Following the Rules (The Script Club 1)

“I’m not speaking to you. You’re incorrigible,” I huffed.

Simon snickered, nudging my shin under the table. “Fine. Are you going to eat those fries, or can I have yours too?”

“Help yourself, but leave fifteen, please.”

“Why fifteen?”

“That’s the average serving size. Twelve to fifteen, specifically. Since these are baked rather than fried, it won’t hurt to eat a few more,” I replied, plucking a single, long french fry from the pile.

He chomped his burger, eyeing me warily when I launched into a short history of the potato. It was a Wikipedia-style info dump. I was sure he’d interrupt me at any moment to assure me that he already knew that the potato was native to the Americas and was introduced to Europe by the Spanish in the sixteenth century. He didn’t, so I kept talking. And yes, my hands flew as I spoke. I circled my wrist, adjusted my glasses, traced a line through the condensation on my water.

“Relax, Toph.”

“I am relaxed.”

“No, you aren’t. You’re jumpy. You’re going to give yourself an upset stomach.”

“I already have one,” I grumbled.

“That’s because you’re talking about potatoes instead of eating them. I know this may shock you, but the only thing I find interesting about a potato is that it can magically turn into vodka.” He shook the ice in his glass, then raised it in a mock toast. “Name another veggie that can do that.”

“Parsnip.”

“No way,” Simon snorted. “Really?”

“Yes, I think it makes wine. But there’s nothing magical about it. Part of the distillation process is—”

“Oh, no you don’t.” He put his hand up like a stop sign. “No ruining magic. I decree it and I’m in charge.”

I barked a laugh. “Says who?”

“Me. It’s like anything in life. The first person to shout ‘shotgun’ sits in the front seat. The person who declares himself king is king. LeBron James is a good example.”

“Who’s that?”

Simon whipped his sunglasses off and squinted. “A pretty famous professional basketball player. You’ve definitely heard of him.”

“I don’t think so,” I teased.

He sighed, snagging another fry from my plate.“Now you’re lying. Lying is bad, and bad boys get spanked, Christopher.”

Gulp. “Did you really just threaten to spank me?”

Simon grinned. “Holy shit, I’m gonna be able to move this table with my dick if we don’t switch topics fast. But let me assure you, Christopher…if you want me to spank your ass, I am more than willing to oblige.”

“I don’t know why I think that’s hot, but I do.”

“Me too, baby. You know…you are my worst form of temptation. You’re a triple serving of french fries and a chocolate milkshake. I don’t have the willpower to say no.”

I narrowed my gaze. “So, you’re saying I’m forty-five fries.”

“Give or take…yes.”

I snickered. “That’s a lot of fries. I’m honored.”

I waited for him to inquire about his french fry and milkshake equivalent, which I figured would lead to a heated debate about which cut of fry was best and a story about the best milkshake he’d ever had. Simon remembered things like “best milkshake.” He’d definitely have a story or two.

But he went quiet again.

I glanced up, bracing myself for mischief and—froze when Simon pushed his plate away, set a napkin over his half-eaten burger, and fixed me with an intense stare. Something was wrong.

“I have to talk to you about something.”

Oh.

The food turned to dust in my mouth. I took a sip of water so I could speak without choking.

“Your agent called,” I guessed.

“Yeah. I’m supposed to fly to Denver to meet with the team and the offensive coordinator. I think I got the job.”

Oh.

“Wow. Congratulations. When do you leave?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

Oh.

Oh.

I swallowed hard, widening my eyes to keep the sudden wall of tears clouding my vision at bay. It wasn’t easy. Geez, I’d known this was coming. I hadn’t known what form it would take—I’d figured there was a good chance he’d get tired of school or the commute, or maybe he’d decide it was safer to stay in the closet.

I’d also thought there was a good chance he’d get tired of me. And I understood. I wasn’t cool. I wasn’t wild or crazy. If I stayed up all night, it was to study or watch a meteor shower. I wasn’t in Simon’s league. I was his brother’s friend, his academic-assistant-slash-tutor…and his lover.

But I wasn’t forever. I knew that. Those were the rules.

“That’s…soon.”

“Yeah, I know. Ryan called last night and—it’s a lot to process. Or maybe it’s nothing. I’m not sure how I feel about this, which is very fucking strange since I waited for that phone call all damn year.”

I nodded. “It’s probably a natural reaction. I’ve heard that impressive foreshadowing can often bring an ironic sense of insignificance.”

Simon perched his elbow on the table and let out a humorless half laugh. “Anticlimax. It’s possible. It’s also possible that it isn’t the right thing for me anymore.”