I laugh at his description. “I can’t picture Dunc as a prep.”
“I’m not talking about Dunc.”
I glance over to the far corner, where Nick and Simon are playing. “Wait, I thought it was just the four of you? There’s no way Simon would layer polo shirts. He hates stuff around his neck.”
“True.”
“So, that means the preppy douche was Nick?”
“The preppy douche was Nick.”
“What? But he looks so—”
“Nick’s transition from Preppy Ken Doll to Tatted Bad Boy is a story for another day.”
What? He’s not going to finish the story? I protest, “But I’m intrigued.”
“Sorry, darlin’. Get your boyfriend to fill you in on that story. Now, back to where I was. So, Nick walks in and unpacks and then Dunc, who was an all-state wrestler back in the day, arrives and the three of us strike up a friendship. We head out, grab a burger, shoot the shit, and then see this buddy of Nick’s who hooked us up with fake IDs. So freshman year was off to a pretty solid start, right?”
“I guess it sounds like a pretty good day if you’re an eighteen-year-old guy.” I agree.
“Exactly. And we figured the other roommate wasn’t gonna show. So, we went back to the dorm and Dunc and Nick were arguing over something, and I was trying to figure how much more space we’d have if we triple-stacked the bunks. And then, in walks this skinny kid. He strolls right over to the desk, unpacks three monitors from the box he was carrying and says, “I’m Simon. Why are you guys in my room?”
I laugh, because that sounds like the guy I know. He doesn’t stand on ceremony, doesn’t calculate. He justs calls things as he sees them.
“If you’d have asked me at that moment, I’d have bet he’d be moved out by Christmas. I figured him for the type to visit home every weekend. He was fucking fifteen, for chrissakes. But he didn’t, and that’s my point.”
“That he didn’t visit his parents on the weekends?”
“That Simon doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do. He’s his own man, and we all respect the hell out of him for it. We—Duncan, Nick, and I—got pretty good mileage out of our fake IDs that year. And Simon never once tagged along. He’s not a party boy. He never has been. So, we’d come home shitfaced at 2 a.m., and he’d school our asses in video games. Or try to teach us the ways of the Jedi knights. For future reference, lightsabers and drunk guys are not a good combo.” He laughs, as if remembering a particular incident, and nabs a wing from a nearby basket.
I open my mouth to question him about it, but he points to the giant TV screen, which reads,
“Who invented the first programmable computer?”
Answer: Konrad Zuse
Point: Tattooine
Even if the bar hadn’t broken into cheers, and even if Nick wasn’t high-fiving Simon, I’d bet money that my boyfriend nailed the answer to that question.
“Your boy just moved into first place.” Gavin smiles.
“Well, the question was kind of tailor-made for him.”
“True. And I guess it doesn’t hurt that he’s an actual genius.”
“You’ve got a point. But, I’m guessing Nick’s no slouch, either.”
“Ha. You’re right. Nick’s a renaissance man, I guess. He knows a little bit about a lot of things. Back in school, they used to play trivia games all the time. I don’t really get the fascination with answering random questions, but they love it.”
His tone is a little wistful, which leads me to ask, “And what do you love?” It’s a little forward, I guess, but I’m a chatty girl at heart, and we’ve struck up a bit of a friendship tonight, so I’m curious about what makes him tick.
“What do I love? Hmmm...Philly Cheesesteaks, fresh ink, and hanging off the edge of a cliff.”
“In that order?”
“Nah, reverse it. Cliffs come first. Tattoos second. Food third. Oh, and I freaking love peanut butter cups, too.”
