But right now, he’s making me nervous.
On the screen behind him, he’s posed the question:What is sex?
And boy, do my classmates have a lot of answers for that question. There’s a full-on discussion at play, and I’m just grateful that Ian and Dr. Bergman, our professor, agreed not to call on anyone who doesn’t have their hand up.
Because if he did call on me, how the heck would I answer that question?
Sex is…something we just don’t talk about. Sex is…private.
Sex is… something I’ve never had a lot of interest in until I met Ian McBride.
Sex is…being widely and freely discussed by my peers. And Ian’s taking it all in stride. They’re asking him questions about his own sexuality, and he's fielding them like a pro. Some he answers openly; others cross a boundary he's not willing to discuss right now. He looks perfectly at ease. I’ve only ever been that confident on the ice. And that’s only because I have my whole team with me.
Speaking of my team, Koz, Ollie, and Santos are totally engrossed. Ollie even joins the conversation, adding that sexuality is fluid. That brings Ian's attention to our little corner. Myears flame red as I feel Ian's gaze. Santos chimes in that sex and gender are totally different things, and Koz mentions that for him, sex is as much about intimacy as anything else. My friends are opening up like we’re in therapy. But me? I stay silent. No one presses me to join in, but I still feel like the odd man out.
Our time is ending soon, but Dr. Bergman changes the slide on the screen and shows us our journal prompt. It’s due by midnight tonight. She explains a coding system embedded into our online journal. Everything will be done by our randomly generated class IDs. That way, we’re basically anonymous. And if we code a journal with a red flag, that means we don’t want any of our thoughts brought up in class. But if we code the journal with a green flag, our input is fair game. We won’t be named, of course, but our ideas will be out there.
If I stay in this course, that red flag and I are going to be very good friends.
Ian reads the journal prompt aloud, and though nothing about the prompt is suggestive, my pulse thrums a little faster.
Journal #1: Discuss your sexual history—both with partners, with yourself, and with your perception of sex.
Wow. No question. I really need to drop this class.
Chapter 2
Ian
A few afternoons a week,I pick Rose up from the campus daycare and bring her home. It’s a nice break for me, and it helps Willa out, so I’m happy to do it. She smiles when she sees me and calls, “E! E!” I’d never tell Willa, but I secretly love how my name is one of the very few words she can say. It’s an abbreviated version, but it still counts.
I never imagined kids in my own future. I’m on the career track and figured I’d be the cool uncle to PJ’s kids. Rose is my bonus niece and I’m grateful for her.
We pull up to The Chapel and I pull my car into the driveway. I key in the code to let us in. I unbutton her coat and she shakes off her little hat.
“You don’t like that hat, do you, pretty girl? Let’s get you changed and have a snack. Sound good?” She giggles as I bounce her in my arms.
We head for the kitchen and I’m debating if I should slice up grapes or blueberries when I stop in my tracks. There were no other cars in the driveway, so I’m surprised to see Booker as he stands before the fridge, staring inside it. Rose shrieks, and he turns around suddenly, clearly shocked to learn he’s not the only one home.
“Holy crap!” He spins, and the look on his face would be comical if I didn’t feel so bad for scaring him.
“Sorry,” I apologize, raising one hand in the air. “I didn’t see any cars in the driveway, so I figured no one was home.”
“Yeah, no. My bad. Santos had to borrow my car, so I’m stranded. I mean, not really. It’s like, a mile to campus, so I can easily walk. Or run. Or my bike is in the garage, so…yeah. Um, yeah. So, how are you? And Rose? Hey, Rose.”
She smiles at Booker, and so do I. Not only because his stammering is adorable, but because the man is built like a Greek god and he’s standing in front of us shirtless. There’s a smattering of gold hair across his pecs, but otherwise his chest is bare. His gray sweats are slung low and I’m doing my level best not to stare.
He’s not technically my student. I’m not in charge of grades, and everything in the class is anonymous anyway; only Dr. Bergman has access to which names match up to which class IDs. But still, it’s probably wildly inappropriate for me to ogle Booker in his own kitchen.
I kiss Rose on her forehead and strap her into her highchair. She claps her hands on the tray, obviously pleased that food is on the way. I dole out some Cheerios while Booker grabs a basket of grapes and starts slicing.
“Thanks,” I tell him. “That’s what I was thinking too. Well, grapes or blueberries. It was going to be a game-time decision.” Look at me, using sports metaphors.
“Oh,” he blushes—actually blushes. “I ate all the blueberries. Sorry, Rosebud.”
“Nah, no apologies necessary, Rose is a woman of varied tastes and has a sophisticated palette. Isn’t that right, you little drool-monster?” She nabs the cut-up grapes and gobbles them up.
We stand there, two men in a kitchen, one of whom is bare-chested, watching a baby eat her afternoon snack.
