Page 50 of These Secret Years

I glance over the laptop to see him pulling almost everything out of the fridge. The vodka is in the freezer, and he grabs that, too.

“The eggs are for me tomorrow,” I tell him before he thinks I planned some elaborate recipe.

“Three hot meals a day?”

“When I can.”

“Such a good midwestern boy.”

I shake my head and answer the next few word problems, completing the quiz and giving him his first perfect score. “Unit one is done. Tell me one of your complications.”

“I just sucked your dick.”

“Does that mean I can’t ask questions?”

“You can ask whatever you want, but it doesn’t entitle you to an answer.”

“I think you like sucking my dick.”

With his back to me, he shrugs.

“Why?” I ask. “Or is that too complicated?”

“You have a great dick. I told you that.”

“What’s complicated about your sexuality, then?”

He turns with a drink in each hand. “I’m allowed to still be deciding things that important about myself, don’t you think?” Walking over to the table, he sets my drink down and sits in the seat next to me again. He takes a long sip, draining half his glass.

I leave mine alone for now. He’s distracting enough. “Are you leaving once I’m done with the quizzes?”

“Do you want me to?”

“No.”

“Are you gonna ask me to stay for dinner?”

“Maybe,” I say.

“Then ask. Make it official.”

I breathe in, trying to calibrate myself to deal with him. I wonder if he’s really this difficult or if it’s something he does specifically to fuck with me. I mean—it’s working. I’m damn near obsessed with him, so. “Wanna have dinner with me?”

“Sounds great.”

I’m better at reading people than this. On a football field, I’m like a mood analyst. I can tell when another team is pumped up or fatigued, I can tell when they’re worried about one of their players in particular. I can tell when my team is even slightly off. With Sullivan, I want to hedge my bets, not trusting myself to read him at all. I don’t know if I can trust that he won’t make an excuse to leave after his algebra is done, and I do feel the need to feed him, especially now that he’s drinking.

He’s quiet and at least pretends to pay attention while I take the next quiz and talk him through every problem. When I hit submit, I turn to look at him with his empty drink in hand and ask, “Did you get all that?”

“Totally.”

“Hungry?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s just chicken and salad.”

“Amazing,” he says with a lazy grin. “Can I help?”