“His place being… the dorms?” Suddenly his chicken breast requires his full attention. “I almost blew up the kitchen in my freshman dorm.”
I suspect he wants me to ask for details, but I answer him first. “Not the dorms.” I wait and watch as he chews slowly, curious if he’ll say anything. His teeth are still grinding when I add. “Not always.”
He finally swallows. Clears his throat. Pushes some squash around his plate. “Are older men your type?”
I shrug. “I’m not sure I have a type. But on average, yeah, I’m usually with older guys.”
“You are pretty young.” He winces and stumbles into another question. “You really don’t have a type?”
I laugh to ease the tension.
“I dunno, maybe I like older guys. Maybe I like Minotaurs. Or I’ve secretly had a thing for jocks this whole time.” Toying with him is starting to feel cruel, not that I don’t think he could take more ribbing. I shudder to imagine the years of hockey locker rooms he must have endured. “Maybe when I was eighteen, I was traveling and downloaded an app that let me see the full spectrum of gay guys, and it gave me a fickle appetite."
His gaze softens, and a relaxed smile tugs at his lips. “Fickle. With an acquired taste for jocks.”
“Recently acquired, yes.”
We settle, taking the time to enjoy aromatic squash and plain chicken with just enough crisp to avoid it being depressing. Eventually he asks, “Book good? The one you were studying?”
I quirk a brow. “Good in what way? Am I enjoying it? No—”
“Kinda figured,” he shrugs. “Anything on a syllabus is usually as dry as the dining hall’s chicken.”
I snort. “It’s very good chicken, by the way.”
“Thanks. But the book, is it worth reading? You feel your mind expanding while you slog through it?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. I see why we’re reading it. It’s one of those texts that inspired other texts. I’ve read worse.” Not really wanting to turn this into a study session I ask, “Do you read much?”
“I read magazines more than books,” he admits sheepishly.
“What kind of magazines?”
“Sports, mostly, but I’ll read anything. I’m probably the only person who actually reads TherapyToday in waiting rooms.”
He averts his eyes like he’s embarrassed but I find this confession endearing. I can’t remember the last time I read a magazine but obviously people still read them.
“Why magazines?”
He shrugs but offers an enlightened answer. “They always teach me something or get me to think about something differently. The interviews are interesting. Guess I like hearing experts be, well, experts in their field.” He chuckles, a bit self-deprecating. “And articles are shorter than novels.”
“Sorry I recommended such a brick to you.”
He shakes his head. “No, it’s good. It’s a nice way to unwind.” He points at me with his fork. “And Iwillfinish it.”
“I never doubted that. You don’t strike me as a quitter.”
He gets up, leaving behind his empty plate, but he’s back soon enough holding a mini candy bar. Two, actually. He slides one across the table.
He pops the mini into his mouth before noticing I haven’t reached for mine. “Not a fan?”
“Never been a big chocolate person…”
One of my old rink’s concession stands sold hot cocoa, the kind that was just powder and hot water. My coach made an offhand comment that cocoa makes you fat and slow. I didn’t reallyunderstand shame at the time, but I internalized it anyway.
He rubs the back of his neck. “Is there anything I should stock here?”
I purse my lips, an obnoxious voice in my head yelling at me that I don’t need snacks. “You’re plenty,” I say, just to move on.