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1
Elliot
After carefully closing the door behind me, I tiptoed into our apartment, remembering that my roommate, Morgan, was having a hookup with someone he’d met on an app. I’d seen him grinning and texting with someone all week but sort of hoped it didn’t actually play out. That might sound shitty, but Morgan didn’t have much luck on apps, even when he’d thought the guy sounded decent enough. God, listen to me. Like the dude was interviewing for a job instead of a one-night stand.
But Morgan was special—and he’d kick my ass if he heard me say that. I didn’t mean he was special because of his disability—he had Spastic Paraplegia—but because anyone who was lucky to spend enough time with him would see how cool and unique and addicting he was to be around. At least that was how I felt.
We’d met through the gay alliance club our moms had signed us up for in sixth grade, and I knew we’d be friends for life. He hadn’t known about his neurological disorder back then. The doctors hadn’t guessed it either, though he was always clumsy and didn’t like being barefoot—something about the floor feeling strange on his soles. His symptoms progressed gradually, his coordination worsening in high school, and I was glad I could be there for him when Morgan needed me most.
Thankfully, I’d texted Morgan first to ask if he wanted food, and he’d texted back our code word for hookups: BUSY. I’d tried to stay out as late as I could, but I figured if I went straight to my room and put my earbuds in, I’d be safe. No way did I want to hear any random sounds coming from my roommate, and not because he wasn’t adorable, but because I didn’t want to get turned on. It’d been a minute since I’d hooked up with somebody too.
We’d only begun sharing an apartment near campus our junior year at Easton U, so experiencing each other’s hookups instead of hearing about the aftermath was new and pretty fucking strange.
I made the mistake of stopping in the kitchen to pour myself a glass of cold water and nearly choked on the cool liquid when Morgan’s bedroom door flew open and out walked a dark-haired guy, hunched over as he struggled to shove his feet into his sneakers. I could tell the hookup went badly because he didn’t even greet me, just mumbled something and fled.
When Morgan walked into the room a moment later, his eyebrows drawn together in frustration, I wanted to kill the guy.
“Tell me you kicked him out because he was a complete tool,” I said in a warning tone.
“I wish.” He pushed back a strand of blond hair that’d fallen against his forehead. “He clearly is because as soon as I removed my sneakers, he was outta there, making an excuse about forgetting something he had to do.”
“Foiled by leg braces again.” I frowned, looking at his feet and seeing them bare. Without his supportive devices, his reflexes were unsteady, as evidenced by how he hung on to the edge of the kitchen counter. His arches were super high, and one of his soles was more bowed and twisted than the other. His balance had worsened over the years, which was one of the first indications that something was wrong.
“We’ve had this discussion before,” he said, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Even the least obvious disabilities freak able-bodied people out.”
“Maybe you didn’t catch the warning signs with this one. You used to be pickier,” I said, remembering how he’d had stuff he specifically looked for in a guy. “Someone like you,” he’d tease, “except I’d actually want to fuck him,” and I’d pretend to be offended. But it was pretty much the same for me. Neither of us was willing to cross that line, though. We’d heard of others who’d done the friends-to-lovers thing and ruined everything.
“I can’t afford to be picky right now. Not when I wanna get laid.”
“That’s not you,” I chastised like I was his older and wiser sibling or something. But I couldn’t help it, not when it came to his safety—and his feelings. “What’s come over you lately?”
“I’m sexually frustrated!”
“C’mere, I’ll cuddle you,” I said, gripping his shoulder. “I know that’s all you want.”
“No, this time, I want actual dick.” He pushed out of my grasp, headed for the cupboard, and retrieved another glass.
“Well, you got some…” I spread out my arms. “Only in personality form.”
He laughed, which was my goal, and it loosened the knot in my stomach.
My best friend really was a trooper. Our differences stood out through high school, but somehow, we’d made it work. I loved baseball and was in the lineup on one team or another all my life. But senior year of high school, I’d torn the rotator cuff in my throwing arm in a stupid stunt with a skateboard and had never recovered. Wasn’t like I was going to the big leagues or anything. But I could’ve at least tried for a scholarship. So now I just watched from the stands.
