Thanks to my beta readers Jamie Fessenden and Kath Rothwell. Your suggestions made this story so
much better.
As always, thanks to my husband for listening to my plotting and offering (almost always) helpful
suggestions.
Cover by the fabulous Reese Dante.
Cover Art
© 2013 Reese Dante
Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or
distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal
prosecution.
Please do not loan or give this ebook to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means.
The author earns her living from sales of her work. PLEASE DO NOT PIRATE THIS BOOK.
Blame It On The Mistletoe
© 2013 Eli Easton
Published by Eli Easton
Pennsylvania, USA
First edition, Nov, 2013
1
“OH, look!” Fielding said. “They have a new latte flavor—‘Santa’s Death by Peppermint.’ I’m
getting that.”
It was the second of December, and we were waiting in line at The Coffee Clatch. The
campus coffee joint was bedecked and bedazzled with holiday spirit including colored mini-lights,
tiny, fuzzy Santa hats on all the espresso machine handles, and displays of giant holiday cookies.
Great. Fielding would be bouncing off the walls on a sugar high all month long.
“Do you have any idea how many calories are probably in that latte?” I asked. It was more or
less a hypothetical question.
“Lots and lots,” Fielding answered enthusiastically. “Oooh! Cookies!-”
I was about to get more serious about my anti-sugar lecture when someone pressed into my
back. By the feel of the soft curves along my spine, that someone was female. Normally that would
have been a good thing, but I wasn’t seeing anyone at the moment, and I didn’t care to be groped in a
coffee shop while trying to talk to my best friend. More to the point, before I’d had my morning pick-
me-up. A little annoyed, I turned to see who it was.
A slim blonde in blue eye shadow and a tight pink sweater smiled up at me. She put her hand
on my arm.
“Hey, Mick,” she gushed. “Long time no see.”
I recognized her, despite the lack of a perky red and white uniform. It was Regina, a Cornell
football cheerleader. Had we ever messed around? I had to actually think about it. But no, we hadn’t.
Regina had been into Dylan McDermont when I was on the team. But the appreciative look in her
eyes made it clear that Dylan was now buried in the Cemetery of Abandoned Interests. Probably right
next to subtlety.
“Hey, Regina. Uh… this is my housemate, Fielding.”
“Hello,” Fielding said.
Regina gave Fielding a quick once-over and a polite hello before she turned her attention back
to lucky me.
“I can’t believe you quit the team!” Regina put on a cute little pout. “The girls were just
chatting the other day about how much we miss seeing your fine ass out on the field.”
What do you say to something like that? Why yes, I do have a fine ass, thanks for noticing?
or Maybe you and my ass can work out another arrangement?
I went with, “I decided I needed to focus on my studies.”
“Well, you are missed! I was hoping to get to know you better. In fact, the girls were just
talking about you at dinner the other night. There seems to be a general consensus that…” Regina
paused, looking coy. “…that you’re the best kisser on campus.”
A surprised huff escaped me. It sounded appropriately dubious.
“I was sort of hoping I’d get a chance to test that theory for myself.” Regina blushed prettily at
her own boldness and slid her hand from my arm to my chest.
Man. As a freshman, I would have been all over that. I’d have been thanking my lucky stars,
and my insides would have been auditioning for Riverdance. Regina was cute and enthusiastic, and
that sweater showed off her C cups to perfection. But getting girls had never been an issue for me. I
inherited dirty blond hair and blue eyes from my mom and a rough, somewhat lumpy face from my
dad. I’d been told I looked like Daniel Craig. I didn’t get the appeal, but I wasn’t exactly sorry for it.
Still, by my junior year of high school, getting girls became less of an issue than getting rid of them.
And Regina was setting off big red warning lights in my head.
“Sorry, I’m seeing someone,” I said, giving Regina a regretful smile. “But it was really great
running into you. Say hi to the other girls for me.”
The people in front of us moved, and we were up to place our order. Thank the god of
awkward moments.
It was a decent enough day considering that it was December in Ithaca, New York, so we took
our drinks outside and sat at the fountain. I had my usual hot green tea with soy milk. Fielding had
ignored my warning and gotten his sweet Santa sludge. I’d learned to pick my battles, and I let go of
this one. I was double-majoring in Nutrition and Physical Therapy, and I took healthy eating very
seriously. But Fielding looked too happy for me to be a Scrooge about a little holiday treat.
“Why’d you tell Regina you were seeing someone?” Fielding asked, as soon as we sat down.
Inwardly, I sighed. I’d had a feeling I wouldn’t get out of that encounter unscathed. “It’s called
a little white lie, Bud. The truth would have been rude: I’m not interested, buzz off.”
“Ah! I see.” Fielding smirked. “Away with thee, thou silver-tongued succubus.”
I laughed. “Piss off, oh ye of the cleavage-which-shall-not-be-touched.”
Fielding chuckled, a low hearty rumble that made me grin. My science geek housemate hadn’t
grown up with a lot of laughter. But Fielding laughed now. He did a lot of things now that he hadn’t
when we’d first moved in together. I felt pretty damn good about that, peppermint lattes
notwithstanding.
“But why should her cleavage not be touched?”
I shrugged. “Been there. Done that. Have the T-shirt.”
Fielding blinked at me, a frown of confusion on his brow. “You slept with her? But she said
she wanted to test the theory about your—”
Damn. Fielding missed nothing.
“I didn’t sleep with her. Girls like her.” And really, having a thing with three members of the
Cornell football cheerleading squad was more than enough for any man. More than that, and I’d
seriously have to seek counseling.
Fielding still looked puzzled. “So when you say ‘I’m seeing someone,’ and you really aren’t,
is that the equivalent of saying ‘Let’s just be friends’? That’s the common brush-off, isn’t it?”
He said it with a bit of a blush, like maybe he’d heard that once or twice before, himself. And,
wow, that kind of made me feel like a heel for what I’d just done to Regina.
“I guess. So, um, anyway, you have a late lab tonight?” I asked, artfully changing the subject.
“It’s Tuesday,” Fielding said dryly, as if I should have his schedule memorized. I did, but any
port in a storm.
“Right. There are still two servings of that chicken casserole you like in the freezer. So I’ll
plan on dinner around seven, then. Okay?”
I tried to catch Fielding’s eyes to get a confirmation of that, or at least a sign that he’d heard
me. It was not unusual for the things I said to go in one ear, get lost in the vast contortions of
Fielding’s massive intellect, and never make it to central processing. But Fielding wasn’t gazing off
into space, mind on some physics problem or another. No, he was looking at me. More specifically,
Fielding was looking at my mouth. He was intently looking at my mouth, a frown of concentration
furrowing his brow. He sucked on his bottom lip.
Christ. Something hot rolled over in my stomach. It felt like uneasiness that maybe shared a
condo wall with terror. And maybe arousal lived a couple of doors down. It was not a good feeling. I
took a hasty drink of green tea, trying to hide my mouth from Fielding’s gaze. It also kept me from
screaming like a little girl.
Covering up my mouth seemed to work, because Fielding broke off staring at it and met my
gaze instead. There was a light in his eyes that I didn’t care for at all. When Fielding’s eyes said
Eureka!, civilizations crumbled and gods wept.
“Bye,” Fielding said abruptly. He pulled on his backpack and hurried away, head down.
2
FIELDING Monroe. You have to have a substantial personality to pull off a name like that. And he
does. Fielding is my best friend, all around genius, the weirdest person I know—in a good way—and
also my one and only housemate. But it almost didn’t happen, thanks to Fielding’s mother.
I met them back in August, a week before classes were set to start. I’d put up notices on
campus, and I was interviewing housemate candidates that day. See, my football pal Connor had
graduated in June, and he’d offered me first dibs on his rental. It wasn’t easy to find places like his at
Cornell. It was a small house within walking distance of campus with three bedrooms and one bath. I
was a junior, and I was sick of living in the dorms. They were loud and smelly. And even though I’d
decided not to play football after my sophomore season, I was still in with the football player crowd.
Someone was always banging on my door wanting to hang out, play video games, or get drunk.
Worse, I was like a sitting duck for girls. They all knew where to find me. It was like a “Mick Lives
Here” sign in neon, with a big penis-shaped arrow, was pumping away over my dorm, day and night.
That might sound great, but I had a lot of tough classes in my dual major—tough science classes like
physics, anatomy, physiology, and statistics. I had to work my ass off to pass them. The constant
interruptions were killing me.
So I jumped at the chance to lease Connor’s place. It was a bit scary when I signed the
contract, though. My parents do what they can to help, but my dad is a real estate agent and my mom’s
a nurse. I have a younger sister too. So my folks couldn’t afford to put me through Cornell. I worked
two jobs, got student loans, and… housemates. With two housemates, living in Connor’s old house
would be only a little more expensive than staying in the dorms.
But I hadn’t thought about how hard it would be to find good housemates. I’d avoided telling
any of my football friends about it since that would sort of negate the whole point. Advertising on
bulletin boards had thus far brought in party hounds, bad financial risks, and douchebags. One guy
said up front that he might be ‘ever so slightly late’ on the rent from time to time, as if I could afford
to carry him. Another had come in with three of his massive buddies, and they talked about what great
parties they could have there. And two had been girls, even though I’d specifically put male only on
the notices.
Reading comprehension, people. It’s sad, really.
By that afternoon, I was getting pretty freaked out about the situation. I was thinking about the
prospect of living on Costco beans and rice all year when there was a knock on the front door. I
opened it, and an older woman entered the house. She had a notebook in one hand and a purse
dangling off the wrist of the other. She wore a pained expression that said she had low expectations
of finding anything she liked on the premises. She appeared to be in her forties, thin, and rather nun-
ish looking, even without the wimple.
“I’m Mrs. Monroe.” She held out the arm with a dangling purse for a limp press of flesh. “I’m
here about the room.”
I sighed. “Sorry, but I’m looking for a student. A male student.”
She shot me a withering look as if I’d managed to disprove Darwin’s theory single-handedly.
“It’s not for me, it’s for my son.”
“Oh.”
Without asking permission, Mrs. Monroe pushed past me to look over the kitchen and the
living room. Her face remained blank and yet strangely judgmental. “Which bedroom would be his?”
I figured I’d just show her around and get it over with. So I led her down a hallway and
opened a door on the bigger of the two spare rooms. It had a double bed and small dresser that had
come with the house. She walked in, looked around, opened the accordion doors to the closet, and
sniffed.
I sniffed. I didn’t smell anything.
I turned my back on her, indulged in rolling my eyes, and went back into the living room. I
plopped down on a chair and picked up a magazine. I heard her rummaging around in the drawers in
the shared bathroom—drawers that held my toothbrush and razor and stuff. I gritted my teeth. I had a
box of condoms too, but they were in my bedroom closet. I suddenly wished I’d put them in the
bathroom, maybe with some nipple clamps and fuzzy handcuffs. I’d never owned such things, but I
suddenly wished I did.
I was smiling at the mental image of Mrs. Monroe running in terror when she walked back into
the living room.
I put down the magazine, expecting to show her out, but Mrs. Monroe sat down in a chair near
the sofa. She brushed some invisible crumbs off the arm, then settled herself as if she planned to stay
awhile. She put her purse on the floor and poised a pencil over that notepad of hers.
“Your name?” she asked perfunctorily.
I stared at her. “Mick Colman.”
She wrote it down. “And how many people would be living here besides yourself and my son,
Mick?”
“Uh… I have two rooms for rent.”
She looked me over from head to toe as if assessing my moral fiber or perhaps looking for
signs of a communicable disease. She seemed to reach a decision. “My son, Fielding, is a very
special boy. He’s highly intelligent but a little absentminded. I can’t have him in a house where
there’s partying—alcohol, drugs, things of that nature. His studies come first, always. He needs a
place with peace and quiet.”
My first instinct was to show her to the door right then. Any guy whose mother called him ‘a
very special boy’ had to be truly scary. On the other hand, a housemate who did nothing but study all
the time sounded pretty sweet about now.
“Well, Mrs. Monroe, I’m not a member of the religious right or a teetotaler. But I’m studying
nutrition, so I don’t believe in wrecking my body with a lot of crap. And that includes drugs.”
“Excellent!” Mrs. Monroe made an excited notation in her notebook. “And sex? Do you have
a steady girlfriend who’ll be sharing the space? Not that I expect you to be a monk, but I don’t want
Fielding exposed to scantily clad women in the bathroom or loud sex noises night after night. He
needs his rest.”
I realized my mouth was hanging open. I closed it with a snap. “I, uh, don’t plan to have girls
here, no.”
That was the new master plan anyway. To avoid the situation I’d had in the dorms I planned to
keep my new habitat very, very secret. So when I hooked up with girls I’d have to insist on theirs or
my car. Come to think of it, that was an ideal scenario for my future housemate.
Of course, Mrs. Monroe didn’t need to know any of that. But my answer seemed to make her
happy enough because she gave me a conspiratorial smile. “Perfect! We’ll take both rooms, of
course. Fielding can use one of them as a study. God knows, the fewer housemates the better.”
“Wait. You mean—”
She typed in a text on her phone. “And we’ll pay for a land line. I need to be able to reach my
son at all times, and he never remembers to charge his cell. Now. How much of a deposit do you
require?” She pulled a checkbook from her purse and sat waiting.
“Hang on. You’re telling me you’ll pay for both rooms? That’s twelve-hundred a month!”
“Oh, it’s not my money,” Mrs. Monroe said with an amused huff. “It’s my ex’s. He’s the one
insisting that Fielding move away to college this year. Get a life of his own. Fine. If that’s the way he
has to have it, he can damn well pay for decent housing.”
“But I—”
Mrs. Monroe waved her hand at me. “Don’t worry. Fielding’s pater is a Wall Street banker.
He’ll set up automatic deposit, and he’s never late. Take it from me. I’ve been getting child support
from him for years.”
My protests stuttered to a halt. Seriously?
Man, that was tempting. Two for the price of one. I’d only have to share the kitchen and that
small bathroom with one other person, a guy who did nothing but study. And from the sound of it, I
wouldn’t have to worry about the rent ever being late.
But then I took another good look at Mrs. Monroe. She was staring at me impatiently, and…
no. If Mrs. Monroe were part of the package, it wasn’t worth it. I didn’t want some high-handed
control freak poking into my business night and day, stopping by constantly, checking the bathroom
with a white glove, glowering over the beer in the fridge. Nope. No spank you. I’d rather go back to
living on campus. Hell, I’d rather go back to living in my parents’ basement in Pennsylvania. At least
my mother wasn’t that fussy.
I forced a fake smile. “Great. You can, um, leave your contact info. I’ll get back to you with a
decision. I have a lot of other appointments today, so—”
Just then the door banged open, and there, standing in the doorway, was a guy so nerdy I
nearly laughed out loud. He was tall, at least a few inches taller than my six foot. He was skinny, and
he had a 1950s Boy Scout haircut with short sides and an honest-to-god cowlick. He wore black
Poindexter glasses that didn’t disguise a serious unibrow, khakis a size too big, and a button-down
plaid shirt. He was wrestling with two suitcases large enough to move Buckingham Palace. He
started dragging them inside.
“Uh…” I said, standing up.
The guy left the suitcases just inside the open door and strode over. He stuck out his hand with
a huge grin. “Fielding Monroe.”
I shook it. I don’t know. There was just something about Fielding’s grin that was infectious. I
found myself smiling back.
“Fielding, dear,” Mrs. Monroe began. “I think this gentleman would prefer—”
“Bye, Mom,” Fielding said with cold finality.
“But we haven’t—”
Fielding took her by the shoulders, marched her to the front door, and shoved her out.
“Fielding! We haven’t discussed the lease or—”
“I’ll work it all out and call you at the hotel. Thanks for everything!” Fielding said cheerfully.
He slammed the door in her face and turned the deadbolt.
Faintly, through the door, came a resigned, “All right. But call me!” and the sound of footsteps
moving away.
Fielding turned to me with a look of pure glee. “She lives four hours away!” he said in a
maniacal whisper. He did a kind of happy dance on his toes.
I couldn’t help but laugh at that. The cold chill Mrs. Monroe had put around my chest melted a
little. Maybe a lot. “Um… your mom’s right, though. I haven’t made a decision about housemates yet.
I’ve got a few more people to see, so—”
But Fielding wasn’t paying any attention. He’d spied my shelf of DVDs and was already over
there looking at the titles. He interrupted me with a gasp. “Oh, my God! Star Wars ! I’ve heard of
this!”
I gaped at him, my brush-off vaporizing into thin air. “Dude! You’ve only heard of Star
Wars?”
Fielding waved a dismissive hand, a gesture much like his mother’s. “She never had a TV,
and she blocked Netflix and Amazon on my laptop. Bad for the brain, you know. Odious rot. So can
we watch this? Now?”
He looked at me with such hope and longing. To say no would have been like kicking Mr.
Rogers in the groin.
And, well, why not? School hadn’t started, and I didn’t have to work ’til tomorrow. I really
didn’t have any more appointments for the house that afternoon. And the idea of introducing this guy to
Star Wars was… strangely appealing.
“Uh… okay?”
“Excellent!” Fielding bounced up with a jolt of enthusiasm, still clutching the DVD. “I have
cheese puffs.”
He went to one of the ginormous suitcases and opened it. He dragged out a two pound plastic
bag of, yes, cheese puffs.
I looked at it in horror. “You know that stuff’ll kill you.”
Fielding examined the bag with a puzzled frown, as if maybe there were poisonous spiders
infesting it and that would explain my comment.
“Tell you what, I’ll make popcorn.” I headed for the kitchen. Air popped with a dose of sea
salt and butter-flavored spray would be nice.
“Sounds good!” Fielding called out with a full mouth. I glanced out to the living room in time
to see him throw himself on the couch, bag of cheese puffs in hand. He looked like he belonged there.
I made the popcorn and was surprised to find myself humming happily while doing it. But why
shouldn’t I be in a good mood? I didn’t have to work or study, and I was in for a movie marathon.
That didn’t suck.
I took the popcorn into the living room. The opening credits were playing, and the familiar
music filled the air.
I took the bag of semi-plastic foodstuffs away from Fielding and handed him the popcorn
bowl instead. Fielding switched without a blink, pausing only long enough to lick the orange from his
fingertips.
“So… have you decided what you’re majoring in yet?” I asked him as I sat down.
Fielding shot me an arched brow. “It’s customary to decide what you’re specializing in before
applying to graduate school, yes. Particle physics.”
“You’re in grad school?” I’d assumed Fielding was a freshman given the whole drama with
his mother. And he looked young, very young.
Fielding just waved that dismissive hand.
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Nineteen,” Fielding said, offering me the popcorn bowl. “It’s interesting how they made the
font move into 3D space like that. Rather dated looking, though.”
“It’s called the Star Wars crawl. So you’re nineteen, and you’re a grad student in physics?”
“I skipped some grades. I take it we’re on the side of the rebels in this film. Would you mind
if we talked later? While I agree it’s valuable for housemates to become better acquainted, I’m not
very good at multi-tasking. My therapist says I have an over-developed ability to focus.”
I blinked at him. “Uh… sure.”
“Excellent!” Fielding snuggled down into the couch and stared at the TV.
And that’s how Fielding Monroe became my housemate.
3
THE THING about Fielding was, the other shoe always dropped eventually. Because Fielding was
like a database. Nothing you ever said or did, or that anyone else ever said or did in Fielding’s
presence, was not noted, scrubbed over carefully, hung out to dry, starched, and redelivered in a clear
plastic bag sooner or later.
So really, I shouldn’t have been surprised when the delivery attached to that unfortunate
comment Regina made in the coffee shop came later that same night as Fielding and I were having
dinner.
I had this major burr about eating healthy. The first nutrition class I’d taken at Cornell my
freshman year changed my life. There’s nothing like watching autopsy footage of arteries clogged
with fat, or a seventy-year-old smoker’s lungs, to make certain dietary concepts very real.
But it was tough eating well, given the fact that I was taking a full load of classes and working
two part-time jobs. So I cooked on Sunday afternoons in large batches and stocked away Tupperware
containers in the fridge. Since Fielding had moved in, and horrified me with his msg-laden Ramen
cups and trans-fatty frozen chicken nuggets, I’d done it for both of us. It worked out amazingly well.
The pater approved, and he paid for all our groceries—and not the cheap stuff either, stuff like
organic chicken and black rice. And Fielding helped me cook on Sundays. He’d never even made tea
before, so I showed him how to chop veggies and brown onions and garlic, things like that. I didn’t
love to cook, but having Fielding do it with me made it sort of fun. As deals went, it did not at all
suck.
That night, I heated up a chicken-broccoli-mushroom casserole. Fielding inhaled it in less than
ten minutes as usual. But he seemed distracted as I tried to make small talk. His mind was clearly far,
far away. I gave up and started to clear the plates. That’s when the bomb was dropped.
“I want you to teach me how to kiss,” Fielding said in his most arrogant voice. It came out as
a demand, like Fetch me the lamp from the sideboard, wench.
I knew Fielding used that commanding tone when he was covering up his insecurity, so I
didn’t immediately get mad. I froze, though, my hands full of dishes. I made myself take them to the
sink and put them down carefully, nobly avoiding breakage. I went back to the table and sat down.
Fielding stared at me, arms folded over his chest. “Well?”
“No,” I said.
“May I ask why not?”
“Because that’s not going to happen.” I thought I sounded remarkably calm. In fact, I gave
myself a checkmark in the ‘saint’ box for not socking Fielding in the face or laughing my head off.
“But Regina said you have a reputation as the best kisser on campus.”
“I think I’ll have a beer. You want a beer?” I stood up abruptly.
“It’s Tuesday,” Fielding reminded me, as if I should know better. And I did. Fielding never
drank during the week. He was a lightweight, and even one beer could make him too fuzzy-headed to
study.
I didn’t usually drink during the week either. But fuck, I needed a beer. I grabbed one from the
fridge and cracked it open. I turned to find that Fielding had followed me into the kitchen.
“Well? Is there a problem with my request?”
I took a long drink. “The problem is, Fielding, that it’s not going to happen.”
“Ooh, how convincing. You’ve changed my mind with your superior argument,” Fielding
mocked.
I stalked into the living room.
Fielding followed. “Why not?”
“Because I said no.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I sighed and counted to ten. I reminded myself that Fielding wasn’t a normal guy. He just
didn’t get things like social cues. He was a fucking genius with an IQ somewhere in the stratosphere,
but he’d grown up being suffocatingly sheltered and shuttled from school to lessons to workshops. He
spoke fluent French and Russian and played the piano like a prodigy, but as far as I could tell, he’d
had few friends. So he probably just had no fucking clue how out of line his request was.
“Because, Fielding, I’m not gay,” I said firmly. “Which you’ve probably figured out by now,
being my housemate. That means I don’t kiss men.”
Fielding looked confused. “I’m not asking you to kiss me because you want to. I’m talking
about a simple transference of skills. The way you taught me running.”
I had taught Fielding to run. I ran three miles every morning, and now Fielding ran with me.
Without prodding from me, Fielding would probably never leave his computer, and that much sitting
wasn’t healthy for anyone.
“My teaching you the basics of running didn’t involve putting my tongue in your mouth. That is
what you’re talking about, right? You’re not asking me to draw you diagrams or maybe talk you
through it on a crash dummy?” I was starting to sound a little hysterical.
Fielding arched a droll eyebrow. “One assumes a direct demonstration would be necessary,
yes.”
“Then forget it.”
I sat down on the couch and grabbed the remote. There wasn’t much on TV, but I found an old
X-Files episode. I swallowed beer. My heart was beating erratically, and my palms were damp. I
w as extremely uncomfortable. And Fielding just stood in the middle of the living room with his
‘cogitating’ face on.
“Is it an issue of saliva?” Fielding asked. “Transmitting germs? Surely, you didn’t require a
doctor’s note from the dozens of girls you’ve kissed. And I’m perfectly healthy.”
“It’s not about germs! Jesus. You are aware that there are two genders, right? Male and
female? I mean, you’re not that oblivious.”
Fielding looked insulted. “I’m well aware of the concept and purpose of genders, Mick. But
I’m not asking you to impregnate me.”
“No, because that would be unreasonable,” I quipped sarcastically.
“I fail to see your point. Are you suggesting that because I’m male, you can’t kiss me the same
way you’d kiss a female?”
“That’s what I’m suggesting, yes.”
Fielding shook his head a little, the way he did when he just wasn’t getting something. “It’s a
matter of mouths, isn’t it? Of lips and tongues and head positions, where to place the hands, pressure
applied, that sort of thing?”
“Yes. But—”
“As far as I know, both genders share those body parts. I’m assuming it isn’t mandatory to
grope the breasts or groin while kissing, is it?”
“No.”
“Then I fail to see how male and female anatomy comes into it.”
I leaned forward and thunked my head on the coffee table. Really, why did I even try?
“Well, obviously you’re frustrated with me,” Fielding said, sounding a little hurt. “But you
needn’t beat yourself around the cranium.”
I turned off the TV. “You know what? I’m really tired. I’m going to bed early. Good night.”
I went into my room and shut the door. And so I didn’t have to spend any more time thinking
about kissing Fielding, I did go to sleep—at eight o’clock in the evening.
4
“MAYBE if I explain why I need your assistance,” Fielding said the next morning as we sat at the
fountain having our Santa sludge and green tea.
“Huh? With what?”
I’d pushed the previous night’s conversation far off into a distant archive in my mind. It was
sealed in a lockbox. Guarded by Rottweilers.
“With the kissing. You see, there’s a girl in my physics lab. Her name is Susan DeVree. She’s
what’s known colloquially as a ‘virgin killer.’”
I sipped my green tea and smiled. Yeah. I’d known a few of those. Good times. “And?”
“And I’m apparently on the top of her target list. She’ll probably want to saw off my head
afterward and have me mounted on her wall.”
I chuckled.
“She’s threatened—though really there should be a more despairing synonym for that—to
‘nail me’ under the mistletoe at the physics department’s Christmas party. Which is the day before
winter break: seventeen days and twelve hours from now, to be precise.”
“I see.” I was relieved to know there was an actual reason behind Fielding’s bizarre request
to be kissed. “And you want to impress her, leave her on her knees chanting ‘Fielding, Fielding!’” I
couldn’t help but laugh at the vision. Two nerds in love. It was kind of sweet, really.
Fielding gave me a wounded look. “If you’re implying that I want to encourage her interest,
the answer is absolutely not.”
“Why not? You gotta lose it sooner or later. Is she a dog?”
Fielding shrugged. “I suppose she’s attractive enough. But she only wants me because I’m a
virgin. I’m not interested in being a notch on her belt. Besides, she’s not a very nice person, and she
has a really annoying laugh. She brays like a donkey.”
“Yes, it’s better not to have to think about barnyard animals at a time like that,” I agreed
solemnly.
Fielding nudged against my shoulder hard, as if to say it wasn’t funny. “It’s your fault she’s
after me.”
“Me? What did I do?”
“You’ve made me too good-looking,” Fielding complained.
I could not hold back a laugh. Well, it was a guffaw really, and it kind of escaped out my
nose. Fortunately, Fielding didn’t seem offended.
Too good-looking. That was hilarious. Oh, I knew what Fielding meant. When the poor guy
had moved in in August, he’d been pathetic. But thanks to my determined intervention, Fielding’s
glasses had been replaced by a much hipper pair, his dark hair had grown out into a decent shag, and
he wore jeans and Tshirts. As for the unibrow, all props went to my friend Samantha for that. She’d
taught Fielding how to wax it. I remembered vividly how shocked I’d been the first time Fielding
walked out of the bathroom with a triumphant-looking Samantha. Without the mega brow, you could
see Fielding’s eyes for a change.
Which were a light blue-gray with black lashes and actually very nice. But still, to say
Fielding was good-looking…. I turned my head and really looked at him for a long moment.
And felt a strange sort of fluttery nausea. Maybe it was a mild form of shock.
Sitting there in that cold winter morning light, it was like I was seeing my housemate for the
first time all over again. Only this time, what I saw was not an adorkable geek. Fielding’s skinniness
had filled out to a nice, lean, athletic look thanks to the running and better nutrition. His dark hair was
silky now that it was longer. He had a strong jaw, a good face, and those large blue-gray eyes behind
GQ-ish black glasses, glasses that gave him a sort of hot librarian vibe. My gaze slid to Fielding’s
mouth. It was a bit pouty with full lips—the sort of mouth I might have called ‘succulent’ if it had
been on a girl.
I looked away, confused and uncomfortable with this new picture of Fielding Monroe. When
had he changed so much? And why hadn’t I noticed it before?
I cleared my throat. “Well, uh…. If you’re not out to impress this Susan person, then I don’t
see why you’re worried about the kiss.”
Fielding huffed. He spoke as if he were explaining it to a child. “It’s very simple. I can’t
avoid the party. Dr. Jamison has me scheduled for the drinks table from eight to nine. And I probably
can’t avoid Susan. She’s going to hunt me down like a fucking rabbit—this mistletoe business, really
it’s sexual harassment, plain and simple, but that’s the holidays for you. And I don’t want everyone in
the entire science department witnessing my first kiss and seeing how much of a pathetic loser I am.”
“Your first kiss?”
“Well, yes,” Fielding said, his glower darkening.
Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was. I knew Fielding hadn’t exactly been a wild
and crazy guy when he’d been living at home, but it never occurred to me that he could be that
innocent.
“Well… it’s not a big deal, Fielding. A mistletoe kiss—most of the time, it’s just a press of
lips. Nothing serious.”
“But what if it’s not? What if she sticks her tongue in my mouth and I don’t know what to do?
You should see the way she looks at me—it’s like I’m naked and I have ‘free lunch’ tattooed all over
my body.”
I laughed.
“I always have to attend these things alone, and everyone else brings their spouse or their
girlfriend or boyfriend,” Fielding continued with a frown. “That’s bad enough, but this—this has the
potential to be epically humiliating. I want everyone to go ‘Ooh, look at Fielding, he really knows
how to kiss!’” Fielding fluttered his hands in mock ecstasy. “Rather than ‘Did you see him slobbering
and looking like a deer in headlights? What a dork!’”
“I get it,” I said. And I did. I awkwardly patted Fielding’s shoulder. Fielding was a strange
dichotomy of arrogant genius and self-conscious wallflower. I had the feeling he’d been bullied a lot
in the past, even though he never talked about it. And though he pretended he didn’t care what anyone
thought, I knew that he did. He’d once spent a whole day without coming out of his room after some
jerks yelled names at him on a drive-by. I’d had to lure him out with chocolate ice cream and
Battlestar Galactica.
“Great!” Fielding smiled. “So you’ll teach me?”
“No. But, look, maybe we can ask Samantha.”
“I don’t want to kiss Samantha!” Fielding said loudly.
I glanced around nervously. “Why not? She’s cute.”
“She has a boyfriend,” Fielding said, in a thankfully softer, if sullen voice. “You’re my best
friend, Mick. I trust you. Besides, Samantha isn’t the best kisser on campus. If I’m going to learn
something, it should be from an expert.”
“Shit. Look, Regina only said that because she wants to get into my pants. I’m not literally the
best kisser on campus, okay? It was just a come-on line.”
Fielding didn’t look convinced. “If all the cheerleaders say you are, then you are. I bet they
kiss more guys than anyone else.”
Damn. There Fielding went with that logical reasoning. He’d probably worked out statistics
on how many guys a cheerleader was likely to have kissed on average. “Look, do you want me to ask
Samantha or not? Because I’m not going to kiss you.”
Fielding stared down at his tennis shoes, looking upset. Without another word, he got up and
stomped off to class.
I rubbed my forehead at the throb of an incipient headache. Shit.
5
“THAT IS the cutest fucking thing I have ever heard,” Samantha said. Her big brown eyes widened
and glowed with romantic fervor.
“It’s not cute,” I said, annoyed. “It’s a nightmare.”
Samantha pouted and batted her eyes. “But Fielding wants you to kiss him,” she cooed.
“Keep your voice down!” I looked around with paranoid fervor. This whole thing sometimes
felt like a punk that would end up on YouTube or something, making me a laughing stock. But no, no
one in the student union was paying any attention to Sam and me, despite the fact that it was fairly
crowded for a mid-afternoon. Everyone had been driven indoors by the frigid temperatures and heavy
clouds. We were supposed to get snow at any moment.
“Come on, Sam. This is serious. What am I gonna to do? He won’t drop it.”
Samantha sighed and took her coffee cup in both hands, considering it.
I loved Samantha to death. She was the only female friend I’d ever had. We’d been stuck
together in lab as freshmen in Anatomy 101. At first, I kept my distance because it was obvious at a
glance that Samantha was a nice girl, a serious girl. Nice girls were something I avoided at all costs,
no matter how cute. They expected things, things I had no interest in giving. But Samantha acted
oblivious to my charms, and that was pretty cool. Then I found out she was engaged to a boy she’d
been dating since middle school, her soul mate, who went to NYU. She was completely loyal and
deeply in love. I stopped worrying. We were both in the physical therapy program and had shared
lots of classes since. She wanted to work in a hospital with surgery patients. I was more passionate
about preventative care—helping people get fit and stay healthy. But we were both motivated to the
core. And, like me, the course work didn’t come easy to Sam. We understood each other.
She was also the only person I could possibly talk to about this. God knew, any of my football
friends would laugh me out of town on a rail if they heard a word of this. Worse, they’d give Fielding
a hard time. I might not want to make out with him, but I didn’t want the poor guy hounded.
Sam looked thoughtful. “Do you think Fielding is gay?”
I nearly choked on my salad. Yeah. Pertinent question.
“I don’t… think so? Is it even possible that someone who dressed that badly could be gay? I
dunno. I don’t see it.” I thought about it some more. “I don’t think he even sees it like that. He acts like
it’s all just some sort of mechanical experiment. He’s gotten it into his head that I’m an expert on
kissing, and he wants me to teach him the way I’ve taught him everything else. He’s never kissed
anyone before so he doesn’t understand that it’s, you know, intimate.”
“Oh my god!” Sam got puppy-dog eyes again. “He wants you to be his first kiss!” She put a
hand to her heart, which was apparently pit-pattering away.
“Sam. You’re about to wear that container of yogurt. Remember, I have a kid sister. I’m not
afraid to torture you.”
“But, Mick! His first kiss. Do you remember your first kiss?”
I jabbed my fork at the salad, frowning. “Yeah. It was my friend Dean’s aunt. She was like
thirty or something. We were having a sleepover, and she was staying at his house. I went out to get a
drink of water before going to sleep, and she pulled me into her bedroom and nailed me. I was
fourteen.”
“Aw,” Sam said sadly, putting her hand on mine.
“What? I’m a guy. It’s not like I said no.”
“But… she stole your first kiss. That’s supposed to be something magical.”
I shrugged. “I guess to a girl it is.”
But her eyes were like fucking wells of regret, and I did feel a pang of something. I’d never
really thought about it before, but in retrospect, a grown woman seducing her nephew’s fourteen-year-
old friend wasn’t a very upstanding thing to do. She hadn’t even been that good-looking or even very
nice about it. She’d gotten huffy when I finished too fast, like she expected a virgin to give her the
time of her life. I remembered feeling pretty shitty afterward. I’d never told Dean.
My salad didn’t taste appealing anymore. I pushed it away. “What about you? I suppose your
first kiss was with Rob?”
Sam got a dreamy smile. “Yup. At my parents’ cabin. We were twelve. We were sitting out on
the docks on a warm summer night. There was a full moon, crickets chirping…. God, it was
something else.”
I grunted. “I can see the hearts and flowers floating over your head. Makes me want to hurl.”
“I know.” Sam looked very pleased with herself.
“But that’s just another reason why I can’t do it. You’re right—Fielding’s first kiss should
mean something, not be some exercise in mastering a skill.”
Sam took a couple of bites of soup, thinking about it.
“Mick, you’re Fielding’s best friend. Maybe his first real friend. You’re sweet to him.”
“I… get along with him is all. He’s interesting. And you know how he is. Fielding may be the
smartest person I’ve ever met or ever will meet, but he needs someone to look out for him.”
“I’m just saying that he’s very attached to you,” Sam said patiently. “ And, let’s face it, you’re
fucking hot. As far as first kisses go, he could do worse.”
I glared at her. “Fielding isn’t like that. He’s never once looked at me like that—or anyone
else for that matter, not that I’ve seen.”
“But he did ask you to do it. So maybe it means more to him than he’s letting on—or than he
even realizes. He may not understand what he’s feeling.”
I shook my head, denying it. “No. Don’t make it more than it is. I’m telling you, he’s just
gotten it into his head that I’m the ‘best kisser on campus,’ and he wants to absorb my knowledge like
a Vulcan mind meld. It’s not personal to him.”
Sam tapped her fingers on the table, looking unconvinced. “Well, if it’s not personal, then why
don’t you just do it? Surely, you’re not so horrified by the idea of kissing a man that you can’t just
close your eyes and think of England for sixty seconds. If it means that much to him.”
The thought had crossed my mind. But thinking something like that and actually doing it were
two entirely different things. Holding Fielding close and….
I shook my head and leaned forward to speak quietly. “Come on, Sam. Kissing is… sex. I
don’t want to fuck up our friendship. What if he really likes it? What if he gets turned on?”
What if I do? The thought caused a hot and twisting panic in my gut.
Sam raised a mocking eyebrow. “Full of yourself much, Mr. Jock Man? You really think
you’re that irresistible?”
I laughed. “Yeah. That’s what people keep telling me. But, um… I was thinking….”
Sam took a bite of her yogurt and gave me a suspicious look.
“How would you feel about doing it?”
Sam choked and had to take a drink. When her eyes stopped watering, she said, “Do not even
go there. Fielding didn’t ask me, he asked you. Besides, Rob wouldn’t be too thrilled, I can tell you.”
I sighed.
Sam gave me a motherly pat on the cheek. “Well, you’re gonna have to figure this one out on
your own, toots. But whatever you decide, try not to hurt him, will you?”
And that was exactly what I was afraid of.
6
IT DID snow, in a big way. By the time Sam and I parted company at the student union, it was coming
down thick and furious in fat, heavy flakes. There was a good two inches on the ground when I got to
Schoellkopf Hall for my kinesiology class. I found a sheet of paper taped to the classroom door. The
lecture had been cancelled to allow off-campus faculty and students to get home. The prof listed a
reading assignment and a paper due for the next session.
It would probably end up being more work in the long run, but I was stoked. I felt the kind of
joy you only get as a kid when school is cancelled for a snow day. And I wasn’t scheduled to work at
the fitness center that night either. Boo-yah. I headed for home for some blessedly unstructured R&R.
Fielding was already there. He was standing at the DVD shelves when I walked in. I unlaced
my boots to leave them on the entry rug so I didn’t drag snow all over the house. He watched me with
a monster grin. “My classes were cancelled!” He held up two DVDs. “What sounds good to you,
Psycho or Terminator? I haven’t seen either one of them.”
“Later, bro, when it’s dark. Do you have thermal underwear?”
“Uh… what?” Fielding looked confused.
“Never mind. I’ve got extra.”
I rummaged around in my room and found an extra set of thermals. I went back into the living
room and tossed them at Fielding.
“Put those on under your heaviest jeans. On top, wear those, a T-shirt, and a sweatshirt. And
put on your parka and gloves.”
“Are we walking to Alaska?” Fielding asked drolly.
I smirked. “Have you ever had a snowball fight?”
“No,” Fielding admitted, getting an excited gleam in his eye.
“One snowball fight virgin going down! Hurry up. There’re only a few hours of daylight left.”
Fielding was a natural snowball mercenary. Seriously, he could have earned a living as a
hitman, if snowballs were lethal. He got my chest three times in a row right out of the gate, but his
snowballs exploded into powder on contact. I called time-out and showed him how it was done.
“Pack it like this,” I demonstrated, grabbing a few handfuls of sticky snow and pressing them
into a ball. “Hold it tightly for five to ten seconds. The heat from your hands, even through the gloves,
will start to melt the snow a little, making the snowball harder. Then it won’t fall apart so easily.”
“Structural integrity. Yes, I see,” Fielding said with a wicked smirk. “You could invent
gloves that would speed the process, you know.”
“Yeah, well, you do that someday and give me a cut. For now, it’s down to you, and it’s down
to me.”
“I will crush you,” Fielding deadpanned.
He sort of did. Which was embarrassing for an athlete like myself. I hadn’t expected Fielding
to have a decent arm, or any arm at all. I dunno. Maybe he calculated trajectories, or windspeed, or
the gravitational force of the Earth going around the sun on that exact day in December or something.
But whatever, he fricking got me every time, no matter how much I dodged. I felt like a duck at a
shooting range. I got in my share of killer shots, though—a couple of good ones to the knees, and then
I hit him right on the bridge of his nose, covering his glasses with snow. That was pretty hilarious. It
was less funny when he retaliated with a really hard one to the back of my head as I was doubled
over laughing, and then another in my face when I looked up to say “Hey!”
He thought that was pretty hilarious too.
A snowball fight just isn’t a snowball fight, though, unless you get a good handful of the wet
stuff down the other guy’s shirt. I had the advantage of knowing this, and I was keeping that
knowledge to myself. But first I had to get close enough. Deviously, I pretended my phone buzzed, and
I answered it. Holding up a finger to pause the game, I disappeared around the side of the house to
‘take the call.’ I snuck around the back and the other side, swallowing my giggles. Fielding was
kneeling there in the snow, packing snowballs with total focus, pressing them hard in his gloved
hands.
Snow isn’t the quietest medium in the world. It tends to give out little squeaks as you walk.
But this stuff was thick and fluffy, and somehow I managed to get up to him without being heard. I
scooped up a big handful of snow and, in one move, pulled back on his parka’s hood to make a gap,
then shoved my hand down the back of his neck.
He let out a high yelp and jumped up. The look of surprise and outrage on his face lasted for
about two seconds before he scooped up a handful of his own and started chasing me around the yard.
I evaded him, but then he caught ahold of my scarf and whipped me back. To postpone the dreaded
event, I went with the momentum, spun, and tackled him to the ground.
We wrestled and rolled in the snow, both laughing like crazy. He was trying to get his snow-
laden hands into my collar, and I was trying to keep them from their goal. I was stronger, but he was a
slippery and gangly and determined. Finally, I managed to get ahold of both of his wrists. I pinned
them down at his side, and lay flat on him to make him stop squirming.
Which was a really stupid thing to do.
He was still laughing long after I had gone silent. I should have jumped up immediately, but it
was like I was frozen, like if I moved at all it would somehow be charged in a way I wanted
desperately to avoid. I guess it was something like coming face-to-face with a lion. You want to run,
but part of your brain is convinced that if you just don’t move maybe it won’t see you.
Fielding did see me, though. He stopped laughing abruptly and stared up at me. He looked
rather frozen himself, which made me wonder if I’d been mistaken about which one of us was the
lion. His gaze slid to my mouth. His brow creased in confusion. And then I felt it—something warm
and hard blooming in the space where our groins were pressed together.
I swear, I had no idea if it was him or me, but I knew I had to get the hell out of there. I
jumped up like I was on fire. My brain was scrambled, and I took the first escape that my sluggish
little thought processes were able to devise. I saw his stack of snowballs, and I grabbed one and
started rolling it in the snow, making it bigger and bigger.
“What are you doing?” Fielding asked, from over my shoulder.
“Ever make a snowman?”.
“Really?”
“One-hundred-percent serious. And you’re falling behind already.”
He hesitated. “Is this a race?” I knew he was just making sure he understood all the rules.
I laughed. “No. It’s not a race, it’s a beauty contest. Or at least an ingenuity contest. Best
looking snowman wins. But you’d better get moving if you want to finish before dark.”
With a whoop, Fielding started gathering snow, and it was like that moment between us had
never happened. I was more than happy to push it out of my mind now and forevermore—and change
the locks so it couldn’t get back in.
While I rolled the bottom, middle and top parts of my snowman into balls in the way of ad hoc
snow artists everywhere, Fielding rummaged around in the house and emerged with a huge plastic
bowl I used for popcorn, a cardboard box roughly the same size, and a spatula. He packed snow
tightly in the box and then dumped it out four times to make a tall rectangle. I tried not to be too
curious, and focus on my own masterpiece, but I couldn’t help wondering where Fielding was going
with that thing. Then Fielding used a spatula to shave off the four corners to make tall round shape. He
packed snow into the bowl.
By the time I was thrusting in a carrot nose and pinning down dried prunes for eyes with
toothpicks, it was clear what Fielding was up to. A few scavenged computer components later, and
the front yard boasted my own fat snowman and—R2D2.
I looked at his creation with envy. “Show off.”
“Clearly, one of us has superior snowman making chops. I’ll say no more.”
“Mine’s more traditional, though. They made a movie out of it and everything. There’s
something to be said for a classic.”
“And yet, time marches forward. Hence the demise of floppy disks.”
I smiled—clever bastard—but I was still about to argue. Only just then, I noticed a car
driving slowly down our street. Since we’d been working in the front yard, a few cars had gone past,
but there wasn’t much traffic in the semi-blizzard. This driver, though, pulled over in front of our
house and got out. It was a girl, a short brunette with a full, pretty face. She wasn’t wearing a hat, and
the snow began to immediately clump in her long brown hair.
I walked over. “Can I help you?” I thought maybe she had car problems or was lost.
The brunette gave me a look—assessing, dissecting, and dismissing—that sent a chill down
my spine. Suddenly, she didn’t seem so pretty anymore. She walked up to the gate and put both hands
on the snowy top of it.
“Earth to Fielding,” she said loudly, ignoring me.
He was on his knees carving some more details around the shot glass he’d used for R2D2’s
‘eye’, and he stiffened at the sound of her voice like he’d been shot. He didn’t look over.
“What are you doing here, Susan?” he asked flatly.
“Just driving by. I see you’re making productive use of your time off.” Her voice dripped with
sarcasm.
Fielding didn’t reply, he just kept working. But I could see the frown deepen on his brow, and
his cheeks, already red from the cold, reddened a little more. That pissed me off. Why should
Fielding feel guilty about spending an afternoon in the snow? The guy worked like a dog and had most
of his life. He deserved—no, he needed—to live a little.
And then it struck me—Susan. Was this the Susan?
“You going to introduce me, Fielding?” I asked.
“Mick Colman, Susan DeVree. Mick is my housemate. Susan is in the physics department,
much to my despair.”
Susan smirked. “Ha ha. Very funny.”
Fielding stood up and, still not looking at Susan, seemed to be at a loss for what to do next.
He starting gathering up the tools he’d scattered around the yard. I took another step toward Susan and
leaned on the gate.
I gave her what was probably a not very friendly stare. She glanced at me, straightened her
back icily, looked at Fielding, then back at me with a sickeningly fake smile that said back-off,
jackass.
“Do you have that Electrodynamics assignment on Noether’s theorem? I can’t find my copy,”
she asked Fielding coyly.
“I have it.” Fielding stood up with his box of stuff.
“Would you mind if I copied it right now? I really need to work on it tonight. Please,
Fielding?” Her voice dripped enough sexual heat to melt icicles.
I could hear Fielding swallow from across the yard. “Okay,” he said in a shaky voice. He
carried his box into the house.
Susan reached for the gate’s latch. I got there first and put my hand on it, wanting very badly to
keep her out. I didn’t like Susan DeVree. I didn’t like her at all. She was clearly intelligent, but she
reminded me of some of the cliquiest popular girls in my high school, girls who weren’t enjoying life
unless they were dragging someone else down. I wasn’t sure why she had Fielding in her sights, but
she clearly did.
Was she really a virgin killer, like Fielding had said? Just looking for a notch on her belt? I
didn’t think so. I sensed something more… purposeful in her than that. And when I thought about it,
Fielding was a smart catch. He was probably the brightest student at Cornell. His future as a scientist
was assured, he came from a wealthy family, and he was naive. A girl like this, she could wrap him
around her little finger. The thought made me ill.
For a few seconds, we wrestled over the gate, Susan trying to open it and me holding it
closed.
“Let go, asshole!” Susan snarled.
Reluctantly, I let go. She stormed by me toward the house. As she passed the snowmen, she
looked at them with disdain. “R2D2 and Frosty? What are you, twelve?” She pulled open the house
door hard enough that it squealed and went inside.
I knew she’d meant the barb for me, and I really couldn’t give a rat’s ass what Susan thought
of me or my snowman. But she’d insulted Fielding too, and that… I dunno. That made me feel really
fucking bad inside.
Susan didn’t stay long, thanks to my hovering and Fielding’s refusal to string more than two
words together or look her in the eye. After she took the assignment and left, Fielding settled down at
his computer, staring at the screen intently.
I watched him from the doorway. Fielding’s jeans were soaked from the snow. I knew he’d
get lost in his work and sit in them for hours.
“Hey. Before you get into that, you should get out of those wet clothes. A hot bath wouldn’t
hurt.”
“I’m fine,” Fielding said, not looking up. He was in a bad mood—which sucked, after we’d
had so much fun playing in the snow.
“Still wanna watch Psycho?”
“No. I have to study.”
I’d been looking forward to an unexpected movie night. But I knew Fielding well enough to
know it would be impossible to coax him away from his work now.
“Okay. But you should take a quick a bath to warm up,” I said firmly. “You’ll get sick if you
sit around like that. I’ll fill the tub for you. Okay?”
Fielding shrugged in half-hearted agreement, but his shoulders relaxed. I could see some of
the tension go out of him, and then he turned and gave me a smile. I smiled back. I liked to take care of
him, and little acknowledgments like that made me feel ten feet tall.
I lingered in the doorway. I wanted to say something like Stay clear of that girl, she’s
trouble. Or, You’re right, Susan DeVree should not be your first kiss. But I had no right to say the
first. As for the second, if I said something like that, I’d have to step up, wouldn’t I? Get over myself
and do the deed. And I couldn’t. I really seriously fucking couldn’t.
So I didn’t say anything. I just went to draw the bath.
7
THURSDAY morning I went to wake Fielding up for our run and found him burrowed under his
blankets, dead to the world. He’d probably worked all night. I left him to sleep, packed on a few
layers, and went out on my own. But the salt trucks hadn’t been by yet, and the snow was still dense
on the sidewalks and roads. I gave it up as a bad deal.
Thursday’s are heavy class days for me, and I worked at the Grain Basket from eleven to one,
making sandwiches and smoothies. I did that shift Monday through Friday, in rain or shine, in sickness
or in health. It made the day go by fast, which was good, because I was too busy to think about stuff I
didn’t want to think about—like a certain thing that had happened in the snow.
I got home at four thirty, and Fielding was studying at the kitchen table.
“I’m dying for a run,” I told him. “Wanna come along?”
“God, yes. Please.” He dropped his pen, stood, and stretched.
Our favorite route was a three mile loop that took us through the Cornell Plantations
arboretum with its gardens, bogs, and woodlands. It was beautiful any day of the year, but today
especially. The snow had melted from the paths but remained on the lawns and trees, creating a
ridiculously scenic winter wonderland.
I liked running with Fielding because his long legs made me push my own pace just that little
bit harder. And I liked getting him away from his computer for a while, out into the fresh air. When
we’d started running together in September, it soon became clear Fielding was a natural. I was solid
and thick, muscular and compact, and I sort of thud when I run. But Fielding is lean and rangy. After
his body had gotten over the initial shock of doing any exercise whatsoever, he’d quickly become a
more graceful runner than I would ever be.
We normally ran without stopping, but we hit this amazing-looking pond with a white dock. It
was just about sunset and the pink sky reflected in the royal blue surface of the water. We stopped
without either of us saying a word and just stood there, taking it in.
Fielding broke the silence with one of his patented non sequiturs. “You haven’t been dating.”
I blinked up into the sky with a frown. “What? Yeah, I have.”
“When?”
“When what?”
“When do you go out with girls? I haven’t noticed you doing that.”
“I go out,” I huffed. “Remember that time I wore that maroon jacket on a date and you said it
was good because if I spilled wine on it no one would be able to tell?” I chuckled.
“Yes. But that was September.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Yes, it was.”
I thought about it. It might have been September.
“You have a reputation on campus as a slut,” Fielding said bluntly.
I choked back a gasp. “I do not!”
“You do so. Not that I care. But I don’t understand the disparity between your reputation and
what I’ve personally observed. It makes me wonder. Either your reputation was undeserved—in
which case, was it a deliberately cultivated falsehood or a misunderstanding? Or your reputation was
deserved, but your behavior has since changed. In which case, what was the impetus for change?”
I rolled my eyes. “Or maybe it’s not that complicated. Maybe I’ve just been working my ass
off this semester.”
“More so than last year?”
I didn’t know what to say. I really hadn’t been conscious of it, but it was true. I hadn’t gotten
laid much this semester. My classes were kicking my ass, even without football practice. I worked a
lot of hours, ran and lifted weights, and I had Fielding to spend time with at home. The whole mating
routine just hadn’t been a priority.
But even last semester, when I’d still been living in the dorms, the novelty of having lots of
sex in college had been wearing off. It felt like I was just going through the motions. Like it was all
the same old, same old, a different girl head popped on the same old interchangeable bits. I mean, sex
is a little slice of heaven, obviously. But sometimes, the girls weren’t onboard with the whole no-
strings plan. Sometimes they got hurt, and I ended up feeling either trapped or like a total heel. I hated
that feeling. Honestly, it was hardly worth it.
“I’ve just been swamped lately, but I do need to get out more. Use it or lose it, right? I’ll have
plenty of time over the break, and I know lots of girls back home.” I felt better now that I’d committed
to a plan, a plan involving nubile young women.
Fielding said nothing.
“What about you? You could date. There’s got to be someone out there nicer than Susan
DeVree.” I couldn’t get the attitude out of my voice when I said her name. God, please let Fielding
date someone other than Susan DeVree.
He shrugged. “I never had the time for a social life when I lived at home. I’m not in the habit
of it.”
I chuckled. Not in the habit of it. That was so adorable. “You should go for it, bro. You’re
cute enough to get girls.”
I noticed a flat rock on the edge of the pond, and I picked it up. I threw it underhanded across
the water. It skipped three times before sinking.
Fielding’s eyes brightened. “Show me.”
“Sure. Ya gotta find a flat rock though.”
We found some more, and I tried to teach him how to throw them as low and flat to the surface
of the water as possible. But for once, Fielding couldn’t master it. His wrist kept tipping, causing his
throws to plop and sink. I had the feeling, though, that his heart wasn’t in it. He seemed distracted.
“I guess I never saw the point,” he said after a bit. “I mean, I haven’t had a strong urge to date
anyone. My father says I’m a late bloomer. He was too. He didn’t start having sex until he was
twenty.”
“Ah.” Okay, TMI. “Well, I’m sure—”
His tone got harder. “And before I would even consider dating, I at least want to know how to
kiss. I want you to teach me.”
“Fielding….”
“Will you?” he demanded.
My jaw clenched. “No.”
Fielding turned and headed for home. I started to run after him half-heartedly—the other half
of my heart having been torpedoed to the general vicinity of my ankles. But he opened up and
stretched those long legs and outpaced me like he was the roadrunner and I was standing still.
When I got home, he was in his room. I warmed up dinner and fixed him a plate. He ate it at
his desk, mumbling about needing to study.
I wasn’t sorry to escape his company, honestly. I needed some space, and I needed to hit the
books myself. I sat on my bed with my texts and notebooks arranged around me, but I stared at the
same page for hours, not comprehending a single goddamn word.
Fielding Monroe.
Why did life have to be so fucking complicated?
8
I SHOULD have known the discussion wasn’t over. Fielding was tenacious as hell once he got his
mind set on something. So on Friday, when I got the text, I knew exactly what Fielding was referring
to.
You’re working 2 jobs. You need money. I’ll pay a tutoring fee. $35/hour.
I was working at the Grain Basket at the time. I glanced at the text message, put my phone back
in my pocket, and kept making the turkey and avocado on whole grain. I ground my teeth.
The text message alert sounded again. I finished the order and put it up before I allowed
myself to look at it.
$45
I texted back. No.
Fielding’s response came fast and furious.
I’ll do the dishes for a month.
And take out the trash.
And pay the tutoring fee.
It’s just a KISS. It is totally worth all that.
Please.
I turned off my phone. For the rest of my shift, my hands were shaking.
Friday nights, I worked at the Cornell Fitness Center from seven ’til midnight. The gym closed
at eleven thirty and I had to make sure everything was cleaned up and put away before I left. Like
everyplace else on campus, the fitness center was decked out in red bows, fake greenery, twinkle
lights, and silver tinsel. Holiday songs like “Santa Baby” played over the loudspeakers in the weight
room instead of the usual pop-rock mix.
I was showing an old football buddy of mine how to use the elliptical machine when Fielding
walked in. He was dressed in gray sweat pants and a white, short-sleeved T-shirt. He saw me and
waved.
My stomach immediately clenched up like a pill bug rolling into a ball. God, if Fielding
started talking about kissing here, in this testosterone bastion, in front of the guys—like seriously guy
guys—I was going to kill him.
I got through my spiel on the elliptical. That was a miracle in itself with about two brain cells
focused on the task. When I was done, I went over to Fielding. He was running his hand over the free
weights against the mirrored wall as if he were trying to choose a bowling ball.
“Hello,” Fielding said, smiling at me in the mirror.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. It came out pretty cold.
Fielding’s smile vanished. “You’ve been lecturing me about lifting weights for months,” he
said stiffly.
True enough. Any other time, I’d be thrilled that Fielding had actually shown up. I licked my
lips, and nodded. “So you’re here to work out?”
“No, I thought I’d practice my Brahms. That’s why I came to the gym.”
I rolled my eyes. “Okay. Fine. Great. Let’s start with biceps.”
There were a dozen people in the weight room, but I knew them all, and they were
comfortable with their routines. So I had the time to pace Fielding, taking him through a beginner
workout for arms, back, and chest. It quickly became clear Fielding was really focused on the
workout and wasn’t going to talk about the kiss. I started to relax.
“So what actually causes muscle tissue to grow?” Fielding asked. He watched his bicep
plump and flex while he curled a dumbbell. There was a frown of concentration on his face. He
actually had more muscle tone than you’d expect, though working out a few times a week would do
wonders for him. My eyes roamed over him. With his lean build, it wouldn’t take long for the results
to show.
I put my palm on his bicep to feel it work, motioned for him to keep going. “It’s, um, called
hypertrophy. When you work out, you break down some of the muscle fibers, then afterward your
body repairs the tears, building the fibers bigger and thicker. It’s sort of like scar tissue.”
“That sounds attractive.” Fielding arched a brow ironically, but he didn’t stop pumping the
weight. Under my hand, his warm muscle flexed and contracted.
I let go and took the dumbbell from him. “That weight’s too light for you. You want to lift
enough so that eight to ten reps is challenging. If it’s too light, you won’t break down the muscle
fiber.”
I handed him a twenty pound dumbbell. “Do the other arm now. Nice and slow.”
He switched. I wrapped my palm around his other bicep, just to see if I could feel it working
harder with the heavier weight.
“What happens on a chemical level?” he asked, rolling the weight up and down.
I smiled. Fielding was the first person to ever ask me shit like that in the gym. Normally,
people just wanted to be shown what to do. They could care less how or why it worked. It was nice
to actually use my education for once. “The stress on your body causes hormones to be released—
testosterone and growth hormone, some insulin. They increase the amount of nutrients going to your
muscles so they can rebuild.”
Fielding gasped out a ninth rep. “I see. The body’s equivalent of FEMA,” he joked, putting
down the weight.
I laughed. “Loosely, yeah. Only it actually works.”
“And this is good for you?” He sounded dubious.
My hand was still on his bicep. I frowned and pulled away. “It’s brilliant for you. Having
more muscle mass makes you stronger, of course. But weight training also strengthens your bones and
tendons, and it’s good for your metabolism and even your mental health. Let’s do your triceps now.”
I showed him an overhead pull.
“Ouch,” he said, trying it. “This isn’t nearly as much fun as running.”
“Hence the term working out.”
He snorted. “You like it, though. You get anxious if you don’t get your work out in.”
I rested my fingertips on his triceps on both sides to encourage him to keep going as he lifted.
I shrugged. “The hormone and adrenaline buzz gets to be addictive.”
“How addictive?” he asked with interest.
I knew what he was asking. So I told him about clinical studies, blood tests for serotonin,
about people so addicted to working out they got body dysmorphia and ended up ridiculously huge.
He soaked it all up avidly, and not because he had a particular interest in fitness the way I did, but
because he was simply curious about everything.
We made it through triceps and biceps and went on to butterfly chest presses while we
chatted. And I couldn’t help thinking—all this recent drama aside, this is why I loved spending time
with Fielding. The guy was funny and razor sharp, and when he decided to give his attention to
something, he did it wholeheartedly. He had to dissect it and understand it completely, to master it.
Within one month of coming to the gym, he’d know more about body-building than anyone else here,
including me. He’d be able to teach classes on it if he wanted to.
Fuck, I admired that. It fascinated me to watch Fielding, gave me this weird thrill. I admired
him and envied him too, in equal doses. There’s a saying—talent recognizes genius, and I guess that
was me and Fielding. I was smart enough to get into Cornell, and I was smart enough to graduate in
my chosen discipline. But it was never without struggle. Fielding, he was so far above me
intellectually, so gifted, it just made me drop my jaw in awe and do a mental kowtow.
He was special. You don’t meet many people in life who are that special. Maybe that’s why it
was so much fun to show Fielding the things his upbringing hadn’t exposed him to.
Like kissing, a voice in my head said.
I felt a spike of dread. No, not like kissing.
Fielding was lying flat on his back, doing bench presses. I stood at his shoulders, spotting him
in case the weight got the best of him and giving him some tips on form.
But at the thought of the kiss, the words dried up in my throat. Fielding didn’t seem to notice.
He kept doing reps.
Would kissing be like the weights? Like running? Like the snowman? Would he bring the same
focus and enthusiasm to sex that he brought to everything else? What would it be like to be with
someone like that?
Fielding’s white T-shirt was tight across his pecs and damp with sweat right in the middle of
his chest. His legs were folded over the end of the bench instead of off to the side like most people—
damn, his thighs were long. His dark hair was damp around his face, and his blue-gray eyes were
locked on the ceiling as he pushed the barbell up and lowered it slowly. His full lips were slightly
parted as he breathed through the reps.
I realized I was staring. I felt a burn deep in my gut, as if I’d just done a few hundred sit-ups.
Heat flushed my skin. My cock swelled rapidly, and there was a painful ache in my balls, an intense
physical longing so sharp it was like a knife jab. Fuck.
Fuck!
There was no way to avoid the truth this time—the hard-on was mine.
I got pissed. I took the barbell out of Fielding’s hands. “That’s enough.”
Fielding sat up. I couldn’t look at him. “Listen, um, I’ve got to go help some other people. Do
two more sets like that and then call it a night.”
“But I thought I’d hang out and walk home with you.”
I lost it. “What the—I don’t want to walk home with you, okay? Just… leave me alone! For
God’s sake.”
I said it loudly, and a half-dozen people turned to look at us.
Fielding dropped his eyes to the floor, and his face went from pale to scarlet in what seemed
to be painfully slow-mo, but had to be no more than a matter of seconds. Guilt punched into my gut,
killing my embarrassment and my arousal both in a wave of black ice.
“Look, Fielding—I… I didn’t mean that.”
Fielding shook his head in a harsh jolt, not raising his eyes, and walked quickly out the door.
9
I GOT home after midnight. The door to Fielding’s study was closed, but a light shone underneath and
there was the faint sound of keyboard tapping. I knew I had to talk to Fielding, apologize for what
happened at the gym. But I was sweaty and I needed a shower. I also needed to get my act together,
figure out how to most effectively grovel, for grovel I must.
I showered and changed into my bedtime sweats. When I was done, the light in the study was
still on. I girded my loins and knocked on the door. There was no answer. With a sigh, I opened it
anyway.
“Hey,” I said.
Fielding was staring at his computer monitor and typing. He didn’t respond. I could see his
face reflected in the glare on the window. He had a closed-off look, angry and really hurt. I felt like
the biggest piece of shit that was ever shat out by the world.
“I’m sorry I said those things. I really didn’t mean it. I guess I’ve just been stressed out about
this whole… kissing thing.”
“Well, you can forget it. I won’t ask you again,” Fielding said coldly. “Now please go away.”
Jesus, his voice was like ice. I gripped the door handle, needing to make this right like I
needed to breathe.
“Actually, I was thinking… you’re right. I’m making way too big a deal out of this and… it’s
fine. I’ll do it.”
Fielding stopped typing. His back got even stiffer. “Quel sacrifice! Laudable, but I wouldn’t
want to disgust you.”
“Come on, dill wad,” I teased. “Special offer expiring in ten… nine… eight…”
Fielding jumped out of his chair. His face was happy but wary. “Seriously? Because you
don’t have to do this if it really goes against your principles.”
I snorted. I turned around and walked out into the living room.
“I’ll be right there!” Fielding called out after me. “Gonna brush my teeth! Wait for me!”
I laughed. I looked around the room, my heart hammering in my chest.
Was I going to do this? I was. Why? It was the right thing to do. I couldn’t let Fielding be
chewed up by Susan DeVree. And… and Fielding had asked. He’d asked me.
And I wanted to. That was, I wanted to get it over with so I could put it out of my mind and
things could go back to normal. But all I could think about was Sam’s damned crickets and moonlight.
Fielding’s first kiss. Jesus, the pressure.
I put on some classical music that Fielding liked and peeked out the drapes. The moon was
only three quarters full, but it shone brightly off the snow. I opened the drapes and turned off the
lights, feeling ridiculous but weirdly happy. My pulse was pounding so fast I felt like I’d been doing
sprints, and we hadn’t even started yet.
Fielding bounced into the room like an over-enthusiastic puppy. “For me?” he gushed in
response to the music and the dim lights.
I tried to keep my face serious. “Just remember. This is about teaching you the mechanics of
kissing. It’s not a real kiss.”
“You mean you won’t actually kiss me?” Fielding asked, confused.
“No, I am going to kiss you. I’m just saying this is not, like, an actual passionate kiss between
you and me.”
Fielding looked blank. “Of course.”
I wasn’t sure who I was trying to convince—Fielding or myself, but I had a feeling I’d never
said a sentence more meaningless in my entire life. Fielding wasn’t paying attention anyway. He
looked as excited as a kid on Christmas morning.
“Right. So where shall I sit?” He fluttered nervously to the couch and arranged himself with
his arms over the back. Not satisfied, he moved to sit in the corner, one hand on the arm. Not liking
that, he squirmed his ass in the middle of the couch.
“Just….” I interrupted with a smile. “Come ‘ere.”
“Standing? Will that be comfortable?”
“You’ll be standing at the party, won’t you?”
“Right. Good thinking. Excellent.” Fielding hopped up and came to stand by the window with
me. He wiped his palms on his pants nervously. “Very good. So how shall we—”
I grabbed his face and kissed him.
I’d taken Fielding by surprise, and his lips were already parted. They felt as good as they
looked—firm and full. I tried to go slow, but I only managed a few sweet presses before my tongue
was demanding a piece of the action and sliding into Fielding’s mouth with a will of its own.
Fielding, who’d been awkward and stiff at first, suddenly melted against me with a moan in
his throat that was not analytical at all.
I reminded myself that I was supposed to be teaching kissing, focusing on the mechanics and
actually thinking about what I was demonstrating. But the sensations were overwhelming, and my
reason was washed away in a tidal surge of pure, heady chemistry. I became completely lost in
kissing Fielding.
It was so… fuck. And it was… damn.
The arousal I’d felt at the gym returned, this time dressed in Kevlar, and it was kicking my
ass. A slow-rolling, hot-as-sin lust swept through my body, setting every cell on fire. Fielding’s
mouth was sweet and minty and warm, and the suction was just right. He was a quick study, mirroring
my actions, alternating between sucking gently at my mouth and suggestively lathing with his tongue.
But there was an innocence in him, a surprised and eager passion that trembled through his body,
unable to be contained. I could feel how much it was affecting him, and it made me crazy.
I slid a hand behind Fielding’s neck and held him closer, kissed him deeper. My tongue
surged in and out of his mouth. It fit so perfectly it was as if Fielding had been designed for me to kiss
him just like this.
He made another inarticulate noise in his throat. His hands came up to my waist and clutched,
shaking. I started to answer that invitation, to pull him in flush, wanting more, wanting to feel him
pressed hard against me, needing to rub and….
I suddenly realized that I didn’t want Fielding to feel how turned on I was, because I was, I
was completely hard. And I didn’t want to feel if Fielding was in the same state or—worse, if he
wasn’t. Either way, I wasn’t ready to deal with that.
I pulled back, breaking the kiss. I tried to get a grip on myself.
“There,” I said, my voice rough and unrecognizable. I took one look at Fielding’s face, and the
breath caught in my throat.
Fielding stood there staring at me. His eyes were wide, his irises nearly eclipsed by pupil.
His mouth was slightly open, red from kissing, and emitting soft pants. Even in the moonlight, I could
see a patchy red flush of arousal on the pale skin of his throat. Oh, fuck. He looked so openly
bewildered and lost in desire that it took every ounce of will I had not pull him back in and kiss him
again.
“Oh,” Fielding said in a soft, dazed voice.
I cleared my throat. “So… uh, that’s it.”
Fielding nodded dumbly. And kept nodding. For once, he was speechless.
“Right,” I said. “Well, it’s late. Good night.”
I turned abruptly and went into my room. I leaned back against the closed door, breathing
hard. I tried to resist, I really did, but I was too far gone. I pushed down my sweatpants frantically
and took myself in hand. I was so hard and aching it hurt, my dick pulsing in pure need against my
fingers—aggressive, demanding. I tried not to think of anything while I brought myself off, but the kiss
lingered. I could still taste that mouth, feel the sensations of that tongue moving over mine. The best I
could do was refuse to think about who that mouth, that tongue, belonged to. It didn’t take long.
When I was done, I sank down against the door, my spirit sinking along with me.
I was so incredibly, incredibly screwed.
10
I’D BEEN right all along. Kissing Fielding turned out to be a monumentally stupid idea.
Because as much as I struggled to get a handle on what had happened, with what I was feeling,
at least I could pretend nothing was wrong. But Fielding, Fielding absolutely sucked at lying and
prevaricating.
It was obvious from that very next morning that things were not normal between us. Fielding
could barely look at me. It was Saturday, and usually on Saturday mornings we hung out at home.
Fielding would brave his weekly phone call from his mom, and then we’d go for a run to detox. I
worked at the fitness center Saturday nights, so we’d do something fun in the afternoons—watch a
movie or play cards or walk somewhere for lunch. But this Saturday, Fielding mumbled something
about the lab and took off in the morning with his book bag, head down. He didn’t even stop when I
called after him about taking a sandwich.
On Sunday, Fielding stayed in his room. I studied at the kitchen table determined to play the
‘nothing’s changed’ card. Around three, Fielding came out and got a dish of frozen yogurt. He stood
eating it at the sink for the longest time while I pretended to be engrossed in my writing. I finally
looked up at him. He was staring at my mouth with an intense expression. He was wearing a baggy T-
shirt and jeans, and that telltale flush of arousal burned on his neck like a port-wine stain. A spoonful
of frozen yogurt hung halfway to his mouth and, having melted, dripped into the bowl. He was so
focused that he didn’t even notice I was watching at him.
I felt a surge of anxiety and lust so strong it was like a bullet to the gut. Without a word, I got
up and went to my room.
The thing was, I knew exactly what was going on with Fielding—that kiss had revved his sex
engine, so to speak, maybe for the first time in his life. And he didn’t know how to deal with it. But
what did Fielding want? Was it just a matter of a strong response to his first external sexual stimuli?
Or was he really gay? Had I fucked up and just made things more confusing and painful for him? And
I had to worry about all of that on top of my own shit storm.
I had no clue what was going on with my body.
I’d been straight my whole life. At my high school, tiny little pond that it was, I was a football
star. Girls were so easy and so available, it was a no-brainer. I’d gotten a reputation that all my
buddies teased me about, and then I’d had to uphold that reputation. I can’t deny that I reinforced that
view of me whenever possible, deliberately carrying it with me to college. The other guys seemed to
find it cool, plus having a rep like that was a form of protection. The more girls saw me as a
womanizer, the more I attracted the kind of girls who just wanted to fool around, and the less I was
taken seriously by girls who would expect something more.
That was a good thing. Because the thought of getting tied down to a girl scared the ever-
loving crap out of me. The close relationships I’d had were always with guys—John Davison in
middle school, the ‘brat pack’ in high school with Dean Thomas as my best bud, fellow football
players Chili and Connor my first two years at Cornell, and then Fielding. The two of us became
joined at the hip practically overnight once he’d moved in. That was always the way it had been with
me—women were for sex, but it was guys I felt comfortable with, that I was really loyal to.
The realization was a little dismaying in the current context. The fact that I’d never had a
girlfriend longer than a week—that was bad, right? The fact that I’d always preferred hanging out
with guys? With Fielding? Still, that didn’t make me gay. I was just commitment-phobic, lots of guys
my age were. It wasn’t like I’d ever wanted to have sex with a guy.
Except… if I was honest with myself, if I unlocked a certain drawer in my mind, that drawer
wasn’t exactly empty, was it?
I remember thinking about jerking off with Dean when we were in high school, just because it
sounded dirty and cool. I’d never brought it up, though, because I was afraid Dean would think I was
gay. And once, when we were camping, I’d really wanted to suggest we crawl into the same sleeping
bag and get each other off. I’d been horny and a little drunk, and there were no girls around. I
remember thinking at the time—if you couldn’t be honest with your best friend and say ‘Hey, I’m
horny, wanna get off?’, then who could you be honest with?
I hadn’t been honest. I kept my mouth shut and nothing happened.
But all that was just normal, hormonal, teenaged guy stuff, random thoughts. All boys thought
about stuff like that at that age. Hell, I was probably in the minority because I’d never actually done
anything, never really experimented. I’d only thought about it.
Until that kiss with Fielding, which had turned me inside out. Even thinking about it
transmuted my one-hundred-eighty-pound, all jock frame into fucking Jell-O.
Shit.
The tension in the house continued at nearly unbearable levels all week. Fielding was barely
talking and hardly eating. I didn’t know whether to press him or leave it alone. In the fine tradition of
sticking my head in the sand, I left it. I hoped it would all blow over. I hoped I wasn’t going to lose
my best friend over this. Something had to break.
On Thursday after classes, I came home to find Fielding unpacking two large boxes in the
living room. They contained Christmas decorations. Fielding had already put up a small artificial
tree. It stood bare and unlit, but the stuff that went on it, and more, was spilling from the boxes.
“Where’d all this come from?” I asked.
“My dad. I asked him to send me some appropriate items.”
I poked through a box. There were hand-blown glass ornaments in there and a dozen strands
of thick twinkle lights.
“Appropriate for what? Martha Stewart’s Christmas Special? This is expensive boutiquey
shit. Want some help putting it up?”
“No, I have to do it all by myself. I’m compulsive like that.”
I looked at Fielding in surprise.
He snorted. “Psych! God, you’re easy.”
“Hosebag,” I huffed.
So we decorated. We did the tree, and there was enough left over to string lights over the
pseudo mantle on the pseudo fireplace and around the archway between the living room and kitchen.
When we were done. we turned off all the lamps so the room was bathed in Christmas lights.
Fielding stood in front of the tree, his head thrown back and his eyes closed. He had a big
smile on his face. He looked like a little boy. “Do you know if you stand this close to the tree and
close your eyes, you can still see the colored lights through your eyelids?”
I smiled. “You really love Christmas, don’t you?”
Fielding opened his eyes and shrugged, looking self-conscious. “I guess so. I always spent it
with my dad.”
“Didn’t you see your dad a lot? Your mom and dad both live in Manhattan, don’t they?”
“Yeah, but my dad traveled for work. And my mom had me in so many classes there was
never much time to see him. We had lunch together on Sundays. But Christmas was different.
Everything was shut down, and I didn’t have to do anything. I got to be with my dad for a couple of
weeks, and we always decorated and went to Christmas shows. Normal stuff. It was the best.”
Somehow, I pictured Fielding’s father as this Gordon Gekko type in a Manhattan penthouse,
maybe taking a young Fielding to Rockefeller Center. Not exactly my brand of normal.
“Hey, if you want the truly ordinary, you should visit Pennsylvania sometime. My mom cooks
Christmas dinner in our little avocado-colored kitchen in our seventies split-level, my little sister
runs around chasing the cat and screaming, the dog is out in the backyard romping in the snow, and my
dad with his beer gut watches the holiday bowl.”
Fielding looked at me like I was rather scary species of alien. “And where are you in this
scenario?”
“On the couch watching football with my dad, of course.”
“So you leave your mother to slave away over a hot stove?”
“Yup. In Lebanon, PA, that there’s women’s work.”
“But you cook now,” Fielding pointed out.
“Yeah, well. If I didn’t, neither one of us would ever eat healthy. Speaking of which, how
’bout I make us some hot chocolate?”
“With every fiber of my being: yes.”
So I made hot chocolate—with raw cocoa powder, almond milk, and a little stevia—and took
two cups into the living room. Fielding was sitting on the couch, and after a moment’s hesitation, I sat
down on the couch too.
It was nice, very nice—having things feel okay between us again, the coziness of the tree and
the lights, and being just Mick and Fielding. But the sense of calm didn’t last more than a few minutes
before I started to feel it—a hyper awareness of how close Fielding was, the insidious memory of
that kiss, the creeping heat and tension, tightening my balls and making me feel reckless and anxious. I
was determined to ignore it and have a pleasant, Christmasy evening, though. I didn’t leave.
Fielding, still looking at the tree, cleared his throat. “So I’ve been thinking….”
“Yeah?”
He licked his lips nervously. “We should try that kiss again. I was so… muddled. I’m not sure
I even kissed you back.”
I huffed in disbelief. “Uh, yeah, you did, Fielding. You kissed me back.”
“Yes but… you were the initiator, the controller. I need to see if I can do that.”
The words hung between us for a moment, floating there like a lead balloon. My pulse kicked
up and the butterflies in my stomach flapped like they were trying to escape ahead of a summer
monsoon.
“That’s not a good idea,” I said quietly. “I barely stopped last time.”
“Stopped what?” Fielding looked at me in surprise.
I steadily met his gaze. “You know what.”
Fielding turned bright red and looked down at his cup. His hands were shaking. He started
breathing hard. For a long moment, he stared down into his hot chocolate. Then he said, “What if I
don’t want you to stop? I want you to teach me, Mick. I want it to be you.”
I got a rush of that now-familiar, panic-laced lust. I knew he wasn’t talking about kissing.
“Fielding,” I warned.
“Mick,” Fielding replied, looking at me fiercely.
Fuck.
Fielding put down his cup. “I’m going to kiss you again,” he said, sounding very determined.
He put his hand on my thigh. I gasped in surprise. Hang on, I wanted to say. I can’t. Don’t.
But I couldn’t get anything to come out.
Fielding scooted closer. Oh, God.
Surely, one kiss wasn’t enough to turn Fielding the virgin into Fielding the seducer. Yet he
always had exhibited a pushy streak when he wanted something. And the look on his face was pure,
focused, Fielding Monroe concentration.
My heart—Jesus, it was about to pound out of my chest. Waves of heat traveled up my leg
from Fielding’s hand and circled in warm, gushing eddies in my groin.
“I don’t think—” I began, but that was all I got out before Fielding leaned in and kissed me.
Fireworks. Fucking hell. I opened my mouth helplessly, and Fielding moaned low and needy
at the first stroke of his tongue against mine. He pressed against me blindly, eagerly, his need an open
book, like a starving urchin plastering his face against the window of a restaurant.
What that did to me! God, I never had a prayer. Lust swamped me, hotter and more furious
than anything I’d ever felt before, and I had zero fucking resistance left. I had no clue what I was
going to do with a male, or how to do it, but I knew I was going to do it right goddamn now or die
trying.
Groaning, I pressed Fielding back into the sofa, never breaking the kiss. I reached down to
pull up his legs and then settled beside him.
But Fielding wasn’t satisfied with that. He rolled onto his side so we were chest to chest and
gripped me tight around the waist. He pressed his whole body into mine, acting purely on need and
instinct. I felt his cock, hard as stone, thrusting tentatively against me. And it was so… stupendously
hot to feel how turned on he was, to know that I had made him feel that way. I shivered and broke the
kiss so I could lick and nuzzle at Fielding’s neck. I had to catch my breath, get back some control. It
would be humiliating to come in under a minute like a twelve-year-old.
“Please. God, Mick, please,” Fielding begged. “I’ve never felt this way before, and I… I
don’t want us to stop.”
I pulled back to look at him. His face was flushed and wracked with raw desire. There was a
flicker of fear there too—fear of rejection.
“We’re not stopping,” I promised, caressing his face. And then, because saying that, I don’t
want us to stop, sent a message to every lust-soaked crevasse of my brain that, yeah, this was a sure
thing, and hallelujah, I rolled on top of him.
He welcomed my weight with a moan and reached up for a kiss. I hesitated. He felt good
under me, but it wasn’t quite right. I lifted up a little. “Let me lay between your legs.”
He hurried to comply, spreading his thighs, and I laid back down.
I wasn’t quite sure it would work with a guy the way it did with a girl, but it did. I could feel
his groin through both our jeans, the soft mound of his balls and the hard root of him pressing against
my own. It felt so damn good I couldn’t stop my hips from thrusting against him almost as soon as I
laid down. And God, yes.
He whimpered and grabbed my hips hard, thrusting up against me. I took his mouth. Fielding’s
tongue was so innocently erotic and eager it pushed me to an edge I didn’t even recognize. I tried to
keep our thrusts lazy and erratic. I didn’t want it to be over too soon. I got my hands under Fielding’s
T-shirt and stroked his chest. His skin was soft—soft as a girl’s. The lean lines of his stomach and
flat planes of his nipples drove me nuts. And Fielding was being just as enthusiastic. His hands
pushed my T-shirt up to my shoulders, forcing me to break the kiss long enough for him to pull it over
my head. His hands were everywhere, feeling my chest, the muscles of my back, my sides. And it was
Fielding who was the first to reach down, forcing his hand between us so he could touch me. He
rubbed my erection through the denim and emitted a long moan, as if touching me was the biggest turn-
on ever.
“Fuck,” I said, breaking the kiss. I hurried to undo my belt and zipper, fighting with Fielding
for access. As soon as the zipper was down, Fielding pushed his hand into my briefs and wrapped it
around me.
“Oh, my God,” Fielding groaned. “You feel so good. I like that!” He sounded so ardent, and
so surprised, it made me smile, even as the pleasure of his touch had me thrusting up into his hand.
Fielding explored me, stroking with those pianist fingers of his. It felt so damn fine my eyes
rolled up in my head. I forgot about kissing or touching him for a long moment, just soaking in the
sensations created by his hand on me. Then I remembered—I was supposed to be the mentor here.
“Stop,” I said, grabbing his wrist. “I’m close. Just… wait.”
Fielding removed his hand with a pout, like he was being denied a prize, as I reached for his
jeans. I fumbled them open and pushed them down to his thighs.
That act, pushing down Fielding’s jeans and briefs, and freeing his erect cock to the air, felt
more personal and more real than anything else we’d done. There was no getting around the fact that
he was male. And he was so exposed—hard and vulnerable. I felt weirdly protective, like I was
doing this for Fielding and I was going to take care of him. It inspired a wave of tenderness that I
wasn’t used to associating with sex. It confused me a little, but it didn’t dampen my lust, only tinged it
with an aching melancholy.
I took his pants completely off and mine too, wanting nothing between us. And when that was
done, I took a moment to stare at the very first erection, besides my own, that I’d ever seen in real
life. I touched it carefully with one finger. That fragile skin felt so different when it belonged to
someone else, silky and soft as warm air. Fielding’s penis was a little fatter than mine, maybe a tad
longer. The head was broader and more distinct from the shaft than mine was. It was fascinating, and
it spoke of sex in a way that felt base and taboo, dangerous and exciting.
A tremor went through Fielding. I looked up to see him biting his lip, forcing himself not to
thrust and looking at me with such trust. And at that moment, I wanted everything. I wanted to kiss
Fielding’s mouth, and I wanted to kiss his stomach and chest. I wanted to taste him, to know what it
would be like to have his cock in my mouth. I wanted to give Fielding the bliss of his very first
blowjob, to make his first time special. But I hesitated, not sure I could really go there.
As if reading my mind, Fielding quirked an eyebrow and got a little smirk. “Chicken? Switch
places. I want to try it.”
He growled the last, enthusiastic about the idea of sucking me. It challenged me in a way that
had my ego roaring. Who was the experienced one here?
“No,” I said. I put my arms under his legs and around his hips and yanked him toward me. I
took him into my mouth.
I’ve always been an oral person. I liked going down on girls, liked giving someone the
ultimate pleasure. This was the same in principle, and yet it was not a fucking thing like going down
on a woman. I loved the way Fielding’s breath hitched at the first feel of my mouth, the shocked
squirms and guttural moans as I started to suck him, moving my head up and down. Christ. My hands
cupped his hipbones. His hands clenched, hard, over mine. Frantic noises rumbled in his throat. He
moved his hips as much as he could with both of us holding him down. His shaft slid in and out of my
mouth.
I didn’t take him all the way in, a little fearful of gagging, but together we worked several
inches of him along my tongue and the roof of my mouth. He was hard as fuck, and it was so hot to
feel him slipping in and out like that, fucking my mouth. It was blowing my mind: the noises he made,
the strumming tension in his body, the trembling of his thighs, the massively aroused hardness of him,
the movement of his cock. Sliding in and out. Of my mouth. I closed my eyes and just tried to hang
on. I sucked him hard on each withdrawal, the way I liked it. I circled his head with my tongue before
each plunge in.
There was no way he was going to last, or me either. I took one hand off his hips to reach
down and touch myself. Jesus, I was so close. Pleasure shot through me as I squeezed.
“Mick!” Fielding panted, a warning and a question.
I pulled off long enough to encourage him. “Go ahead. Do it.” I pulled him back into my
mouth. It felt too good having him there to stop, and I wanted to make it the best for him.
Fielding lifted his shoulders off the couch and clutched my head, crying out. I slowed down as
he started to come, rolling my tongue around him, drawing it out and causing him to cry out louder,
thrust harder trying to get that firm contact. His spunk flooded my mouth as my hand pumped hard and
slid over the head of my dick. All of it together was overwhelming. I groaned long and low as my
orgasm boiled through me, sweet and strong and endless.
I went somewhere else for a while. It was an incredible high, but it couldn’t last forever. As
the endorphin rush faded, it was just me, Mick Colman, and my best friend, Fielding Monroe, lying
naked on the couch, covered with come. The taste of it was strong in my mouth.
And suddenly, I wasn’t sure I could deal with that. I sat up.
Fielding lay boneless on the couch. “Oh, my God. That… There’s no superlative good enough
for that. I’m going to have to invent a new word. I’m saving that memory forever.”
I said nothing.
“Can I do it to you?” Fielding asked, reaching for me.
“I, uh, I already came.”
“You did?”
I smiled at him as best I could. “Yeah. That was really hot.”
“Oh, my God,” Fielding said, collapsing back. “That so does not cover it. Can I do it to you
next time?”
Next time. “Hang on. Let me get something to wipe us up.”
I grabbed my pants and went into the kitchen. I wiped myself off with some paper towels and
put on my jeans. I went back out to hand some towels to Fielding.
He wiped up, watching me the whole time. “What’s wrong?”
I didn’t want to act like a jerk and hurt Fielding. For God’s sake, it was his first time.
Nobody’s first time should end with the other person running out the door. It wasn’t his fault that I
didn’t know how I felt about any of this, but I really didn’t. A panic was growing in my gut, a toxic
walnut that was expanding outward like a chia pet of pure fear.
I did the best I could. I leaned down to kiss Fielding on the forehead. “Nothing’s wrong. That
was great. Are you okay?”
Fielding looked at me warily but nodded.
“Cool. I’ll make us some sandwiches. Then I guess we both need to hit the books.”
I made sandwiches, feeling like I was hovering somewhere over my body, watching myself go
through the motions the whole time. We ate at the table. I tried to make small talk about school, but I
could tell Fielding was watching me with far too much discernment. I cleared the table and briefly
rubbed his shoulders.
“I have to work on a nutrition paper,” I said, leaning down to give him a hug. “I’ll see you
later.” Then I grabbed my computer and escaped into my room.
I sat on the bed for a long time, holding my head, wondering what the fuck I’d just done to my
life. I’d been into the sex, gay or not, no question there. Like, seriously into it. And, of course, I cared
about Fielding. He was my best friend, and I just really liked the guy. I didn’t blame him for any of it.
I’d consented to the kiss, and I’d more than consented to getting naked on the couch. But I was at a
loss how any of that cohered into a scenario that made sense in my life. It was like I was staring at
puzzle pieces that were perfectly fine in their own right, they just didn’t fit together, and they didn’t fit
inside me.
I felt like throwing up. I felt like crying. I did neither, choosing to eject from reality instead
and go to sleep.
11
“LET’S SEE if I’ve got this straight,” Samantha said. “No pun intended. You’re upset because
Fielding—who’s a super cute genius, who’s probably going to work for NASA or something when he
graduates, and win the Nobel Prize someday, and who is also your best friend because you guys fit
together like peanut butter and jelly—is sexually attracted to you, and you to him.”
I glowered at her.
“You poor bastard,” Sam said. “Life can be so cruel.”
“You’re missing the point. I’m not gay.”
Sam rolled her eyes to show her opinion of that. Then she thought about it. “Well, you’ve
certainly been to bed with more women than any gay guy in history. Maybe you’re into girls and boys,
ever consider that? Maybe you’re an equal opportunity employer. A switch hitter. A man of many
moods. Like oysters AND snails.”
“Oh God, shut up. My folks would go ballistic if I dated a guy. My dad barely forgave me for
quitting football.”
Sam looked curious. “Why did you quit, by the way? You never told me.”
I sighed. “Because I was good but not great. I was never going to make the pros, and I didn’t
want to fuck up my body getting injured. I need that body, thank you very much. It’s hard to be a
fitness expert when you’ve got a bum knee. Plus, our classes aren’t exactly a cakewalk. I was better
off focusing on my studies and trying to max out my grades.”
“Right. You made that decision for yourself, and it was the right one for you. Your folks just
had to deal.”
“But this is so much worse!” I argued. “I live in small town, Pennsylvania, for God’s sake.
My family goes to the Methodist church.”
Sam frowned at me, impatient. “No, Mick, you live in Ithaca, New York, and after you
graduate, you can go anywhere you want. This is your life now. You can’t live it to please someone
else—not your jock friends, not me, not even your parents. Especially not your parents.”
I knew Sam was right—I couldn’t make decisions based on what would please my folks. Let’s
be honest, when had I ever? But it was one thing to make my own adult decisions. It was another to
become a person who might not even fit into your family’s lives anymore or into your own perception
of yourself.
I leaned forward, talking low. “But, Sam, I don’t want to be gay. I mean, obviously I must be
bisexual, but that doesn’t mean I have to choose to be with a guy. Seriously, think about it. If you had
a choice would you choose to live your life as a gay person and put up with a bunch of bullshit from
people?”
“If I loved someone, and that made me gay, then yes!” Samantha was upset. She shook her
head. “Jesus, Mick, get over yourself. You’re going to rip Fielding’s heart out, aren’t you?”
“You’re the one who told me I should be his first kiss!”
“I never said you two should sleep together. But if you are, and you’re both into it, then I don’t
get why it’s a problem!” Samantha stood up and grabbed her tray. “Look, you’re a good guy, Mick,
but when it comes to romance, you’re pretty much a shit, you know? So whatever you decide, just,
please, minimize the damage. He doesn’t deserve that.”
“I know.” I stared down at my hands on the table, wishing I could maybe conveniently die of a
heart attack or something in the next few days. But no, I just had to be healthy.
Samantha relented and heaved a sigh. In an unusual show of affection, she leaned down and
kissed me on the cheek. “I know you care about Fielding. You’ll do the right thing. I’ll see ya.”
*
I was still worrying it over in my mind like an OCD dog with a bone when I did my Saturday
night shift at the fitness center two days later. I’d managed to avoid Fielding since that night on the
sofa, but I knew I was being cowardly and that I had to deal with it soon. I was leaning toward telling
Fielding that I wanted to go back to the way things were before. Fielding would be hurt, but I could
try to soften the blow. And with winter break coming up, it would be a good time. We could both use
a little time apart. In January, we could start with a clean slate.
That wasn’t what I necessarily wanted—neither my heart nor my newly-ramped up, bi-curious
hormones. But the alternative scared me. Fielding and I already lived together, so it was kind of all or
nothing. I was still trying to come to terms with the fact that I was bisexual. I wasn’t ready to be in a
committed relationship with a guy.
So when Regina came into the weight room that night, in a pink leotard and short shorts, and
asked for my help on the weight machines, I went along with it. I guided her hands on the chest press,
leaned against her back, and listened to her flirtatious chatter. I smelled her shampoo and looked
down into her enticingly displayed cleavage. I tried to feel something. Hell, I wanted to feel
something. And I did.
I felt like an idiot for flirting with her and wasting my time and hers when I didn’t even like
her. And then I felt like a complete tool when I looked up and saw Fielding watching us from the
doorway, his face wiped blank.
Fielding turned and walked out. I backed away from Regina, tripping over myself in my hurry
to put space between us. But it was too late. I had the sickening sensation that I’d been caught with my
hand in the cookie jar, even though we hadn’t been doing anything. Well, nothing much.
I ran out into the lobby to catch Fielding, but he was already gone.
I thought about what it must have looked like to him. I remembered what it felt like that first
time your feelings got crushed. That was one first time I didn’t want to give him. It made me sick. I
texted him, told him to come back so we could do his workout.
But Fielding didn’t reply.
I made it home shortly after midnight. Longest evening of my life. The house was dark. I
thought Fielding was in bed, but I couldn’t resist cracking open the door to his room to be sure. In the
dim light, I could see the bed was empty.
“Fielding?” I turned on the light. There was nobody there.
Fielding wasn’t in his office either, and his laptop was gone. I was seriously worried now, a
sense of dread turning my limbs to lead. I checked Fielding’s closet. The big suitcases and most of his
clothes were gone.
I pulled out my phone.
You’re not home. Where are you?
No reply.
In my room, I found an awkwardly-wrapped Christmas gift on my bed. The small card was in
Fielding’s scrawl and just said “To Mick.” Feeling like an even bigger heel, if that was possible, I
pulled off the wrapping paper. It was the Blu-ray set of The Lord of the Rings trilogy with tons of
extras and special features. Fuck. It was a hundred dollar set. I knew because I’d looked at it
longingly on Amazon before deciding I couldn’t afford it.
Why had Fielding given my Christmas gift to me now? Winter break wasn’t for another week.
Where was he?
I hardly slept. I kept listening for the sound of Fielding coming in—a sound that never came.
At some point, I fell asleep, though. I woke up at seven, and Fielding still wasn’t home. The worry I’d
been feeling was growing into full-blown panic. Where would Fielding go? He didn’t have a lot of
other friends he could stay with. He couldn’t have gone home to Manhattan, not with final exams
coming up. And it was way too cold to sleep outside.
I picked up my phone and texted.
I’m worried about you. You can’t just vanish. Call me right now and convince me that
you’re all right, or I’m calling your mother.
Ten seconds later, the phone rang.
“I’m fine,” Fielding said bluntly.
Oh, thank God. I felt some relief at that, but still, something was very wrong.
“Why did you leave the gym last night? I was just showing Regina how to use the machine. It
didn’t mean anything.”
There was no answer.
“Fielding?”
“I know you didn’t want to kiss me,” Fielding said in a rush. “Or do the other thing. I know
you don’t like males like that.”
My face squinched up at the awkward pain of it. “Okay. But we can still be friends, can’t
we?”
Fielding sucked in a harsh, deep breath, as if he’d been slapped. “I’m at a hotel. I’m fine, but I
can’t see you right now. Don’t call my mother.”
Fielding hung up.
12
I SWEATED through the rest of the weekend and then the start of the week. By Wednesday, Fielding
still wasn’t home. At least work and my classes kept me from getting too frantic or depressed. But
when I worked at the gym Wednesday evening, my eyes were glued on the door all night long.
Fielding never came in.
By Thursday, I was so tied up in knots I couldn’t eat. There was a knock on the door just after
seven in the evening, and I ran to open it, praying it would be Fielding. It wasn’t. An older man stood
on the doorstep dressed in an elegant long wool coat with a suit underneath. I took one look at the
man’s face and knew exactly who he was.
“Mick? I’m Fielding’s dad, Lex Monroe.”
I shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, sir. But, uh, Fielding’s not here right now.”
“I know that. Can I come in?”
I stepped back to allow Mr. Monroe to enter. Jesus. This was a thousand shades of awkward.
Did he know what had happened? I could feel my face burning.
“C-can I get you something to drink? Herbal tea?” I stammering like a dork—or like a guilty
person with something to hide. Like having sex with your son.
“No thanks. I won’t be here that long.” Mr. Monroe scrutinized me with a gaze nearly as sharp
as Fielding’s. “I stopped by because I’d like to know what’s going on. When my son calls me to ask
me to spring for a hotel for the last week before Christmas break, I know there’s something wrong.
But he won’t talk to me about it.”
“If he doesn’t want to talk to you, it’s not really my place to—”
“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Mr. Monroe said impatiently. “I wasn’t supposed to pick
Fielding up for Christmas until Saturday, but I drove all the way up here early because I want to know
what happened.”
Mr. Monroe didn’t seem angry; he seemed concerned, but also very determined to get
answers. And suddenly, my own worry and heartache felt like more than I could bear without
cracking down the middle.
“I’ll make tea,” I said quietly. I went into the kitchen and got out a couple of cups, put
peppermint tea bags in them. I filled them with hot water and handed one to Mr. Monroe. He took it,
but he didn’t sit down and he didn’t take off his coat.
“Look, I don’t know you,” Mr. Monroe said. “But you’re all Fielding’s talked about since he
started Cornell. He’s never had a friend like that. So I figured you’d know what happened. Did the
two of you have a falling out?”
I sighed. Fuck it. I needed to make sure Fielding was okay, and if that meant coming clean and
being embarrassed, or possibly punched in the nose, then I’d just have to deal with it. “Something
happened. Between me and Fielding.” I looked Mr. Monroe in the eye, hoping I wouldn’t have to
elaborate. I could see from his tightening expression that I didn’t.
“I see,” Mr. Monroe said calmly. “And now you want him to move out?”
“No! He’s the one who took off. I… I just wanted us to go back to being friends. I’ve been
texting him, but he doesn’t answer. I just…. I don’t know. I’ve never… Shit.”
Mr. Monroe put down his cup. “I can’t say I’m shocked. From the way he’s talked about you, I
was worried he might be getting… overly attached. I wouldn’t care if you two were making a go of it.
But—”
“You wouldn’t?” I asked him, surprised.
“No.”
“You wouldn’t care if Fielding was in a relationship with a guy,” I asked again, just to be
one-hundred-percent sure.
Mr. Monroe glared sternly at me in a way that reminded me eerily of Fielding. “Would I be
thrilled? No. But I’ve had a lot of years to get used to the fact that Fielding is different. He’s special.
He’s utterly unique.”
“I know.”
“What I want is for my son to be happy. I’d love to see him in a healthy relationship with
someone, anyone, who really cares about him. But I have to tell you, Mick, that doesn’t appear to be
what’s going on here. Whatever Fielding needs, I’m going to get for him. And I think what he needs is
a new place to live.”
“No!” The very idea was like a slap in the face. “Fielding needs me. Not just anyone is going
to get him. I look after him. I make sure he’s eating healthy and getting some exercise—sleeping.
I’m… he’s my best friend. I really tried…” I stopped, choked by the lump in my throat. I tried so
hard not to fuck this up. But I had. I shook my head, unable to go on.
Mr. Monroe looked at me for a long time. He took out his keys and tossed them in his hand.
“On Saturday, he’ll be going home with me. I’m going to talk to him about moving. If he decides that’s
what he wants to do, I will make that happen. So if that’s not what you want, Mick, then I suggest you
convince him otherwise before we leave.”
I gripped the counter to hold myself up and nodded. I had no doubt that this man could make
just about anything happen and happen fast.
“Good-bye, Mick. And… thank you for looking out for Fielding this past semester.”
After Mr. Monroe left, I went into Fielding’s bedroom and looked around. It was so Fielding
—cluttered with stacks of science books on the floor, Hubble posters on the wall, and a pair of
Converse tennies tossed in the corner. I sat down on the bed and smoothed my hand over the rumpled
navy comforter. I picked up one corner of it and buried my face in it. It smelled like Fielding.
My cock and the ache in my chest both stirred at the sensory input, wanting him. I groaned.
Maybe it was for the best. Maybe Fielding should move out. Maybe we should both move on
with their lives.
But the idea of someone else living here, of coming home and Fielding not being here to have
dinner with, watch movies with, to run together with at first light—it left a torn, bleeding hollow
inside me that felt like it might never be filled again. It was impossible to imagine a time when his dry
wit wouldn’t be around to make me laugh, or to imagine someone else being the one to see the joy on
his face when he learned something new. I thought about all of that, and then I thought about never
holding him again, never kissing him again, never again experiencing Fielding pushy and demanding
and needing me so bad he trembled with it.
And man, it fucking hurt.
“Okay,” I said out loud, swallowing hard. “Okay. I give. Uncle.”
It was time to admit defeat, to lay down my cards, and concede the game.
For the first time in my life, I was in love. I was in love with a guy. I was in love with
Fielding Monroe.
13
THE PHYSICS department Christmas party wasn’t exactly the hottest ticket on campus, so there were
no bouncers at the door checking student IDs before letting people in. Still, I felt like an imposter as I
made my way through the students and faculty gathered in Physical Sciences Building atrium.
The open space in the new glass and steel building went up four stories, so the ceiling was
way out of reach. But someone had gotten creative and strung up wires across the room every ten feet
or so. Christmas lights were wound around these wires and a ball of mistletoe hung from the center of
each one. Christmas trees were spaced out along the glass wall, every light reflecting cheerfully.
Small tables were scattered with people eating snacks, and more people mingled around and through
them.
I wore my best outfit—a pair of well-fitted black wool trousers, a black button down shirt,
and a red tie for the season. My palms were sweating. I saw Fielding by the drinks table talking to a
professor. I stopped and took it in. My heart did an absurd little pirouette in my chest.
Fielding’s dark hair was combed back, and he wore a tight silver T-shirt and black jeans. He
had a plastic light strand hanging around his neck that reflected green and purple under his chin. God,
he was so damn cute. He was the cutest person in the whole world. Seriously.
Holy shit, when did this happen to me?
I smiled. I really didn’t care.
Fielding looked up as I approached and he abruptly stopped talking and stared. I was nervous
as hell, but I walked right up to him.
“Hi,” Fielding said, his gaze locked on my face.
“Hi.” I tried to smile, but it was a little wobbly.
The professor cleared his throat. “I’ll talk to you later, Fielding,” he said. Fielding didn’t look
at him. The professor wandered away.
Christ. In my time, I’d picked up dozens of girls. I’d never been this terrified of rejection. I
made myself speak. “I came because I miss you. I miss you a lot. And I’ve been doing some thinking. I
don’t want to just be friends.” I reached out and took Fielding’s hand. He didn’t pull away.
“You don’t?” Fielding said, frowning.
“No.”
“Oh.”
Fielding studied my face as if he could find the answers to the universe there. He looked
puzzled, like he didn’t understand and he wanted to ask something but he was afraid of what the
answer might be.
My mouth was dry, I was so nervous. “So…. I thought maybe we could date, or be boyfriends,
or partners, or whatever you want to call it. If you want to.”
“Really?” Fielding looked truly surprised.
I laughed nervously. “Yes, really. I’m not sure I’ll be any good at it. But I want to try. If you
want to. I mean, you’re supposed to say yes, you know. Or you can say no too, but I hope you won’t.”
Fielding smiled. It was a joyous smile that lit up the whole room. He took a step closer,
holding tight to my hand. “I say yes.”
I felt a rush of relief and pleasure so dense it was like swallowing a ball of light. Jesus. This
love thing was not for wimps. We stared at each other for a long moment, and then I looked around
the room. Yes, there were some people watching us, including Susan DeVree who wore a clingy
purple dress and looked like she wanting nothing more than to cut off my testicles and add them to one
of the trays of hors d’oeurve.
“So did Susan nail you yet?” I asked.
“No. I’ve managed to escape thus far, clinging to the sides of the room like a limpet.”
I chuckled. “Well, maybe we should show her how it’s done.”
Fielding’s eyes widened and lit up, like that was the best idea ever. He turned abruptly,
pulling me along as he looked up at the lights overhead. When he found the spot he wanted, he
stopped and turned.
“Is this a sufficient clump of greenery?” Fielding asked.
“It’s a very, very nice mistletoe ball,” I said, smiling. I pulled Fielding a little closer, sliding
a hand onto his hip. “Hey—I know this isn’t your first kiss, but it’s the first time I’m kissing you just
because I want to.”
“For real,” Fielding said.
“Yeah,” I agreed solemnly. “Absolutely for real.”
Fielding got a wicked gleam in his eye. Then he slid a hand to the back of my neck and kissed
the ever-loving hell out of me.
Somewhere in the distance there were cheers and catcalls, maybe a little applause. But I
didn’t care. My world narrowed to the feeling of Fielding’s lips on mine, the sweet tug of suction and
tongue, and the heat it sent sliding down through the center of me with significant detonations at my
heart, stomach, and groin. My knees went a little weak, and I realized I’d pulled Fielding tight, our
arms wrapped around each other.
Reluctantly, I pulled back, grinning like a fool. Fielding looked a little dazed.
“Fielding? Who’s this? I’d like to meet him.” A professor stepped up to us. He smiled at me
and held out his hand.
“Mick Colman, Dr. Bieder,” Fielding said. “Dr. Bieder likes to shock students with a wand in
Electrodynamics.”
“It’s a, uh, useful demonstration,” Dr. Bieder said, looking a little embarrassed. “I promise I
don’t have it on me now.”
“Good to know.” I shook his hand.
“And this is Mick,” Fielding continued, smiling slow and sweet. “Mick is my boyfriend.”
And right then, seeing that proud and happy glow on Fielding’s face, I knew that I was a
complete and total goner, that maybe I had been for some time.
Love. Wow. I could feel the hearts and flowers and damn cupids floating over my head. Who
would have thought? It was like some weird-ass Hallmark movie.
And it was wonderful.
Epilogue
One year later
I HELD my breath and knocked on the wreath-laden front door of my childhood home. Fielding
looked nervous standing beside me in his long black wool coat and red scarf.
“It’s only three days,” I said, reminding us both.
“Seventy-two hours, give or take a few,” he agreed. “It takes the human body longer than that
to die of thirst, at least in this climate. However, the survival period is much shorter if one is flayed
alive.”
“It’ll be fine.” I said. We both knew it was a completely unfounded statement.
“And if it isn’t? Pennsylvania has those Civil War bolt-holes, doesn’t it? For hiding runaway
slaves? Perhaps I could squeeze into one for the duration.”
I cracked up, despite my nerves. “Well, yeah, but not in houses built in the seventies. They
were considered passé by then.”
Fielding’s eyes twinkled. “You don’t say.”
The door opened, and my mother stood there, cheerfully dressed in a red sweater with a
reindeer on the front, complete with sewn-on bells around its collar. For a moment, both she and I
were frozen with forced, happy expressions on our faces.
My mom studied Fielding for a long moment and sighed. “Hello, I’m Mick’s mom. I’m glad to
finally meet you in person, Fielding. Welcome.” She enfolded him in a hug, a real one. She held onto
him, and over his shoulder, her eyes met mine. Hers were a little sad but calm.
The knot in my stomach relaxed. Maybe it really was going to be all right.
This was the first time my family was meeting Fielding, but I’d told them about him a year
ago, on Christmas break. Our relationship had been so new, and it’d been torture to be separated. I
failed miserably at hiding it from my folks, what with me sneaking into my bedroom for long phone
calls four or five times a day, the ‘dopey look’ my sister swore I had plastered on my face, and my
announcement that I was going to spend a week of my break in Manhattan.
“You’ve met someone special, haven’t you?” My mom insisted, cornering me in the kitchen
one day. She was a champion interrogator. Seriously, she was like the maternal equivalent of
Torquemada.
“Yeeeaahh…” I hedged. “But.”
“But?”
“But… you’re not going to like it.”
My mom squinted her eyes at me. “Mick Colman, I’ve been waiting for you to get a hook in
your mouth for years. Whoever she is, if she’s got you all gaga-eyed, she’s really gotta be something.”
I couldn’t lie. Well, I could have, but it felt like it would be cheating all of us. I took a deep
breath. “It’s not, um, not a ‘her’. You remember I told you about my housemate, Fielding?”
Her mouth dropped open.
To say my family was shocked would be putting it mildly. My mom tried to say positive
things, but it was clear she was deeply shaken. My dad, who prided himself on being a regular Joe,
retreated into the Silence of Doom. That Christmas break was awful. But over the past year, my
mother championed an all-family reversal. She joined a ‘families of LGBT’ support group. She sent
care packages to our house addressed to both Fielding and me. And we talked a lot over the phone,
my mom and I. Hopefully, all my gushing about how smart and talented and wonderful Fielding was
had sunk in.
The school thing was much less dramatic. After I’d nearly lost Fielding, accepted the fact that
I was in love with him, and came out to my parents, there wasn’t a lot that could faze me. When we
returned to Cornell in January, Fielding and I were a couple. We were the buzz on campus for a while
—mainly because of the fact that I’d played Cornell football and was a well-known ladies man, and
because Fielding was, well, Fielding. But he was oblivious and I’d already separated myself from
that football life. I grew closer to a few of my old friends, and the rest moved on.
It made me wonder if there’d been some subconscious urge that had prompted me to distance
myself from those ties long before that kiss. I guess I’d known that football Mick wasn’t really who I
was. It just took me a while to find the other guy.
The weird thing, though, was what an attentive boyfriend I became. The whole PDA thing?
Crazy. I loved being out with Fielding, holding hands, cuddling on a bench. I liked taking him to
football games and sitting on the bleachers together arm in arm. It made Fielding’s face get this
adorable flush, like he couldn’t believe he had a cute boyfriend, or that I would be proud enough of us
to be open like that. He did, and I was. And really, the campus was fairly sophisticated. Most people
didn’t care.
And the sex? Holy hell, the sex was amazing. Fielding was relentless and he wanted to try
everything.
Yeah. It had been a damn good year. And now here we were, home for Christmas.
Our first day home, we all went to the mall for some last-minute shopping, attended a
Christmas musicale, and ate out at a steak house. My dad was polite to Fielding but obviously
uncomfortable. My sister Lindy, who was thirteen, was completely absorbed in her own world. My
mom was… thoughtful. But Fielding was Fielding. He talked about the Large Hadron Collider, which
pretty much lost them, and then Pennsylvania battlefields, which got my dad going like a Chatty Cathy.
He loves that shit. Fielding insisted on chopping vegetables for my mom on Christmas Eve and
dragged me into the kitchen to help.
We had our traditional Christmas Eve dinner of roast beef and hedgehog potatoes. As we ate,
my mom turned to Fielding with a glint in her eye. “So, Fielding…. I have to say, I was worried that
Mick would never fall in love.”
“It was a valid concern,” Fielding deadpanned.
I gave off an insulted huff.
“So when did you realized that the two of you…that you were more than just friends?” she
asked him. She was trying so hard, and I appreciated it, I really did. Lindy watched Fielding and I
intently, waiting to hear the answer, while my dad silently communicated with the roast beef on his
plate.
Fielding thought about it, studying my face. “I moved in with Mick at the end of August, and I
believe I was in love with him by early October.”
My stomach did a warm, twisty somersault. I put down my fork.
“We were running one morning through the fall leaves. I looked at him and had what I suppose
was a defining moment. I saw how handsome he is, how strong—mentally and physically. When I
was with him, I… I really liked myself. Being with him was fun. Easy. I’d never felt so intensely
about anyone before, and it made me sad. I wanted him to be around for a long time, to be my friend
forever, and I knew it didn’t work that way.”
Damn. Fielding could really get to me. I held out my hand, and he took it.
“But it didn’t occur to me that what I was feeling was romantic love. Not until Mick kissed
me.” Fielding smiled slowly, a blush warming his cheeks. I felt an answering smile hijack my own.
“Which he would never, ever would have done if not for the mistletoe.”
“I would have figured it out eventually,” I argued, my voice rough.
Fielding shook his head. “Au contraire. It was completely, and irrefutably, down to the
mistletoe.”
My sister giggled and jumped up. She ran from the room and returned a moment later holding
a plastic mistletoe decoration from the Christmas tree. She held it over our heads. “Kiss!”
“Lindy!” I complained.
“Oh, just do it already!” Lindy whined, as only a ninth-grader can.
My mother gave me a shrug, smiling. I glanced at my dad. He had a pinkish cast to his face,
but he raised his eyebrows and lectured me patiently.
“I’m not any expert on the gay thing, but if it’s anything like regular people, you’re having a
moment here, son. Go with it.”
Fielding and I both chuckled at that. Then I kissed him.
I meant to make it a quick one, but Fielding caught me in his gravitational force and we
lingered, just a little. When we broke apart, my dad was staring at the ceiling, his face beet red.
“Pass the potatoes,” he said with a sigh.
So I did.
After dinner, we watched It’s a Wonderful Life with the whole family, and then everyone else
went to bed while Fielding and I stayed up to watch Elf. He’d never seen it, and I just had to share it
with him. We laughed until we cried.
When it was over, I turned off the TV. The Christmas tree was lit, and we were alone. We
were bunked in separate rooms, of course, and a little Christmas Eve make-out session sounded way
better than anything Santa might stuff down the chimney.
But when I tried to pull Fielding into a serious snog, he had other plans. He looked at his
watch. “It’s two minutes after midnight, officially Christmas. I have something to give to you.”
He went into the guest room and came back with a present. It was wrapped in red foil, and it
looked like a shirt box.
“You don’t wanna wait ’til morning?” I asked. I had his present in my suitcase too, but I
thought we’d do it with the ’rents.
Fielding looked nervous. “I think it would be wise if you opened this while we were alone.”
Was it something kinky? I smiled. “Yee haw.”
I unwrapped the gift. Inside was a printed photo of a swanky lodge and a black velvet jewelry
box. My heart felt all jumpy, like maybe it was skipping beats. I looked at him questioningly.
“Open it,” he demanded.
I opened the jewelry box. There was a platinum and gold band inside—tasteful and terrifying.
“I want you to marry me,” Fielding said firmly. “I meant what I said at dinner—I want to be
with you forever. I was thinking we could do it this summer. My dad helped me pick out that lodge.
It’s in the Adirondacks. It’s an exceptionally beautiful setting, and they’re experienced at hosting gay
weddings. You need to book well in advance, so we tentatively reserved a date in July. But if that
doesn’t appeal to you, we can do it somewhere else, and I’m flexible on the date, but I hope it can be
soon.”
He was so nervous. Part of me wanted to laugh at how adorably earnest he was being, but
mostly, I was just stunned.
“Fielding…” I managed. It came out a bit strangled.
There were a lot of reasons why it was a bad idea. It was too soon. We were both young.
Hell, he was only twenty, and I was twenty-two. Fielding had never been with anyone else—how did
he really know he wanted me, for all time? We had no idea what lab he’d end up working for after
college, or if I could get a job nearby, or if being in a gay relationship would hurt his career, or mine,
and….
And there would never be anyone like Fielding Monroe.
He was looking at me with his absolutely focused determination.
I laughed. “Fuck. I should know by now that you always get what you want.”
“That’s because my success record at being right is extremely high,” Fielding said solemnly.
I thought about it. I’d learned my lesson about resisting love, and about how things have a way
of falling into place when you embrace it.
“Mick?” Fielding asked worriedly, taking my hands.
I smiled. “I say yes.”
E
LI
E
ASTON
has been at various times and under different names a minister’s daughter, a computer
programmer, a game designer, the author of paranormal mysteries, a fanfiction writer, an organic
farmer, and a profound sleeper. She is now happily embarking on yet another incarnation, this time as
an m/m romance author.
As an avid reader of such, she is tickled pink when an author manages to combine literary merit, vast
stores of humor, melting hotness, and eye-dabbing sweetness into one story. She promises to strive to
achieve most of that most of the time. She currently lives on a farm in Pennsylvania with her husband,
three bulldogs, three cows, and six chickens. All of them (except for the husband) are female, hence
explaining the naked men that have taken up residence in her latest fiction writing.
Her website is http://www.elieaston.com
You can e-mail her at
Twitter is @EliEaston
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