Unnatural (11 page)

“I’m an only child,” Michael offered. “I wouldn’t really know.”

He is so easy to talk to.
“Sometimes I feel like an only child.”

“You and Ciaran didn’t grow up together?” Michael asked.

“Oh no,” Ronan said, his gaze not meeting Michael’s. “Our childhoods couldn’t have been any more different.” Michael used every ounce of restraint not to respond immediately but to let Ronan offer whatever information he chose. It’s not that he didn’t want to know everything there was to know about him; he simply wanted to appear interested and not obsessed. Thankfully, after a moment or two of silence, Ronan explained. “We have the same mother, but Ciaran was raised by his father in London. Well, really by his father’s employees, nannies and such; his father travels a lot. Bit too busy sometimes to be a full-time parent.”

“That’s too bad. And you?”

“Edwige raised me in Ireland.”

“That’s a cool name, Edwige. Sounds beautiful.”

Ronan laughed. “It means ’war.’ “ His laughter was like a rock hitting the surface of a lake, unexpected with a loud thump and then with smaller echoes cascading
out after it. “Which is exactly what she had with Ciaran’s father.”

“A war?”

“Let’s just say that our mum raised me as if I didn’t have a brother.”

“Wait a second,” Michael said. “Ciaran mentioned his mother to me; he made it sound as if she was a part of his life.”

Ronan shrugged and shifted in his chair, leaning his body to the right and crossing his legs. A feminine gesture, but on him it looked anything but. “Trust me, Michael, he wasn’t talking about Edwige. He must have been referring to his dad’s new wife. Can’t remember her name, but from what I remember, she has less interest in being a parent than his father. The bloke’s very much on his own.”

At a different time, Michael would have cared to hear more about Ciaran’s non-relationship with his parents, but Ronan had just called him by his first name.
Michael,
when spoken with an Irish brogue, sounded like a question. There was a lilt to it, an air of expectancy as if something should come after it. He liked the way it sounded and especially how it sounded flowing from Ronan’s lips. But what came after it was not what Michael wanted to hear.

“What’s your mum like?”

What was my mother like?
Michael thought. Sadly, he didn’t know. Complicated, depressed, dead. “She passed away,” Michael said. “Recently.”

Ronan’s blue eyes filled with genuine regret. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right,” Michael said. And he meant it. “I can’t run away from it. It can be difficult, but I have my dad. And her death, you know, is what brought me here, so in a weird way I’m grateful.”

Ronan stood up.
No,
Michael thought,
why did I have to say something so stupid? Grateful; that was absurd. Ronan can’t possibly understand what I meant by it; no wonder he wants to leave.
But he thought wrong. “Take a walk with me, Michael.” It took Michael a second to realize that it wasn’t a question but a command. Once he understood the difference, he obeyed without hesitation.

Outside, walking side by side, Michael could feel the space between them, like a magnet pulling them together yet not allowing them to touch. This was good, for now. At least they were walking together in the same direction. Now he just had to think of something to say. Silence was good, but only in brief snippets.

“So, um … where in Ireland did you grow up?”

“Oh … a little place you’ve never heard of,” Ronan said, pausing to stare down at his shoes, at the grass. “Inishtrahull Island.”

“Inish … what?”

Ronan laughed, then overenunciated. “Inish … tra … hull Is … land.”

It sounded like music, albeit an unknown melody. “You’re right, I’ve never heard of it.”

Ronan finally looked in Michael’s direction. “Not
many have. It’s in Northern Ireland, not where they had the Troubles, in Belfast, although it does have its own violent history.”

Something about the sunlight and the crisp breeze made Michael feel relaxed. “C’mon, don’t leave me hanging. Sounds more interesting than Willows’s lecture about the Crusades.”

There was Ronan’s smile again, reluctant, boyish.
I just can’t resist this bloke, can I?
Resigned, Ronan continued. “Well, if you must know, Inishtrahull Island translates to Island of the Bloody Beach.”

“No joke?”

Ronan stopped under a huge oak tree and pulled a piece of bark from the trunk.

“No, I wouldn’t joke about a thing like that.”

The wind stirred the leaves as Michael spoke. “Of course not, no, I mean, that’s … that’s a really interesting translation, Ronan.”

Ronan felt that his name spoken with an American accent sounded the way it was meant to sound, harsher, more grounded and less melodic. He liked it. Leaning back against the tree, he tilted his head and closed his eyes. He should resist, he should walk away without looking back, but he couldn’t. He was where he wanted to be.

And exactly where Michael had dreamed he would be. It’s happening again. As unbelievable as it sounds, I’ve seen him do this before, he thought, in my dream. How is this possible?

“According to folklore, the island got its name because
a group of men got into a vicious, bloody battle with some Scots from Islay over a woman.” Ronan opened his eyes suddenly. “A woman, can you imagine that?” Michael couldn’t. “A man can be happy with any woman,” Ronan said, reaching up overhead to pull on one of the branches and pluck off a leaf. “As long as he doesn’t fall in love with her.” He let go and the branch shot back up, bouncing a bit before settling into place. Ronan stared at the leaf for a few seconds, inspecting it, rubbing it between his fingers. “At least that’s what Wilde said.” Then he brushed it against Michael’s nose before letting it fall, carefree, to the ground. Michael felt his knees buckle and thought he would follow the leaf, but he pushed the soles of his feet firmer into the soft ground. Firmer still until he felt, once again, in control of his body. What was happening was absolutely unreal. This handsome boy was flirting with him; he was certain about it. Under this tree, on this campus, with students coming and going all around them, he was flirting with him. There was absolutely no doubt about it. Ronan was just like him. Now, if only Michael knew how to flirt back.

“Oh! Weeping Water has some folklore of its own too you know.”

“That’s where you’re from?”

“Well, I’m originally from London,” Michael explained.

“Really?” Ronan said. “Keeping secrets, I see.”

Flustered, Michael tried to explain. “No, not at all,
it’s just that … well, I didn’t have a typical upbringing either. I, um, moved with my mother to Weeping Water, Nebraska, when I was three.” Michael reached up to grab a leaf for himself, but when he pulled, the leaf proved too strong and wouldn’t break off. He tugged harder while trying to continue his story. “We moved in with my grandparents.” Finally, Michael gave up and let go of the branch but used a bit too much force, so instead of it bobbing gently back into place the way it did when Ronan released it from his grip, it bounced hard, hitting Michael on top of the head. “Ow!”

Hurt and embarrassed, Michael grabbed his head, knowing he looked like a klutz. Ronan thought he looked cute. “Are you okay?” When he reached over to try and soothe Michael’s head, Michael flinched and ducked a few inches.
Oh God, what am I doing?
Ronan was very impressed with himself that he didn’t laugh. He wanted to, but he could tell that Michael didn’t find his slapstick as humorous as he did. Instead Ronan put his arms behind his back and crossed his ankles. “So tell me about this legend.”

The sun was shining directly into Michael’s eyes, so he took a step closer to Ronan, just a step and for practical reasons, but may be it would look like he was finally flirting back. Better late than never. “Well, um, the ’Ballad of Weeping Water’ is a poem that tells of a fight between these two Indian tribes. It was so bloody that all the squaws from both tribes wept for days,” Michael said. “Their tears formed a stream, which was named
Weeping Water, and that’s, well, that’s how the town got its name.”

Ronan didn’t move, but his eyes studied Michael.
God, he’s beautiful. Could he think the same thing about me? Should he?
Ronan didn’t know. All he knew was, now that Michael was standing so close to him, so close that he could smell the freshness on his skin, it was starting to drive him crazy. “I like it.”

He likes it. Maybe I’m not such a fool. Then again, just because he likes the story doesn’t mean he likes me. “We both seem to come from a bloody heritage.”

It looked like a shadow passed over Ronan’s face. Might be sadness, might just be the rustling leaves blocking out the sun for a moment. “I prefer to look at it as if water plays an important part in both our histories.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. I guess you are like Oscar Wilde.”

“An outcast?” Oh, Ronan, come on, he didn’t mean that.

“No, no, I meant that you look at life from a different viewpoint.”

Another shadow. “Of course. I guess I am, then.”

Before Michael could make another observation, the bell rang signaling the end of third period. The boys had three minutes to make it to their next class, and Michael had theology, which was far on the other side of campus. It was Ronan’s turn to sit through Old Man Willows’s take on world history, so his class was much
closer. “I, uh, better go,” Michael said. “Don’t want to be late on my first day.” Unable to think of anything else to say, he nodded, looked at the ground, and then started off toward his next class until he heard his name.

“Michael.” Michael turned around quickly just as Ronan took a step toward him. And for the first time the boys touched. Only their hands, Ronan’s left in Michael’s right, but it was electric. Ronan’s hand felt just as Michael knew it would, like cool water over rock-hard stone. And Ronan loved how Michael’s hand was warm and smooth and softer than his. They were so pleasantly and unexpectedly surprised, they held on to each other for a few seconds after they became self-conscious. But even when they let go, they were still connected. So many thoughts were swirling in their heads, neither of them could speak; they could hardly think.

Finally, breathless and hoarse, Ronan told Michael good-bye, and just as Michael turned away, he was compelled to add “for now.” Happily, Michael nodded yes in response before running across campus to get to his next class. Ronan watched him go, sure that he had said the wrong thing, but confident that if he had to repeat his actions, he would say the same words all over again.

The simple truth was that both boys felt their relationship was inevitable, but neither of them knew what truly awaited them.

They also didn’t know that they were being watched.

In the distance, two people were staring at them, both disturbed by what they saw. Ciaran, from the other side of the library, and, hiding behind a tree, a strange, dark-haired girl that neither of them knew but whose main purpose today was to observe.

The two boys had no way of knowing it, but they were both having the same dream.

The only sound that could be heard was their breathing, heavy and quick, as they treaded water in the middle of the lake, above them glorious sunshine, below them miles of cool and even cooler water. But Michael and Ronan didn’t care to look at what was above or what was below; they both looked straight ahead into each other’s eyes, trying to gauge the other person’s next move.

They were playing a game they had just made up. A game whose sole point was to give them an excuse to roughhouse in the lake and feel the nakedness of their
bodies, arm clashing against arm, leg against leg. Ronan brought from the shore a stone, perfectly round and white, that they would take turns throwing up into the air between them. They would remain still, eyes fixed on each other, not watching the stone rise, pause, and begin its descent. They would move only when they heard the stone hit the water’s surface. Then the game would begin.

Diving into the lake, each boy would try to grab the stone first and emerge into the sunlight, hand over head, clasping their treasure. Sometimes Michael would find the stone, other times it would be Ronan, but no matter who would wrap his fingers around the prize first, the other would use his fingers to try and pry it free so he could claim victory.

If it was solely a test of strength, Ronan would win every time. His body was bulkier, his muscles more pronounced, his advantage unfair. But in the lake it wasn’t only strength that mattered. Michael was agile and could move and flip around with a bit more ease. Plus, Ronan absolutely loved the way Michael looked when he won. His blond hair plastered down around his face to bring focus to his delicate features, his green eyes sparkling in the sunshine, his full lips forming a wide, happy smile to reveal teeth so white and straight. So incredibly straight. Ronan smiled back at him, but deep within his mind, even in his dream, he thought,
What am I doing with him? He’s so innocent, and I haven’t been for quite some time.

While Ronan tossed in his sleep, Michael lay still. He
wanted to play this game forever; he wanted to feel Ronan’s power on top of him as he struggled to keep the stone in his hand. He wanted to feel his powerful chest press against his back, Ronan’s cheek with a bare hint of stubble graze against his face, and his hands, those magnificently strong hands, cover his own, smooth and hard on top of his knuckles. Plus, Michael absolutely loved the way Ronan looked when he won. His rugged face brightened like a young boy’s; his eyes filled with surprise as if each win was his first, his arm stretched high overhead creating a deep dimple in his shoulder blade. Ronan could have the stone; he could win every game. Michael just hoped he would never want to stop playing. And then Ronan broke the rules.

He threw the stone up between them, but before it fell, Ronan shouted something to Michael, something he couldn’t quite hear, and dove through the water. What was he doing? He couldn’t have a head start, that wasn’t part of the rules, Michael thought. But he saw through the blue ripples of water that Ronan was diving deeper and deeper into the lake.