by A. J. Truman
“He’s an actor,” she said to Rafe without talking her eyes off Heath.
“That’s so cool!” Rafe looked at Eamonn and seemed to regret his response.
Eamonn chugged the last of his beer and slammed down the glass. “It’s totally cool, dude,” he said in his best American accent. It broke the tension that had gripped the table.
“Who are you trying to sound like?” Rafe asked.
“I’m like totally an American, man.”
“You sound like a California surfer. That’s not how Americans talk.”
“We’re like so glad you’re here,” Heath said in a similar accent. “Really, it’s so awesome that like, you could take time from surfing and shopping at the mall to hang with us.”
“Literally nobody in America talks like that.” Rafe drank his Midori sour.
“Yeah, like really guys. Like oh my god. Seriously,” Louisa said in a pitch-perfect Kardashian voice.
“Nobody talks like…not everyone talks like that.”
“What’re you talking about, dude?” Eamonn did not give up the surfer accent, not when it was causing Rafe to become adorably flustered.
“You can stop now.”
“Stop what? I need to buy a hot dog and work on my tan, man.”
“Two can play this game.” Rafe quirked an eyebrow at Eamonn and cleared his throat. “Oh, look at me, old chap. I’m British, mate, and I love shepherd’s pie. It’s time to go on holiday at Piccidilly Circus and hang out with the Queen and Govna’.”
“I’m confused. What accent was that?” Louisa couldn’t hold back hysterical laughter. Eamonn and Heath joined in.
“British!”
“Are you sure?” Eamonn traded looks with their flatmates. “Because it sounded like a cat getting a prostate exam.”
Chapter 3
RAFE
Two Midori sours later, Rafe was officially drunk. It was partially the jet lag, but those drinks were surprisingly strong. Louisa had four of them, and she was strolling like she was stone-cold sober. Eamonn and Heath kicked back five pints, and they seemed barely buzzed. It didn’t make sense.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Rafe said aloud. The campus was quiet, except for wind rustling through the leaves. “How are y’all not shitfaced?”
“We only had a few drinks. Bleeding Christ, Yank, you are a lightweight.” Eamonn’s hearty laugh echoed off buildings. He lit a cigarette he had rolled in the bar. Rafe wasn’t a fan of smoking, but there was something sexy about watching Eamonn roll it, watching those assured fingers do their work, and that tongue slick up the paper and seal it shut.
“We’ve been drinking for years,” Heath said. “I’ve been having a pint with my mum and dad at dinner since I was fourteen. Just more of a tolerance.”
“Heath obviously comes from a family of lushes,” Louisa said.
“And Louisa is a bastion of temperance over here,” he shot back. Rafe loved their repartee. He and his friends were way too nice to each other. “Don’t forget. All the people who don’t drink fled Britain and founded America. All the cool people stayed here.”
Rafe couldn’t argue with that logic. His brain couldn’t really handle logic right now. And his body couldn’t handle the dip into the valley of their dorms. He held his arms out to balance himself as they walked down the hill. He was not going to fall splat in front of his new friends. Friends. Yes, they are my friends.
“You are all my friends,” Rafe proclaimed. “I love it here!”
He knew they were laughing at his drunken state, or with. He realized that getting made fun of was a sign of acceptance in this group.
Suddenly, Rafe felt sturdy hands on his sides and a warm cloud of cigarette smoke blow past his ears. “What are you doing?” he asked Eamonn.
“Making sure you don’t fall on your arse,” he said with a cigarette hanging from his mouth.
“I have it. I can work. I mean, walk.”
“We all need a little help sometimes.” Eamonn stomped out his cigarette and tossed it in a nearby trash. He wrapped an arm around Rafe’s hips and guided him down the slippery slope. Rafe had no choice but to put his arm around the guy’s shoulders.
“Poor Yank can’t hold his liquor.” Louisa laughed.
“You’re one to talk, Louisa,” Heath said. “I distinctly remember last year on a walk home from the pub, you chundered in every rubbish bin from here to the dorm.”
“There we go.” Eamonn’s grip was tight and protective. Rafe thought he felt Eamonn’s thumb massaging his side as they walked, but that was probably wishful thinking. Rafe couldn’t get enough of the way his lingering smoke and cologne mixed together into a manly, almost forbidden scent.
“I said I have—” But Rafe so obviously didn’t. The hill had more of an incline than he realized, and balance became a tricky thing. He stumbled forward, but Eamonn yanked him back like a great-smelling seatbelt. “I guess I don’t have it.”
When they reached the bottom, Rafe thought Eamonn would let go, but his hands remained solidly on his body. Eamonn directed them to Sweeney. Rafe wondered if he really was that drunk, or if there was something more to Eamonn’s gentlemanly gesture. The British accent really messed with his gaydar. With the accent, all British guys sounded a little gay. It was the polished thing, and maybe Heath was right. All the uptight people left England. American guys were so scared of coming off the least bit homo that they made themselves sound like cavemen.
Heath held open the door to Sweeney for the three of them. Eamonn moved him and Rafe sideways to get inside.
“I’m fine. I can enter a door,” Rafe said, before knocking his shoulder against the frame.
“Right.” Eamonn didn’t relinquish his hold on Rafe, not even as they walked up the stairs, which Rafe did not mind. It felt good to be taken care of, though he knew he shouldn’t get attached. Eamonn was just being a nice guy and there was nothing more to read into it.
Nothing more.
“Which one is your room?” Rafe asked. Eamonn motioned for him to keep his voice down.
“You are perfectly pissed.” Eamonn laughed.
Louisa hugged Rafe good night. “We’re happy you’re here, Rafe.”
“Really?”
“Of course, mate.” Heath clapped him on the shoulder. He looked over his head to Eamonn, and Rafe wondered they were saying telepathically to each other. I say old chap, this stupid American can’t hold his alcohol.
“I’m happy I’m here, too!”
Heath and Louisa went back to their rooms, and Rafe stopped being drunk for a second and realized he was in Eamonn’s room, inches from Eamonn’s messy bed.
“Your room…”
“Looks just like your room,” Eamonn said.
“…it has character.” Band and soccer posters were thumbtacked to the walls. Books piled on his desk. “When did y’all move in?”
“Y’all?” Eamonn had a short burst of laughter. “Two days ago.”
“It’s funny when you say y’all in your accent. It makes it sound so serious.”
Rafe wasn’t sure what he was doing. Even though he knew nothing would happen, because Eamonn was most likely straight and Rafe just wasn’t that lucky, he didn’t want to go. He wanted to keep breathing the same air as this charming Brit.
“I love British music.” Rafe studied the posters. There was one for this band Bloc Party, and one for the Rolling Stones. “Where’s your Beatles poster? You can’t call yourself a true Brit without one.”
He seesawed his head. “The Beatles are rubbish.”
Rafe looked around to make sure the British police weren’t going to bust in and arrest Eamonn right then and there. “You hate The Beatles?”
Eamonn nodded. Even his nodding was hot.
Rafe didn’t know much about music, but this was like somebody telling him that continental drift never happened. “But Hey Jude…and other songs besides Hey Jude.”
His mind went blank at the worst moments. This was why Rafe would n
ever go on Jeopardy!
“My dad took off a few years ago to play in a Beatles cover band. He had to follow the music, he said. I think he’s in Helsinki this month. We get postcards from him, but that’s pretty much it. The Beatles were like my family’s Yoko Ono.” Eamonn’s eyes darkened for a split-second, then he shook it off. “Sorry about that, mate. Not sure why I blurted that out.”
Rafe didn’t mind. He thought it was nice to be let in for a moment. “I’m sorry your dad ruined Hey Jude for you.”
Silence crackled in the room, though maybe it was all in Rafe’s head. He wasn’t good in these moments, but he wasn’t going to make an ass out of himself and throw himself at a straight guy on his first night in a new country. He wasn’t born gay yesterday.
“I’m completely knackered. I’m going to turn in,” Eamonn said.
Rafe stood there, not sure if that was a statement of fact or an invitation. This was a day of firsts. First time out of the country. First time at a bar. And now first time in a boy’s room possibly being invited into the boy’s bed.
“Sounds g—“ Rafe began to sit on his bed.
“Let’s get you back to your room.”
“Yep.” And he was back to standing.
Eamonn put a firm hand on Rafe’s lower back, which was a nice consolation prize. He walked Rafe across the hall to his room.
“I like what you’ve done with the place.”
“I just got here!” Rafe plopped down on his desk chair. “You know, you guys are very sarcastic.”
“Are we now?”
“I think y’all are just bitter about losing the war.”
“The Revolutionary War?”
“Yes. You once ruled the world. Then we put a stop to it. And now we rule the world.”
“And what a good job you Americans are doing. All those Big Macs and mass shootings.”
“I don’t even like McDonald’s!” Rafe rolled his head back to gaze at the ceiling. “Well, I like their fries. Their fries are good. And I like their burgers. Just the regular cheeseburger. The Big Mac is too much. Too, too much. What were we talking about?”
Rafe blinked his eyes, and his bed was all made. The pillows in pillowcases, the sheets stretched out on the mattress, the duvet inside the duvet cover.
Eamonn stood over the finished product. He gave Rafe a squinty smile that he was sure to dream about. “Sweet dreams, Yank.”
Chapter 4
RAFE
Rafe awoke the next morning with a pounding headache and a growling stomach. It was a bad combination of hunger and hungover. He thought sun was shining through the slats of his blinds, but it was an outdoor light. He looked for his phone on his nightstand, then realized it was still in his pocket. Because he was fully dressed, in a made bed. That Eamonn made.
Rafe smiled at the hazy memory because his head throbbed again. He pulled his phone from his pocket. It was just past three a.m., and he was wide awake. Damn blackout sleep, or jetlag, or both. He stared at the ceiling. I am in a foreign country. It was still cool to think about.
His stomach growled again. It was angry.
Rafe didn’t know when breakfast was. Wait, I don’t have a meal plan. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do about that. He checked the café on campus, but it didn’t open until six-thirty. After a little bit more laying there with his angry stomach and pounding head, Rafe decided to look for a vending machine. He wanted to take some Advil, but couldn’t on an empty stomach. He needed food.
He crept out of his room so as not to wake his flatmates. Rafe searched Sweeney Hall and found a vending machine in the laundry room. Thank goodness!
Or not.
The vending machine was cash only. British cash only. Rafe didn’t go to a currency exchange or a bank yesterday. He only had American dollars. George Washington gave him serious side-eye. He rested his head against the glass of the machine, willing a candy bar to drop.
Rafe had about three hours until the campus café would open. He told himself he could make it. His stomach growled back.
“Well, we don’t have any other options,” Rafe hissed at his stomach. Just walking up one floor drained him of his last reserves of energy. He returned to his flat, when he noticed a sleeve of English tea biscuits on the floor outside his door.
He must’ve walked over them when he left his room. Rafe didn’t waste any time. He ripped open the packaging and jammed a biscuit inside his mouth. It had the carby sweet goodness of a graham cracker. He ate another one.
His eyes drifted to Eamonn’s door. Without knowing, he just knew.
The door next to Eamonn’s opened, startling Rafe. Heath stumbled out with messy hair, wearing his shirt from last night. His pants were draped over his shoulder. He jumped back when he saw Rafe. Rafe didn’t want to seem like a creeper, so he waved hello and ate another biscuit.
“Morning,” Heath said. He tried his best not to sound awkward. It was a valiant effort.
* * *
Hours later, Rafe awoke for the second time, much more refreshed. He munched on another biscuit. The sleeve was half gone already.
Rafe splashed water on his face and ventured into the kitchen, where Louisa was fixing herself a cup of tea.
“Y’alright?” She asked.
“Better. Still recovering from last night.”
“Would you like some tea?”
“Absolutely!”
Louisa grabbed two mugs from the cupboard above the sink.
“Did the three of you go in on the kitchen stuff?”
“It’s a hodgepodge from our families, though mostly mine. We were so excited when we got placed in Sweeney. Most dormitories here are old and quite dodgy. The beds here are loads more comfortable.”
Rafe smiled to himself, thinking about earlier this morning.
“Um, so I saw…” Rafe instantly regretted saying anything, like he was some gossip. “Never mind.”
Louisa brought over two cups of tea to the table. “You saw Heath.”
“I…yes. I wasn’t stalking or anything.” Rafe took a sip of his first-ever English tea. The warm, refreshing liquid soothed his throat and stomach. It was like a warm bath for his insides. “I didn’t know you guys were dating.”
“We’re not,” she said firmly. “It happens sometimes. Especially after a night at the pub. I mean, he’s right there.” She shrugged, totally casual about it. “You were really funny last night.”
“I don’t even want to know. If Eamonn wasn’t there, I probably would’ve rolled down the hill.” Rafe shook his head, waves of embarrassment coming over him.
“Eamonn’s the best.”
“Yeah. He’s cool.” Rafe thought of how wonderful he was last night, of that squinty gaze focused on him.
Louisa pulled her chair closer. “Did you pull him last night?”
“Pull him where?”
“It’s slang. It means pick someone up.”
“Like hooking up?”
“I guess.”
Rafe put down his teacup. “What? No. Why would you even—I mean…Eamonn’s straight. Right?”
“Total puff.”
Rafe didn’t know much British slang, but there was one word he knew about well before his journey across the pond. He had to know what the word for gay man meant if he was going to be a gay man in England.
“Eamonn’s gay?”
Louisa nodded yes. As if it were no big deal. She got up and took out a small skillet from the cabinet next to the fridge.
“Seriously?”
She nodded again and grabbed a loaf of bread from the counter.
“I didn’t know. I mean, I wondered…it’s the accent! The British accent is throwing off my gaydar. I’m gay. Did you know that?”
She nodded again and retrieved a block of cheese and butter from the fridge.
“Do you fancy him?” she asked.
“Eamonn? I just met him.” Just knowing that Eamonn was gay got Rafe’s head all dizzy and his mouth all dry. He thought about last night
, if Eamonn might’ve been flirting with him. He was probably just being nice.
“I think you two would be quite cute together.”
“I’m not looking for ‘together.’ I’m only here for a few months. I just want to have fun. Like you and Heath.” Rafe had fallen for guys who’d been nice to him before. But the feelings had never been mutual. He would crush, then crash. Mistakes like that would not be made during Operation: Slut.
“Maybe it’s for the best.” Louisa buttered up the toast and cut slices of cheese.
“Are you making a grilled cheese?”
“What’s that?”
Rafe pointed at the stove. “A grilled cheese sandwich.”
Louisa giggled louder than Rafe expected. He didn’t think he said anything funny. “Grilled cheese?” She stretched the words out. “That’s what you call it?”
“Yeah. That’s what it is.”
“It’s cheese on toast,” she said.
“Cheese on toast?” That sounded a bit too formal to Rafe, as did everything British. “I mean, that’s technically an accurate description of what you’re eating, but you’re missing the best part. That’s it’s grilled. Mmmm.” Rafe couldn’t resist the salty, grilled aroma filling up the kitchen.
“Grilled cheese sounds like you tossed a hunk of gouda on a barbeque.”
They laughed at what that might look like. Louisa made him a sandwich, too.
“Let’s compromise and call it a grilled cheese on toast,” Rafe proposed.
“Deal.”
The sandwich hit the spot more than the tea biscuits, the biscuits that Eamonn presumably dropped off. Just to be nice. Flatmates can be nice without it meaning anything more.
“What did you mean before, Louisa, when you said ‘maybe it’s for the best?’”
“I reckon that Eamonn is still getting over him.”
“Who?”
“Nathan.”
“The actor?” Rafe asked, thinking of the awkward silence from last night. “Was it a bad break-up?”
Louisa shook her head yes. “It’s why friends should never date. Only shag, like Heath and me.” She wiped a stray piece of cheese from her lips. “But Eamonn isn’t the casual type. He can be quite the romantic.”