Chapter 12
Iexpect Linden to cancel when my phone vibrates on the wooden table in front of me.
I’ve chosen a spot in the corner, as far away from the center of the bar as possible.
We’ll have terrible customer service here, but hopefully enough privacy to stay under the radar.
I chose this bar because it isn’t a typical hangout spot for college kids.
The weekly line dance attracts displaced cowboys who somehow found themselves in a tiny state near the Canadian border.
What I didn’t plan for was how much two students would stand out among the crowd of mid-forties truck drivers and wannabe cowboys.
I’ve been ducking curious glances for a while now, pulling the shield of my cap lower and lower over my face.
I want to make this a good experience for both of us, put us at ease, and have a fun night before we try out our outlandish plan again.
I can’t do that when I’m worrying about getting recognized.
Obviously, there’s nothing suspicious about hanging out with your roommate.
The sexuality of the people around me never fazed me because I used to be firmly settled in my identity.
Now, with what Linden and I are about to do, and the threesome with Mia and Mike looming on the horizon, I’m starting to wonder what this all means for me.
Is this bisexuality?
Bi-curiosity?
A bi-trial period?
Can you identify as bisexual when you only consider the same sex for personal gain?
I don’t have a good answer to any of those questions, but last season’s scandal in B-Tech’s men’s hockey team is still fresh in my mind.
It should’ve been easy to choose a side in that moment—to choose right from wrong when homophobic slurs and open discrimination found their way onto the ice during the Frozen Four.
But apparently, not for B-Tech’s student body, who split right in the middle.
Who decided that sometimes, using homophobic insults is excusable, tolerable, acceptable even.
Not nice, but more similar to a growled ‘asshole!’ in the heat of the moment than blatant discrimination.
Who concluded, in part, that this is what collegiate and pro athletes have to endure, like a sore muscle or a sprained ankle. That it is all part of the game.
I can’t afford to make this part of my game. Not for a one-time experience over the summer. Not when the draft is still looming in the distance, and one piece of bad gossip could spook the teams.
My phone vibrates again, and this time I chance a quick look at the broken display. Against my gut feeling, it’s not Linden’s name that pops up—it’s my dad’s. I don’t even consider opening it; I just swipe it away the same moment a slim figure steps over the threshold.
“Hey, kid, did you get lost on the way to your mommy?” The guy shouts across the bar to Linden, then laughs so hard at his own joke that he snorts beer up his nose. His friend, looking mildly disgusted, throws her napkin at him.
I sympathize with her. The comment makes me rise halfway out of my chair, but I sink back down when Linden doesn’t pay him any attention.
After glancing around, he slides onto one of the barstools, slightly leaning over the counter to call out his order.
It’s too loud to hear, but I can read it off his lips: A Coke, please.
Chuckling, I drum my fingers against my sweating glass. I wanted a Dr. Pepper, but apparently the bartender has some strong feelings about that, so I ended up with a Coke, too.
I wait until Linden has received his drink before grabbing my own glass. I leave my phone and jacket back at the table—both are too banged up to worry about—then carefully make my way over to the bar.
I can see the tension coming off Linden in waves, shoulders drawn up all the way to his ears, knuckles white with how strongly he’s gripping the glass.
He must have sensed my approach, but only lifts his head when I’m right next to him, sliding onto the free barstool to his right.
When his head snaps up, his gray eyes reflect an unfamiliar hardness, like one wall of armor wasn’t enough to protect what’s inside of him; no, it needed to be two or three.
They melt away when recognition sets in, but after the past few days, I can’t help but wonder how many layers there are to Linden Woodrow.
“Mi—” he starts, then breaks off when I put a finger against my lips. He blinks a few times. I just wink.
“Hey there, sweetheart,” I drawl as I lean one elbow on the counter and swivel the barstool to face him. “Haven’t seen your pretty face around here before.”
“Oh, you’re an idiot.” Linden laughs, his cheeks flushing a soft pink.
“Actually, I’m Micah,” I correct him with a crooked grin. He rolls his eyes at that, but the smile doesn’t leave his lips.
“Nice to meet you, Micah. I’m Linden.”
“Linden,” I hum, letting the two syllables roll off my tongue. “That’s a pretty name for a pretty face.”
I know I’m laying it on thick, but I want to give him the full experience of a bar hookup—bad flirting included. So far, he lets me get away with it, the bemused smile still in place.
“Yeah, well, my parents had this whole nature theme going. You should see my sisters!”
I raise a brow at his deflection, then put my hand on his knee. “Only I’m not interested in your sisters, Linden. Tell me more about you instead.”
I end up learning about his sisters anyway.
They’re all older than he is, named Aspen, Hazel, and Margaret—he definitely wasn’t kidding about the nature theme.
But I also learn about the things we never talked about before, the small details that never fit into the dinner conversations, usually dominated by Olli and Marisol.
Like the fact that he has a pet cow, which he raised by himself, hand-feeding her with a bottle when she was too weak to drink.
“I named her Buttercup,” he tells me, flushing again when I tease him about keeping the nature-themed legacy going.
He tells me about his studies, too, after I prompt him.
First, a little reluctantly, then rushing it all out, words stumbling over each other like he needs to get them off his chest before someone—his sisters, an overly extroverted roommate, anyone—can interrupt.
When I ask what field he wants to specialize in, I expect him to go with small animals or pets, since he’s working at a dog pound, but he surprises me instead.
“Farm animals,” he says without hesitation.
His cheeks are still flushed—but now from talking animatedly.
He moves his hands a lot to emphasize his words, and I wonder why I haven’t noticed that before, when the realization hits me: he always keeps them restrained, either tucking them under his thighs or crossing them over his chest.
“Why farm animals?” I have to lean closer to understand him. The bar has been filling up, so we moved back to the corner table a while ago. Someone also turned on the old jukebox in the corner, which I’d assumed was just for decoration.
“Because they suffer the most. People would do anything for their pets, and by now, the average person on the street supports helping tigers and saving polar bears. But caring for farm animals a few miles from their homes is still a cost-benefit calculation. Helping them and raising them decently only works if production costs stay low. But people need to eat, and after a long day at work, they’re often too tired to question where their eggs and milk come from. ”
“Yet your family owns a dairy farm,” I point out because I’m not sure how his argument fits that reality.
“Yeah, we do.” He nods slowly, picking a fry from the plate we decided to share. “But my dad is pretty bad when it comes to the benefits part.”
“How do you mean?”
He picks out another fry, then licks the salt off his fingers. As I watch his pink tongue dart out, I ask myself if I could picture it licking over me instead. I liked the kiss we shared. It was slow, yes, and guarded, but also…pure.
“My dad does a lot for our cattle. If he can save a cow, he doesn’t look at the costs. We keep them mostly outdoors so they can graze freely, even as the rest of the industry pulls them inside—which is way more cost-efficient.”
“But also cruel,” I murmur, struck by the idea of keeping an animal locked up in a small box its whole life.
Of course I know how animals are kept and raised in modern farming, but I tend to ignore it, pushing it to the very back of my mind when I stand in the supermarket aisle and reach for the cheaper product.
Half a gallon of organic milk is easily double the price of a whole gallon of store-brand—and as a house full of athletes, we go through milk fast.
“Yes. I mean, I’m not trying to delude you—we’re still producing dairy, which means they have to calve once per year, and we have to give up the male calves at some point.” His expression is serious.
“And by that you mean…?” I prompt, imagining dead calves in barn corners and mothers crying out to them.
“Well, it depends on how many male calves are born each year. We raise some in the herd, but if there are too many, we have to sell or butcher them—which is difficult since cattle are so overbred these days that dairy cows hardly have any meat on them.” He snorts when he sees the look on my face.
“Oh my God, I’m sorry. Way to kill the mood, huh? ”
“No, it’s…I mean, it is a hard topic for a first date, but also pretty interesting. I think more people out there need that reality check,” I reassure him, and a soft flush tints his cheeks.
“So, what you’re saying is that everyone out there should date a farm boy at some point?
” He laughs. There’s a high note to it, nerves vibrating through, causing me to reach out on instinct and squeeze his knee gently.
The warmth of his skin radiates through the rough denim of his jeans.
It’s generally pretty fucking warm in here.