Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 51902 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51902 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
Or…more accurately, I wasn’t in the habit of letting anyone in.
But Malcolm was already in. I wondered how that had happened so fast.
I flung my leg over his and set a hand on his bare hip. “What about you?”
“What about me?” he countered.
“Tell me something I don’t know. How did your family react when you came out?”
Malcolm pulled his glasses off and cleaned them on the edge of the sheet. “I don’t think I’ve ever officially come out. My sexuality isn’t important to them.”
I frowned. “They’ve never asked if you’ve met someone or if it’s serious? Have you ever brought anyone home?”
“No, they wouldn’t ask intrusive questions, and I’ve never brought anyone home. I’ve never had anyone to bring home.”
“No boyfriends.”
He snickered. “Not the kind I’d introduce to my family.”
A spark of jealousy hit me out of the blue. Whoa.
“Oh. So…they know and accept you without any conversation at all.”
“Correct,” he confirmed.
“Haven’t you ever had an awkward, ‘Sorry, I bat for the other team’ moment with a cute girl making goo-goo eyes at you?”
Malcolm gave a wry smile. “I can’t recall, but…that’s not my definition of awkward.”
“I’ll bite. What’s your definition?”
“Being unprepared for a lecture, doing poorly on a test because I studied the wrong chapter—”
I huffed in disbelief. “Have any of those things ever happened?”
“No, but if they did, it would be awkward.”
I busted up. “Try again. Everyone has an awkward moment. Gimme something.”
“All right. Um…I walked in on Layla and her ex-girlfriend kissing. I embarrassed them, and that was awkward. And if you were to count the many times I’ve tripped or fumbled whilst in a state of agitation, I suppose that was awkward. But those instances are based on action. Something done rather than something that simply is. I’m gay. That’s not awkward, it just is. I’m not responsible for anyone’s opinion of me. If they feel awkward because they thought I was someone I’m not, that would be their problem, not mine.”
Okay, maybe that was Self-love Wisdom 101, but at that moment, it felt like the inspirational speech I’d needed to hear.
I took a good long look at the man in my bed continuing his version of embarrassing faux pas—the time he put dog treats into his back pocket and got bitten in the butt by the family mutt, the time he attempted to bake medicinal brownies and added too much weed—and all I could think was, Damn, he’s so fucking brave, so damn cool.
Malcolm knew himself and accepted the parts of him that were different from others. He didn’t waste energy or time on unnecessary static.
God, I wished I were more like him.
I linked our fingers, unthinking, and kissed his knuckles. He paused midsentence, eyes alight with curiosity.
“I like you, Maloney.” I nipped his thumb to avoid any mushy confessions, adding, “Rewind and give me the deets on those pot brownies.”
He groaned but gamely launched into Layla’s hysterical account of Malcolm dancing on the coffee table, drawing “tattoos” of bunnies on his arms, and laughing till tears ran down his face.
I chuckled and shared a few college exploits of my own.
We stayed like that for a long while as shadows lengthened in the room and late afternoon sun gave way to twilight. Neither of us mentioned hockey, his thesis, or the future. We didn’t even talk about sex or try to start round two. We just…hung out, naked in bed on a random Wednesday, sharing snippets of ourselves.
Maybe this was going to sound a little sappy, but it was one of the best days I’d had all year.
CHAPTER 15
MALCOLM
“I’m pleased with the scope of your thesis so far. The kinematic equations you’ve added to the acceleration portion are dynamic and progressive. With your permission, I’d like to forward an excerpt to the review committee. I don’t want to unduly raise hope, but I think they’ll want to include this piece in the textbook.”
My mouth fell open and stayed there for a beat. “Really?”
“Really.”
Professor Finkwell’s smile was laced with indulgent amusement as he leaned back in his leather office chair, elbows resting and fingers steepled in a thoughtful pose that gave him the air of a quintessential collegiate professor. Or Santa Claus.
He was a short, balding man in his midsixties with a paunch belly who favored tweed jackets with leather patches and wrinkled khakis. His cheeks were always rosy and his glasses always slipped to the end of his nose. If I didn’t know any better, I might have been convinced he was a jovial academic who went out of his way to lend guidance to the younger generation. As Jett would probably say, that was bullshit.
Every academic worth his salt knew the inner workings of a university career involved a fair share of politics. You needed allies and mentors. Not that you couldn’t succeed without proper backing, but having friends in high places certainly helped. Finkwell was at the top of the chain at Smithton. He was a published, well-respected professor who’d dedicated over forty-five years to education.