freeze.
Rows upon rows of pristine white briefs are folded into perfect rectangles and stacked like origami. Tighty-whities. The kind I wore until sixth grade, when Robbie Armstrong pantsed me in gym class, and I swore off them forever.
The air between us thickens, and the hairs on my neck stand up. Without turning around, I know exactly how Ryan’s face must look—those wide eyes behind crooked glasses, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts. A flush creeping up his neck like a thermometer about to burst.
“I can explain.” His voice comes out strangled. “It’s not—my father—he believes that structure creates success. Briefs provide structure. Support. Discipline.”
I turn around. Ryan looks like he wants the floor to swallow him whole. His face has gone from red to burgundy, and he’s twisting his hands together.
“He inspects my laundry,” Ryan continues, the words tumbling out faster now, hanging his head. “When I’m home. To ensure I’m maintaining proper standards. Boxers are too loose. Too undisciplined. ‘A man should be contained,’ he says. ‘Controlled.’”
Jesus Christ. This kid’s dad makes drill sergeants look laid-back.
Something protective surges through my chest. The same feeling I get when someone messes with my brothers. The urge to stand between Ryan and whatever made him this way.
“Hey.” I keep my voice casual. Easy. “They’re cool.”
Ryan’s head snaps up. “I beg your pardon?”
“The briefs. They’re cool.” I shrug and start stacking them in his dresser drawer as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about trying briefs again. Better support for, you know, sports and stuff.”
It’ll be a cold day in hell before I squeeze back into tighty-whities. But watching Ryan’s shoulders drop, watching the mortification drain from his face, is worth the white lie.
“Really?” Hope colors his voice. “You don’t think they’re childish?”
“Nah, man. Underwear is underwear.” I close the drawer with a decisive thunk. “Anyone who judges you for what you wear under your pants has way too much time on their hands.”
Ryan exhales slowly. The sound carries so much relief that I feel it in my own chest.
“Thank you, Jackson.” His voice is quiet but steady. “That’s very generous of you to say.”
I wave him off and move to hang up his button-downs. “Tell me more about this dark matter stuff. Is it actually dark? Or is that just a cool name scientists made up?”
Ryan perks up immediately, launching into an explanation involving something called gravitational effects and galaxy rotation curves. I understand approximately nothing, but I nod along anyway. His hands start moving again, that earlier enthusiasm returning.
As I listen to my new roommate explain the mysteries of the universe, I make a silent promise. This kid—with his bow ties and his briefs and his asshole military dad—is going to have someone in his corner.
That someone is going to be me.
Chinese food containers litter the floor. I’m sprawled out, back against my bed, and Ryan is next to me, cross-legged in that way we sat back in kindergarten. His bow tie hangs loose around his neck.
“So, Ryan,” I say, stabbing at some chicken and broccoli with my chopsticks, “you got a girlfriend back home?”
Ryan chokes on his lo mein. “No. No girlfriend.”
“Boyfriend then?” The question pops out before I can stop it. Smooth, Jackson. Real smooth.
His eyes go wide behind his glasses. “How did you—I mean, what makes you think—”
“Hey, it’s cool.” I hold up my hands. “My youngest brother, Sammy, is probably gay. He just doesn’t realize it yet. Or maybe he does and hasn’t told us. Either way, when he’s ready, we’ll be ready.”
Ryan stares at me in bewilderment. “You’re not…disgusted?”
“Why would I be disgusted? Love is love, man.”
He sets down his chopsticks, his hands shaking. “I’ve never been with anyone. Male or female. I haven’t even…” His face turns that tomato-red color again. “I’ve never been kissed.”
Holy shit. This kid is a total virgin. I’m talking, hasn’t-even-made-it-to-first-base virgin.
I try to keep my expression neutral. “That’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” I say, even though I lost my virginity sophomore year of high school to Jessalyn Kropp in the back of her dad’s minivan. “Everyone moves at their own pace.”
“What about you?” Ryan asks, clearly desperate to shift the focus. “Girlfriend?”
“I’m single at the moment. Had a few girlfriends in high school, but nothing too serious.”
We continue eating without needing to talk. I watch him struggle with his chopsticks and fight the urge to show him the proper grip. Something tells me he’s had enough of people correcting him throughout his life.
“Can I ask you something?” Ryan’s voice is barely above a whisper as we’re getting ready for bed.
“Shoot.”
“Why are you being nice to me? We just met, and you’ve already helped me unpack, bought me food, and…” He gestures vaguely between us. “This. Talking like we’re already friends.”
The question catches me off guard. Why am I being nice? It’s not as though I’m known for my charitable nature with people outside of my family. Back home, my friends would call me a lot of things—funny, athletic, occasionally an asshole—but “nice” wouldn’t top the list.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Maybe I think we’re going to become best friends.”
He smiles—a real smile, not the polite one he’s been wearing like armor all day. “I’d like that.”
“Me too.” And weirdly, I mean it.