1. Seb

1

Seb

So far, this is going okay.

My palms, which were sweat production machines to start with, have now eased off to the point where I can grip my glass of Coke and not worry about it slipping from my grasp. And my leg, which was jiggling under the table at the beginning, has slowly stilled during the date.

No major social faux pas have been committed. Well, maybe I laughed when my date Eugene told me he is a keen yodeler before I realized he wasn’t joking, but it didn’t deter him from continuing to tell me about his hobby and even giving a short demonstration.

As first dates go, this is sure to get a passing mark, right?

Unfortunately, my dating experience is fairly limited—a brief relationship in high school that helped me realize I was definitely gay, followed by one fumbling hookup during orientation week at university. So maybe I’m not the best judge of what makes a good first date.

Anyway, should I be grading dates? Is that a weird Seb thing to do? I find I have to run most of my behavior through a filter to see if it fits with social conventions. Instead of What would Jesus do ? I am really more of a What would normal people do ? type of guy.

Eugene continues to talk about the politics involved in judging yodeling competitions. I never knew voice pitch and falsetto could be so contentious. It’s actually really interesting to learn how the human voice can transition between registers.

I’m focusing on his explanation of yodel patterns when a movement at the door of the university cafeteria catches my eye.

I glance up and my stomach does a familiar flop as the most gorgeous guy in the world walks in, looking like he owns the place.

He strolls to the counter, and the girl standing there goes into what I’ve secretly deemedMarcus Mode, a flustered fawning. Her movements become frenetic as she nearly knocks over a stack of cups in her haste to serve him.

It’s not just that Marcus is gorgeous. It’s the way he effortlessly charms everyone with just a few words. I’ve seen him do it countless times, with my parents’ elderly neighbors, the first years who get lost looking for lecture halls, and even our cat, who normally hates strangers.

Whatever Marcus says to the girl now as she hands him a milkshake causes her to simultaneously giggle and blush.

As he turns from the counter, he does a slow scan of the room, his gaze snagging on the table where Eugene and I are sitting.

My lungs tighten.

He begins strolling across the cafeteria toward us. I’ve often thought Marcus walks to his own personal soundtrack, an invisible orchestra ushering him around.

“Hey, it’s Little Kleggs!” he says as he draws near.

Marcus’s voice is just as attractive as the rest of him, low and melodious with a sexy rasp he can turn on or off at will. The type of voice that would inspire a nun to drop her underwear.

He grabs a chair from a nearby table, turns it around, straddles it, and then reaches over and pinches a couple of french fries off my plate.

Eugene and I watch as he stuffs the fries in his mouth before giving me a predatory smile. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

All typical date conventions have flown out of my head at the sight of Marcus. It’s a frequent occurrence. Marcus has the power to wipe my mind clean.

Luckily, Eugene speaks before the silence lingers for too long.

“I’m Eugene, Seb’s date.”

“A date?” Marcus’s eyebrows shoot up. Then his grin returns, and he reaches over to tousle my hair. “Look at you, Little Kleggs, all grown up now.”

My scalp tingles where he’s touched me.

It’s my turn to speak, but I stopped expecting myself to be able to banter back with Marcus long ago. I hate how my entire personality evaporates whenever Marcus is around, like a particularly unstable chemical compound exposed to heat, leaving nothing but an empty beaker and some embarrassing fumes.

“Ah…yeah…” I manage to say.

Coherent words that make sense in the context. I’ll take that win.

Marcus smiles another one of his killer grins.

“I’m Marcus,” he says to Eugene.

Eugene and I stare helplessly as Marcus wraps his lips around the straw and takes a deep suck of his milkshake. Honestly, that action should come with a ratings warning.

Marcus’s lips are works of art. Pink, plush, and perfectly crafted. They are lips you could spend your entire life obsessing over. Or at least four years of your life, from age fourteen to eighteen. Marcus’s lips have even inspired me to write some very, very bad poetry, the type that would make Wordsworth and Yeats turn over in their graves in horror.

The rest of Marcus is just as attractive as his lips. Dark hair with a hint of a curl. Perfect, high cheekbones that somehow have a natural blush to them, along with smooth, unblemished skin.

Marcus Johnson is the single occupant of the space where the Venn diagram of stunning prettiness and masculine beauty overlap.

Marcus finishes his long, slow suck and licks his lips, which embarrassingly causes one part of me to twitch.

He gives us a huge wink. “Enjoy your date, boys. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Which rules out pretty much nothing.”

With that, he gets to his feet, sauntering out, his swagger even more pronounced than it was on his way into the cafeteria.

Eugene’s mouth still hasn’t completely closed as he stares after Marcus.

He blinks a few times like one does after staring at the sun for too long before swinging his attention back to me.

“How do you know him?” Eugene’s voice is slightly breathless. I can’t blame him. I have my usual post-Marcus hangover caused by the feeling of brushing against someone beautiful, untouchable, and way out of my league.

I try to answer in a neutral voice. “He’s my sister’s best friend.” Then, feeling like I should explain the encounter we just had, I add, “He just likes to mess with me.”

I reach for my Coke and use the metal straw to stir it slightly more vigorously than necessary.

“He’s the most gorgeous guy I’ve ever seen,” Eugene says.

“Yeah.” Despite myself, I can’t help the longing in my voice. It’s the type of deep longing that comes from having spent years categorizing everything about Marcus, from the exact way he tilts his head whenever he’s about to say something sarcastic to how his dark hair falls in a perfect taper at the nape of his neck to the way he possesses the extraordinary gift of making Saskia laugh when she’s in one of her moods that usually has everyone else running for cover.

“Yeah, he is.”