Who We Are (The Seafare Chronicles 2)

I’m about to turn back to the front of the class when my eyes stutter across a guy one desk forward and two desks over who glances back at me, a small smile on his face. He’s about my size, which makes him smaller than most, but bulked up, which makes me want to flex my arms to assert my male dominance. Somehow, I’m able to resist the urge. He’s older than me, I think, maybe by a couple of years. His black hair is all over the place, in that intentionally messy way that I could never pull off. Thick eyebrows, dark eyes. White teeth that flash at me. His Henley shirt is stretched across his broad shoulders and clings to his chest. His cargo shorts look worn and comfortable. White shell-top shoes, no socks. His skin is tanned, a rarity in Seafare. I wonder if it’s his natural color. Black leg hairs look thick and soft.

His calves are well defined, the muscles cut and solid. And then there’s—

Whoa. What the hell am I doing?

I turn away from him, feeling my face heat up, knowing he’s still watching me by the boring sensation that’s on the side of my head. Was I checking him out? I feel a dawning horror as the answer to that question rings throughout my head, saying yes, yes, and I don’t know what it means.

You can’t be gay for one person, Bear, Otter had said to me once. It’s not how biology works.

Fuck me sideways. First David Trent, now this dude. I totally don’t need this right now. I’ve never been one to check people out, not even when I was with Anna, and I’m not going to start. I don’t know what that would lead to, what kind of person I could potentially become, so it’s easier to curb it before it starts. I have what I want. I don’t need anything else.

I steal a glance over at the guy. He catches my eye again and grins. He has dimples. Shit. Apparently I like dimples. Abort! Abort!

Wow, from heterosexual male to homosexual whore in four months, it says. That’s got to be some kind of land speed record. Give it another three months, and you’ll probably be a butterfly. And you were getting all pissed off at Otter for shaking David’s hand, and here you are blushing like a schoolgirl over dimples. For shame. Could you be any more obvious?

It’s right and I hate it. I know I can be a hypocrite with the best of them, especially given my jealousy over Otter’s parade of exes, which still makes me burn with anger. And it’s not that I focus on it, but Otter’s voice comes back into my head, telling me of course people check me out, why haven’t I noticed? I haven’t noticed because I didn’t have time to notice. I didn’t care if people noticed. I didn’t want to be noticed. I still don’t. I would have no problem passing through life in my little corner of the world, content with what I have. I don’t need anyone to check me out. I have Otter. I only care what he thinks. I don’t care what anyone else thinks of me. I don’t.

Class is over before I can even register that time has passed. People start shuffling their way out through the door. I shove my books back into my backpack and am about to stand to leave when he stands in front of my desk.

“Transformers, huh?” he says, his voice deep. “That’s… different.”

“Long story,” I mutter, standing and walking toward the door.

He falls in behind me. “So, what is it?”

“What’s what?”

“The story? Anybody that carries that around and says there’s a story can’t just walk away without explaining it first.” He walks quickly around me as I leave the classroom, standing in front of me, forcing me to stop. I almost collide with him, my arms brushing against his. He smells like spicy apples. Cider. Sharp. My eyes collide with his. They’re dark. Almost black.

Way too close. I take a step back.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Bear,” I say, looking everywhere but at him.

“That’s unusual.”

“Long story.”

“You seem to have a lot of those.” I can hear the smirk in his voice.

“I guess.”

He reaches out and grabs my hand and shakes it. His palm is warm, his hands feel rough, and I try not to notice the way his fingernails scrape against my skin as he grips tightly. “I’m Isaiah.”

It’s official: God does hate me. Jonah. David. Isaiah. He’s put these men on Earth specifically to fuck with me, to mess up my head. I try to remember who Isaiah was in the Bible. A prophet, maybe. But then, weren’t they all a prophet of some kind? It doesn’t matter how biblical it is, I guess.

What matters is he’s still shaking my hand, even though we stopped shaking a while ago, and now we’re just holding hands, and he’s watching me, waiting for me to say something, to do something.

What should I do? Congratulate him on his name? Tell him I’ve got to go? Run in the opposite direction?

Or you could tell him thanks, but no thanks, it points out. You could open your mouth and say, “I know what that look in your eye means, and I’m flattered, but I’m seeing someone. Well, more than seeing someone. I live with someone. I love someone. He is the best thing to have happened to me in my short and somewhat miserably eventful life.” Speak up, Bear; you’re embarrassing yourself.

“Nice to meet you,” I manage to get out, pulling my hand free.

Oh, Bear

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