4. Gideon
Chapter 4
Gideon
I should have gotten dressed, but I was half-asleep and too angry to see straight. It was just like a Sinclair to expect the world to bend to his whim and operate on his timetable. My father had always told me the Sinclair family was a scourge on society, and every day I knew him, Fletcher proved him right. When we started school, I’d wanted to believe differently, even if he’d shut me down. Clearly, there was still a part of me that thought there could be a chance for change.
It was late.
It was for an assignment.
But Fletcher Sinclair had called me.
The spring air was warm and dry as I jogged across the campus from my room in the Northern Annex to Fletcher’s in the South. I hadn’t bothered to get dressed before heading out. Instead, I’d shoved my feet into a pair of beat up Golden Goose sneakers and set off in my plaid pajama pants and an old RHU shirt I’d picked up somewhere along the line.
When I reached the Southern Annex building, I rode the elevator up to the seventh floor, walking slowly down the hall so I could catch my breath. I didn’t want to look desperate, but now that I was wide awake, it was impossible to hide my exhilaration. The version of myself from the fall tried to push himself to the forefront of my mind, spouting off silly ideas about being more than our fathers and more than our names.
The door to Fletcher’s room was propped open, the deadbolt latch engaged to stop the heavy wood door from closing all the way. I knocked anyway, kicking it open with the toe of my sneaker and peering inside. His room was—unsurprisingly—the same layout as mine, though he’d of course decorated differently. Even in the dim light of his desk lamp, I could tell his room was a wash of navy blue and gray, from the bedding to the…well…to the bedding. There wasn’t any decoration to be found unless you counted the stack of books on his desk, which I didn’t.
Books were a necessity, not a luxury.
“I’m not surprised your manners are lacking,” Fletcher said from the bed, not looking up from the book in his lap. He was still dressed from class, navy pants and a white button-down, though he’d undone the top two buttons.
“It was open,” I reminded him.
“For a draft.” He closed his book and looked up at me warily, nostrils flaring when he took in the state of me.
For the first time, I thought maybe I should have changed into real clothes, though I didn’t truly think what I wore would make a difference to how I felt standing in the entryway of Fletcher Sinclair’s bedroom.
“These rooms get so stuffy at night,” he said, setting the book on his nightstand and swinging his legs over the side.
“Open a window,” I suggested.
He glanced at his window—closed—like the thought had never occurred to him before.
“Have you read the book already?” he asked, changing subjects and standing tall.
It was only a matter of time and hormones before I was taller than him, but until then it was clear he was going to take advantage of the height difference between us. Fletcher pushed past me toward his desk, smelling like clean cotton and lavender, and I stared at the indent of his body against his comforter instead of watching him go. That moment offered me the first glimpse of what the rest of our lives would be. Missed connections, brushoffs, and the weight of a thousand unspoken words between us.
Swallowing, I spun around, finding his stare focused on the back of my head, now my eyes. His were blue as ever, a sharp contrast to the darkness of his room, but they betrayed nothing more than boredom. He had a copy of Hamlet in his hand, looking like he’d bought it two hours earlier.
“I’ve read it,” I told him.
“Did you read the assignment?” he asked next.
I hadn’t, because after class I’d gone to swim, then I’d spent some time playing piano, and then I’d settled in for dinner and bed. Fletcher hadn’t bothered to reach out, so I’d written him off until Monday, but then…
“I haven’t.”
The corner of his mouth flashed into what might have been a smile, but it was gone as fast as I’d seen it. Back was the mask of impassivity and annoyance, which was ironic considering he’d been the one to call me. He’d been the one to wake me up, to drag me across campus in the middle of the night to start on a report we had two weeks to complete.
He’d called.
And I’d come.
Fletcher turned back to his desk and plucked a stapled paper from the top of a pile and handed it to me. The syllabus.
“It’s all in here,” he said with a scowl.
“Thank you,” I whispered, realizing things for me and him were never going to be anything besides exactly what they were.
“I have to piss.” Fletcher fussed with the button of his pants, popping it undone before spinning on his heel. “Catch yourself up so we can get started when I’m done. We don’t have all night.”
I looked down at the syllabus, flipping to the back page that detailed the information about the end of term assignment. It didn’t need to be a group project; it was barely enough work for one person let alone two. Group projects were meant to teach important life skills like delegation and time management. Skills that would never matter to men like me and Fletcher. When the time came, everyone would do whatever we told them to anyway.