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I swear to all that is holy, if Carter Morgan the fucking Third leaves me standing on this porch, I’ll…
Unfortunately, I am not having a great day, and subtlety is not my strongest attribute. The man standing in front of me, whom I assume is Carter Morgan III, looks like the kind of person who would rob Carter Morgan III at gunpoint.
There is a deep V of sweat soaking the back of his shirt and the faint aroma of sweaty man is in the air.
“You want some soup or something? No offense, but you look like a corpse.” “Full offense, but you look like someone who deals weed to middle schoolers.”
His gaze is appraising as he looks me over, trying to get a measure of me. I hope he finds something he likes. If not, begging it is.
I’m coming to realize that the expression I had thought was annoyance earlier, is actually just his face. He doesn’t seem to have another expression.
“You good with leftovers?” he asks, and then starts heating up a bowl before I have a second to answer. This guy is insane.
Carter is a little intense, and I’m not entirely convinced I’m making the correct decision here.
The look Carter gives me is acidic enough to peel paint from walls. “You’re not my maid, dude, what the fuck. My laundry is rank, you don’t want anything to do with that, trust me. Eat your soup and I’ll give you a tour.”
“Use whatever you want. I’m down here a lot, between classes and practice. But I can share.” He does not, in any way, look like someone who knows how to share.
“This is my room. If the door is open, feel free to come in.” “Oh,” I say, because this is both a generous and strange offer. Obviously, Carter doesn’t care about privacy at all—I’ve
peek into Carter’s room, assuming this was where he went, and am treated to a half-dressed visual. He’s shirtless and curled over, abdomen clenched as he pulls off his athletic shorts. Slapping a hand over my eyes, I back up and hit the doorframe. “Sorry! I didn’t realize you were…the door was open, and you said—"
Not once today has he opened a door with an appropriate level of force. I’m surprised the walls of this place aren’t riddled with holes.
“Oh, you have a lot of pads?” “No, I just block pucks naked and hope for the best.” Okay, Carter, no need for snark.
“What’s your name, anyway?” he asks, and my jaw actually drops. “Zeke Cassidy, I already told you that,” I remind him, a little bit hurt that he’s already forgotten. “No, like what’s your full name.” He looks over at me, a flash of blue between shockingly dark lashes.
“Weird.” “Whatever you say, Your Majesty, Carter Morgan the Third, Baron of Walnut Ave and King of the Hockey Court.” Carter makes a choking noise that I tentatively identify as a laugh. I’ve never seen anyone laugh without smiling before. It’s a little impressive.
Grandma climbs out of her chair and approaches him. Carter looks like he wants to retreat, but remains steadfast. He’s at least a foot taller than her, and twice as wide. I’ve never seen anyone look so frightened of someone so harmless.
“Carter, is it? What a nice name for such a lovely looking boy. Come on with me, Carter, let’s get you something to eat.” She keeps ahold of his arm and pulls him into the kitchen. He looks over at me and I grin, mouthing lovely looking boy at him.
I’ve never felt so out of place as I do right now, in my black sweats and too-big-for-this-house body. Everything in here looks breakable, including Zeke and his grandma.
There’s a picture of Zeke doing fucking everything, like I’m walking through a shrine. It makes me feel faintly ill, being slapped with so much blatant love.
It’s a relief when we get to Zeke’s room. There is a helpful sign on the door proclaiming Zeke’s Room that looks like it’s been hanging here for a decade. It’s probably something I should make fun of him for, but my throat feels a little tight and everything in this house makes me feel awful—holding up a mirror to my own childhood home and revealing what was wrong. I want to leave.
The door is pulled open before she even finishes speaking, and there is Zeke, the fucking deserter.
“Your grandma is nice.” Literally the nicest person I’ve ever met. Nobody is ever as nice to me as she was, which probably says more about her than it does about me.
“She called you lovely,” Zeke reminds me, and grins.
“So what?” “So nothing. She’s never wrong, though. If she says you’re lovely, then you’re lovely.”
“Uhm, I’m in my junior year. I’m twenty, but I’ll be twenty-one in a couple of months.” “You look twelve, or something.” “And you look like someone who breaks kneecaps for the mafia,” he retorts.
It’s the sort of bedroom that speaks of someone who knows what they like and are comfortable displaying it.
“You can teach me hockey, and I’ll teach you chess.” He acts like it’s a foregone conclusion that we’ll be hanging out together. I give him a solid week before he starts avoiding me.
He has the skinniest arms I’ve ever seen on an adult, so I reach over and sling his backpack over my shoulder. When I reach for the handle of the suitcase, he stops me. “I can get it.” I knock his hand out of the way and grab the suitcase, pulling it off the bed. It’s heavy. If he picked this up he’d probably topple over.
I take another automatic step back, but she smiles at me. “Next time we have family dinner you can come along, Carter. You can tell me how you got all these muscles.”
Zeke grins manically as she steps up to me and pats my bicep, chuckling at her own joke. I offer my own weak laugh in return and jolt when she wraps an arm around my waist in a half hug. She’s got a surprisingly strong grip. I flounder, trying to decide how to reciprocate; eventually, I settle for gentle pats on her upper back. Judging by Zeke’s face, this looks as awkward as it feels.
There is a politely questioning look on his face; his mouth is pulled up in a small smile, and he looks like he’d love nothing more than to hear what I have to say. Turning away, I scowl at the road, unsure what to make of him.
The tops of his ears are red with an embarrassed flush and his eyes are wide. Probably, not many people have ever yelled at him before. I make a mental note to try and not do that again in the future.
“I bet you’re good at math, too,” he says, so confidently that I do end up peeking at him again. “No, I’m not.” “Isn’t being a goalie all about angles and velocity, though? I bet you’re using math all the time and never even realized it.” I feel strangely pleased by this, like he’s just bestowed a grand compliment on me. Congratulations, Carter, you are good at math and never realized it.
Zeke laughs, a snorting sort of laugh that is exactly the kind of laugh I would have expected him to have.
“Carter?” he calls. “What?” I call back, grabbing boxers from my dresser. “Can I come in? Are you decent?” “Morally?” I ask, and he pauses. “Door’s open.”
Zeke is hovering awkwardly at my door; he’s watching me, but there is nothing sexual in his gaze. It’s a clinical look, not an interested one. I suppose that answers one question about my new roommate.
“Listen, you don’t have to hang out with me just because you’re living here. If you want to do your own thing, that’s fine,” I tell him. I know exactly how desirous my company is. “Oh.” His face falls. “I mean…we don’t have to. I just figured it would be nice to get to know one another. Since we’re, you know, living together.”
Every part of him seems comprised of sharp angles; he’s sort of cute, in a mousy, scrawny sort of way. I like his eyes: silvery blue and so large on his narrow face that he looks like a character from an anime cartoon.
I sort of wish he wasn’t wearing a shirt with sleeves—I’d like to get a closer look at those tattoos.
Because I’m above average intelligence, I’m able to infer that this is some sort of goalie mask. There is a number on the temple of the mask; I point to it. “77. Is that your number?” “Yeah.” Before I can look at the rest of the tattoos, he’s putting his shirt back on. “It’s beautiful. The tattoo, that is.”
“I don’t mind if you bring people here,” Carter tells me as his face hardens into something obstinate and suspicious. “I don’t do it all the time, but sometimes I’ll bring girls over. Or guys.”
I try not to let my facial expression betray my feelings, but I’ve never been very good at subterfuge. I’m surprised, and a little ashamed of being so.
I wonder if he feels a little bit lonely and out of place, but hides it behind a mask of indifference and bravado.
are the kind of couple that make other people vaguely uncomfortable. They are always touching each other—hugging, kissing, sitting on each other’s lap—in a way that makes me feel a little ill.
I go back to my own conversation with a brick wall.
He twirls his stick and says, in what can only be described as a jaunty tone: “I’m an athlete.” I laugh. That is the closest I’ve ever heard Carter Morgan come to making a joke and it feels better than a hole-in-one ever could.
He bites the tip of his tongue in concentration as he leans over to tap it in. Triumphantly, he looks up at me.
He’s pretty pale, but the heat of the evening has given him a nice flush and his eyes are bright. He’s got a nice smile, and hands it out freely—smiling at the kids we pass and greeting the people working at the course. I actually am enjoying myself, but I don’t think this would be half as fun if I were with someone else. There is something charming about Zeke’s enthusiasm and complete unconcern with the score.
There is a dramatic groan from behind me when I get another hole-in-one, and I have to fight a smile. Turning, I see Zeke with hands on hips and a scowl on his face. It’s cute. Like a puppy learning how to growl.
