relieved and even a little bit triumphant.
“Oh yes,” Ronan said. “Tennis is good.”
“Yes. Yes, it is.”
Neither of them knows a bloody thing about sports, Ciaran silently fumed. I wish they would shut up and quit rambling. This was a dumb idea, bringing these two together. What was I thinking?
After a pause that bordered on awkward, Ronan asked, “So you’re enjoying Double A?”
Finally, something I can answer easily.
“Yes. Even though, you know, it’s only day two, I’m really enjoying it. Very much.”
So am I, Ronan thought. But what on earth am I doing? He’s so beautiful, so innocent. So unlike me. No, don’t think about that, not now. There’s enough time for that later. Just try and enjoy this. Enjoy him. “That’s good. It’s a great school.”
“Yes, much better than my old one.”
“In America?”
“Yes, Nebraska.”
“Never been there.”
“Not a place most people visit.”
“Yeah, guess so.”
“Yeah.”
He couldn’t remain silent any longer. The words poured out of Ciaran like a waterfall. “So imagine my surprise when my dorm mate told me he met my half brother on such a dark and stormy night. Why, it’s like the plot of one of those prim and proper romantic novels you’re so fond of, Ronan.”
Before Ronan spoke, he reminded himself that Ciaran was just jealous.
Don’t let him get to you, not in front of Michael.
“Ciaran doesn’t get Jane Austen.”
“And you do?” Michael blurted out.
Oh no, did that sound as insulting as I think it did?
Ronan wasn’t insulted; he was amused. He sat back and unclasped his hands, placing them on the arms of the chair. He smirked slightly. “Don’t I look like the typical Austen fan?”
“No, I must say that you don’t.” It felt good to say what was on his mind. Ronan may have been telling the truth, but he looked like a rugby player or a soccer player or a player of any type of sport, but not a devotee of nineteenth-century fiction.
“Well, I cannot tell a lie. I like her,” Ronan said. “And she’s kind of hot.”
Michael laughed and Ronan loved the way his green eyes glistened in the light. And how he kept laughing even when he spoke. “Yeah, in that nineteenth-century-spinstery sort of way.”
Fighting to keep a serious expression, Ronan stood up for one of his literary idols. “Do not mock my Jane.”
“Nope, not mocking. I’m a fan myself.”
“Oh, really?” Ronan asked. “First you mock her, now you’re a fan?”
“I’ll have you know I’ve read all her books. Is she your favorite?”
“One of.”
“So who tops the list, then?”
A faint shade of pink started to slither up the curve ofRonan’s ears. “I guess if I have to pick one, it would be Oscar Wilde.”
Michael hadn’t read all of Oscar Wilde’s books, but he knew enough about the author to know that if he was Ronan’s favorite, there was an extremely good chance that Ronan liked boys just as much as Michael did. When Michael answered, he tried not to reveal too much of his delight in deducing this little bit of information. “He’s cool. Do you, um, have a favorite book of his?”
Ronan paused. He felt as if he were going to share a deeply guarded secret and even though he was nervous, something told him he could trust Michael.
“The Picture of Dorian Gray.”
Michael had read that book, quickly and only in his bedroom, and had delighted in its every word. He imagined Ronan reading the book in his bed, one soft light illuminating the words on the page, his heart beating a bit faster than normal as the tale of eternal youth, beauty, and forbidden love unfolded line after line. Maybe they could reread the book together and talk about how lucky Dorian was to be so handsome and so admired. “That’s probably his best,” Michael offered.
Ronan tilted his head, his hair falling across his forehead. “Definitely his most popular and mainstream.”
“Mainstream?” Michael couldn’t see his grandparents or his mother
“Oh yes,” Ronan said. “Tennis is good.”
“Yes. Yes, it is.”
Neither of them knows a bloody thing about sports, Ciaran silently fumed. I wish they would shut up and quit rambling. This was a dumb idea, bringing these two together. What was I thinking?
After a pause that bordered on awkward, Ronan asked, “So you’re enjoying Double A?”
Finally, something I can answer easily.
“Yes. Even though, you know, it’s only day two, I’m really enjoying it. Very much.”
So am I, Ronan thought. But what on earth am I doing? He’s so beautiful, so innocent. So unlike me. No, don’t think about that, not now. There’s enough time for that later. Just try and enjoy this. Enjoy him. “That’s good. It’s a great school.”
“Yes, much better than my old one.”
“In America?”
“Yes, Nebraska.”
“Never been there.”
“Not a place most people visit.”
“Yeah, guess so.”
“Yeah.”
He couldn’t remain silent any longer. The words poured out of Ciaran like a waterfall. “So imagine my surprise when my dorm mate told me he met my half brother on such a dark and stormy night. Why, it’s like the plot of one of those prim and proper romantic novels you’re so fond of, Ronan.”
Before Ronan spoke, he reminded himself that Ciaran was just jealous.
Don’t let him get to you, not in front of Michael.
“Ciaran doesn’t get Jane Austen.”
“And you do?” Michael blurted out.
Oh no, did that sound as insulting as I think it did?
Ronan wasn’t insulted; he was amused. He sat back and unclasped his hands, placing them on the arms of the chair. He smirked slightly. “Don’t I look like the typical Austen fan?”
“No, I must say that you don’t.” It felt good to say what was on his mind. Ronan may have been telling the truth, but he looked like a rugby player or a soccer player or a player of any type of sport, but not a devotee of nineteenth-century fiction.
“Well, I cannot tell a lie. I like her,” Ronan said. “And she’s kind of hot.”
Michael laughed and Ronan loved the way his green eyes glistened in the light. And how he kept laughing even when he spoke. “Yeah, in that nineteenth-century-spinstery sort of way.”
Fighting to keep a serious expression, Ronan stood up for one of his literary idols. “Do not mock my Jane.”
“Nope, not mocking. I’m a fan myself.”
“Oh, really?” Ronan asked. “First you mock her, now you’re a fan?”
“I’ll have you know I’ve read all her books. Is she your favorite?”
“One of.”
“So who tops the list, then?”
A faint shade of pink started to slither up the curve ofRonan’s ears. “I guess if I have to pick one, it would be Oscar Wilde.”
Michael hadn’t read all of Oscar Wilde’s books, but he knew enough about the author to know that if he was Ronan’s favorite, there was an extremely good chance that Ronan liked boys just as much as Michael did. When Michael answered, he tried not to reveal too much of his delight in deducing this little bit of information. “He’s cool. Do you, um, have a favorite book of his?”
Ronan paused. He felt as if he were going to share a deeply guarded secret and even though he was nervous, something told him he could trust Michael.
“The Picture of Dorian Gray.”
Michael had read that book, quickly and only in his bedroom, and had delighted in its every word. He imagined Ronan reading the book in his bed, one soft light illuminating the words on the page, his heart beating a bit faster than normal as the tale of eternal youth, beauty, and forbidden love unfolded line after line. Maybe they could reread the book together and talk about how lucky Dorian was to be so handsome and so admired. “That’s probably his best,” Michael offered.
Ronan tilted his head, his hair falling across his forehead. “Definitely his most popular and mainstream.”
“Mainstream?” Michael couldn’t see his grandparents or his mother
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