Page 33 of Run, Run, Roommates
“Uh.”
Brin looks at me. “What is it?”
I swipe. And swipe again. He took three pictures of us: one before we posed, so I’m still moving and blurry; one with Brin’s eyes closed; and one where he pulled the phone away as he was pressing the shutter so everything’s blurry.
I show Brin the pictures and she blanches. “Ew. I look like I’m high. Do you think that will get us creativity points? Skating while under the influence?”
“Maybe negative points. Let’s try again.”
She lifts her chin toward a guy standing at the edge of the rink looking at his phone. “We can ask him.”
I draw my brows together, confused. “Why him?”
“His daughter is skating over there.” She nods toward a young teen spinning in circles near the center. “She skated over a while ago and he helped fix her hair and gave her a snack. He’s got airport dad vibes. Why don’t we ask for a video, then all he has to do is point it in the right direction.”
I make my way over to the guy. “Excuse me?” He looks up. “Would you mind taking a quick video of us?”
“Sure.”
Two minutes later we have a halfway decent video of me skating back to Brin and then the two of us waving at the camera.
“Thanks so much, I appreciate it.”
“Yeah, thanks!” Brin’s caught up to us and offers Airport Dad a warm smile.
“No problem,” he says. “Great date idea.” He gives me a nod, like “you’ve done well,” and Brin laughs.
I take her hand and skate us away from him. We’re quiet for a moment and then Brin says, “Have you ever taken anyone skating on a date before?”
I think for a minute. “No? Not that I recall.”
“You should,” she says. After a beat, she continues. “It’s very . . .” She waves her free hand in my direction. “Competence porn, watching you skate.”
I snort.
“You should take a date skating,” she repeats, but almost like she’s talking to herself. “I’ve never even heard you mention having a date.”
“Pot. Kettle.” I gesture between us.
She laughs. “It’s just surprising, because . . . you know.” She gestures at me with a “duh” tone.
“I’m not going to bring someone home to the room we share.” I return her tone.
She rolls her eyes. “Obviously. But, like, what’s your type?”
I think about my answer. Redheads that barely come up to my chin. Five-foot-something balls of energy. Someone who is too nice to be with an asshole like me.
That’s not an answer that I can give, so I go with some honest history. Brin already knows I’m bisexual, but she doesn’t know how widely my tastes range. “My first crush was confusing because it was both the boy’s locker room bully and his cheerleader girlfriend. And then my best friend, a nerdy gamer. Then a drag queen—both in and out of drag. Pretty much any type of queer man for a while, because that’s who I hung out with the most. The last person I slept with was a woman, a model I met at one of William’s parties.”
“Billy Bob,” she says absentmindedly.
“What about you?” I ask. “What’s your type?”
A dark look passes over her face, but then she yawns.
“That”—I point at her—“is a problem. I knew you needed a nap.”
“I’m fine,” she insists. But she also doesn’t argue when I steer us both toward the exit.
