Before I could hunt down the mincer that I’d dropped somewhere in our cat-and-mouse game, he nabbed my wrist with a gentle hand. “This is all okay with you, right?”
The concerned furrow between his eyebrows melted my heart. This aloof, sophisticated man nervous. Over me, and whether or not I was into what he liked.
I reached out and stroked my index finger down the side of his wrist. He shivered in the most gratifying way. “Yeah. More than okay.”
The relieved way he squeezed his eyes shut turned my already melted heart even more into mush. When he opened them again, his smile was shy, and his face held this new unguarded softness. “I’m glad.”
He pressed a fleeting, teasing kiss against the corner of my mouth before releasing me and stepping back to his chopping block. “Now tell me when you learned to cook, and from whom? Also, did you know that sautéed shrimp on pasta was one of my favorite dishes, or did I just get lucky?”
“Total luck. It’s one of my favorites as well. And my Nana taught me to cook when I was a teen.”
“Oh, yes, all those long, long years ago,” David teased.
I shot him my fiercest frown. “Don’t you start or else we’ll be here all night.”
David tilted his head, as if considering. “There are worse ways to spend an evening.”
I snickered. “Okay, yeah, you’ve got me there, but also, my stomach is about to start digesting itself here soon. And not a peep out of you about me being a growing boy.” I pointed the mincer at him in warning, and he closed his mouth and pretended to zip his lips. “Do you like cooking?”
“I know my way around a kitchen, and can scramble up a mean omelet, but in terms of fancier dishes? I’m afraid I’ve been too set in my ways to even try. I quite enjoy eating, though, and this…this is nice. Relaxing, in a way?” He gestured to the chopping block and the small pieces of vegetables.
“Yes! Cooking has always been a great way for me to de-angst.” I watched David wrinkle his nose at my last word and rolled my eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know, de-angst isn’t a word. Before long it will pop up in Dictionary though.”
David shook his head sadly at the chopped vegetables scattered in little groups before him. “Urban Dictionary, he says. Like that’s a reputable source for the English language.”
“Here, would you like an extra slice of lemon to go with that sourpuss expression of yours?”
David snorted. “As long as I can get you that sippy cup.”
The grin on my face remained for pretty much the rest of our time in the kitchen. For the first time, David seemed carefree and open. We talked about our grandmothers, and favorite dishes. Or sometimes, he watched silently while I sautéed the garlic and shrimp, occasionally peppering me with questions about what a certain ingredient added to the meal, how I knew how much to use, and so on. His intellectual curiosity took over, which was something I loved about him. His genuine interest in learning new things.
Urban Dictionary snark aside.
My tiny kitchen smelled sweet and savory by the time I’d finished with the sauce. As I poured the shrimp over the noodles, the aroma of butter and wine and garlic wafted to my nose, making my stomach grumble in anticipation.
David filled our wine glasses and carried our salad bowls to the table, while I carried the steaming plates. We settled next to each other like we’d been doing this for years.
And in a way, I guess we had. As colleagues and friends. This was a whole new chapter in our relationship, though. One that I was filled with eagerness to explore.
I nibbled my thumb as David took his first bite of pasta, filled with an unexpected nervousness. Had I cooked it long enough? Did I add too much lemon? David had sophisticated tastes and even though this was an unplanned dinner, the idea of disappointing him made me squirm.
He swallowed and closed his eyes in a look of utter bliss. “This is delicious, Seb. I obviously need you to cook for me more often.”
My skin warmed with pleasure and I did this weird sort of head duck thing that I couldn’t remember doing since I was, like, five. “Anytime. I’m glad you like it.”
We were both too focused on our food for the next few bites to talk. David was the first to speak again. “Did I tell you that I’m considering switching publishers?”
I froze with my wine glass halfway to my mouth. “Really? When did that happen?”
David set his fork down with a sigh. “When I talked to a friend and realized that I may not be cut out for a lifetime of academia. The idea of career autonomy is incredibly appealing right now.”
I leaned forward on the table. “That’s amazing, though! We can be freelancing buddies. Welcome to the club!”
David’s thoughtful expression didn’t convey quite as much excitement as I was feeling, but that was okay. It was David, after all. He thrived on routine, so this potential shift in careers had to be unsettling.
We finished dinner, washed the dishes and then, curled up together on the couch to watch CSI. David’s favorite. Not that I wouldn’t have been down for something more, but the stupid club and their stupid rules. No sex hadn’t sounded like a big deal at first, but now? Torture. I’d been imagining David’s hands on me for a long time now, though. I guessed another couple of weeks wouldn’t kill me.
Hopefully.
With his warm body pressed up to mine, my mind was at ease for the first time in a while. Suddenly, the future looked optimistic.
This thing between the two of us just might have a shot of working out, after all.
My optimistic mood floated me through the next few days of lectures, papers, and work…right up until I opened the letter that appeared in my campus mailbox.
While students bustled around me in nearby hallway, laughing and talking about their day, the neatly typed black words on the white page blurred before my eyes. I blinked, forcing myself to focus.
We’re sorry to inform you that your TA application has been denied, pursuant to Temperance Christian University’s morality clause.
More words followed—-blah blah, if you wish to appeal this decision, blah blah, we still value you as a graduate student—but they didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that I’d been rejected. Not even on my merits, but over some bullshit, Stone-Age mentality. By a bunch of homophobic Bible thumpers.
I roughly refolded the letter and then slumped against the wall, reeling. Fuck me. Had that really just happened? What was I supposed to do now?
“Hey, man, you okay? You look like maybe you threw back one too many last night.” Tim Shane, a burly, red-headed TA in my department, paused beside me.
I shoved the letter at him. “I wish that was the case.” No sense in hiding my rejection. With the way gossip flew around this campus, it’d be news soon enough. Besides, Tim was one of the few guys I trusted around here.
Tim scanned the letter and whistled. “Shit, Seb. That really sucks—I’m sorry. You must have pissed someone off in high circles to get this.”
He handed the paper back to me. I folded the thing in half and stuffed it into my pocket. “Guess so. You ever hear of anyone appealing successfully?”
Tim shook his head and grimaced. “No, don’t do that. You could end up getting your grad grant pulled that way—it happened to a friend of a friend.”