Chapter 32
RYAN
The first rule of Fight Club is you don’t talk about Fight Club.
The first rule of having your first orgasm with your childhood best friend in a public park and your best friend’s boyfriend finding out about it is apparently the opposite, because Drew Larney has assembled what can only be described as the most dysfunctional intervention team I’ve ever seen.
“BESTIE!” Gerard barrels into my dorm room, somehow managing to hug me, Jackson, Drew, and approximately three pieces of furniture simultaneously.
“I brought face masks! And nail polish! And this!” He brandishes a bottle of something pink and sparkling.
“It’s non-alcoholic champagne because we’re responsible adults who make good choices! ”
“Since when?” Nathan asks, sliding in behind him with a grocery bag that clinks ominously. “Also, I brought the real stuff. For those of us who want to feel something.”
Elliot enters last, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else on the planet. His glasses catch the light as he surveys the pillow arrangement on the floor, the chip bags scattered across Jackson’s bed, and the general disarray that has overtaken our once-organized space.
“This is my nightmare,” he announces flatly.
“That’s the spirit!” Gerard pulls him into a one-armed hug that lifts Elliot’s feet briefly off the ground. “Everyone, get comfortable! We have important matters to discuss!”
The next ten minutes are a blur of activity.
Pillows are claimed, snacks are distributed, and someone—I suspect Gerard—has commandeered the small television in the corner and turned it to some channel playing vintage commercials.
A woman with impossibly white teeth is extolling the virtues of a toothpaste brand I’ve never heard of.
The room has transformed into something that looks suspiciously like a scene from a movie I’ve never actually watched but have absorbed through cultural osmosis.
“So,” Gerard says, settling cross-legged on the floor, which shouldn’t be possible for someone his size. He’s already applying a green face mask, the paste turning him into a very enthusiastic swamp creature. “Ryan. My bestie. My confidant. My partner in archival crime.”
“Again, we’ve known each other for one semester.”
“Irrelevant. Tell us everything about Oliver.”
My face heats immediately. “There’s nothing to tell.”
The silence that follows is deafening. Jackson snorts. Drew laughs out loud. Elliot’s eyebrow rises so high it threatens to disappear into his hairline. And Nathan munches on chips.
“Nothing to tell,” Drew repeats, his voice dripping with disbelief. “Right. And Oliver came home with a stain on his shorts because he spilled lemonade.”
“Maybe he did spill lemonade.”
“In the shape of a dick?”
“Drew!” But I’m laughing despite myself, burying my face in my hands.
Drew leans back against Jackson’s bed, a smirk playing at his lips. “Don’t be so ashamed, Ry-guy. I think we’ve all been there.”
“It was clearly a very good time.” Gerard has finished applying his face mask and is now working on Elliot, who sits rigidly but lets it happen anyway. “Which is why we’re here! To discuss! To advise! To live vicariously through your sexual awakening!”
“I’m not having a sexual awakening.”
“Ryan.” Nathan’s voice is gentle, something I’ve never heard from the guy…
who I barely even know, might I add. Why is he even here?
“You had your first kiss on a Ferris wheel. You went on a romantic picnic. And based on the context clues, you did…something…that resulted in Oliver needing new shorts.”
“We—” I swallow hard, the memory flooding back. Oliver’s weight on top of me. His hips moving against mine. The sounds he made when he—
“There it is,” Drew says triumphantly. “That’s the face of someone who definitely did more than hold hands.”
“We didn’t have sex,” I clarify quickly. “We…there was friction. And movement. And…”
“Dry humping,” Gerard supplies helpfully. “The technical term is dry humping. Which, for the record, is a perfectly valid form of sexual expression and nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“I’m not embarrassed.”
“Your face is the color of a tomato.”
“That’s just my natural complexion.”
“Your natural complexion is pale as milk, bestie. I’ve seen you in the library basement. You practically glow in the dark.”
Elliot, face now covered in green paste, speaks for the first time since his initial declaration of nightmare. “Can we skip the part where Ryan pretends he’s not affected by this and get to the part where he tells us what he actually wants?”
The question cuts through the hubbub. Everyone falls silent, looking at me expectantly.
What do I want? The answer is both simple and terrifying.
“I want Oliver,” I admit quietly. “Not just the physical stuff, though that’s…that’s good. Really good. But I want more than that. I want to be with him.”
Jackson’s hand lands on my shoulder, warm and grounding. “Then be with him.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve never done this before! Any of it!
” The words come out louder than I intended, frustration bleeding through.
“I don’t know how relationships work. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do or say or feel.
What if I mess it up? What if I do something wrong and he realizes I’m not worth the effort? ”
“Ryan,” Jackson says, shifting to face me properly. “Can I tell you something?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not really.” He smiles, but it’s gentle. “When I first started falling for Drew, I was terrified. Like, genuinely panic-attack-inducing terrified. Because I’d never felt that way about a guy before, and I didn’t know what it meant or what to do about it.”
Drew makes a soft sound from across the room but doesn’t interrupt.
“I spent weeks convincing myself it was just admiration,” Jackson continues. “That I only wanted to be his friend. That the way my heart raced when he walked into a room was totally platonic and definitely not a sign that I wanted to do unspeakable things to him.”
“This is very romantic,” Gerard whispers to Elliot, who shushes him.
“But here’s the thing I eventually figured out.
” Jackson squeezes my shoulder. “There’s no right way to do this.
No instruction manual. No step-by-step guide that tells you exactly how to fall in love with someone.
You just…do it. Messily. Imperfectly. With a lot of awkward conversations and embarrassing moments and times when you say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing. ”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s not supposed to be. I’m being honest with you.
Real talk.” Jackson’s eyes meet mine, and there’s nothing but sincerity there.
“You’re going to mess up, Ryan. Oliver’s going to mess up too.
That’s not a sign that you’re doing it wrong.
That’s just what relationships are. Two imperfect people trying to figure each other out. ”
Drew clears his throat, drawing attention to himself. He’s stretched out on the floor now, head propped on one hand, looking like he’s about to deliver a TED talk on debauchery.
“My turn,” he announces. “Since Jackson covered the emotional stuff, let me address the practical concerns.”
“I’m scared,” I say honestly.
“You should be. I’m about to give you advice.”
Gerard snickers. Elliot sighs deeply.
“Here’s the thing about physical intimacy,” Drew begins, and his voice shifts into something almost serious.
“It’s scary the first time. And the second time.
And honestly, sometimes the hundredth time, depending on what you’re trying.
But the fear doesn’t mean you’re not ready.
My advice? Communicate. Like, actually use your words.
Tell Oliver what feels good and what doesn’t.
Ask him what he wants. Check in during. Check in after.
The hottest thing you can do in bed is make sure everyone’s having a good time. ”
“That’s…actually good advice.”
“I know. I’m a genius. Gerard, you’re up.”
Gerard practically levitates off the floor. His face mask has dried into a crackly shell, making his expressions even more dramatic than usual.
“Okay, okay, okay,” he says, bouncing on his knees. “So. Ryan. Bestie. Light of my life. Fire of my loins.”
“Please don’t quote Nabokov at me.”
“I wasn’t—okay, maybe I was, but that’s not the point!
” Gerard waves his hands expansively. “The point is that you and Oliver are clearly crazy about each other, and you’re clearly heading toward the bedroom, so I just want you to know that there’s nothing to be afraid of.
Bodies come in all shapes and sizes, and hockey players especially have some, shall we say, unique proportions. ”
“Oh no,” Elliot mutters.
“Oh yes.” Gerard’s eyes light up with evangelical fervor. “Ryan, let me tell you all about hockey butts.”
“Please don’t.”
“I am the foremost expert on this topic.” Gerard gestures grandly at himself, gripping what the good Lord gave him. “I have the biggest butt on the team. This is not bragging. This is a documented fact. Kyle even measured once during a hazing ritual we don’t talk about.”
“We really don’t talk about it,” Drew confirms.
“The point is,” Gerard continues, undeterred, “hockey builds a very specific kind of body. Thick thighs. Powerful glutes. The kind of rear end that could crack walnuts. And Oliver?” He whistles low. “Oliver is blessed in that department. Top three on the team, easy.”
“I’m aware.” The words slip out before I can stop them, and everyone covers their snorts.
Gerard’s grin threatens to split his mask in half. “You’re aware! Did you hear that, guys? He’s aware! Ryan, you dog! You’ve been appreciating the goods!”
“I may have—during the dry humping, there was some—my hands were—”