Unnatural (29 page)

His other hand found Michael’s waist and pushed him closer to him. Michael closed his eyes and did what he did whenever he was this close to Ronan whether in real life or in a dream: He succumbed, he kissed Ronan back, amazed that each time he did, the sensation was the same, yet different. His lips were always full and soft, his body always strong and hard, but today his skin smelled like rain, deliciously cool rain. Michael pulled away, just for an instant, to kiss another drop of
rain that had gathered at the tip of Ronan’s nose, but Ronan wasn’t done; he wanted more.

As the rain pounded all around them, pummeling the grass, bouncing off the stones over their heads, Ronan pushed Michael harder against the door and pressed himself into him. Michael groaned, but the sound was lost as Ronan, unable to control his passion, pushed his tongue into Michael’s mouth. The boys kissed deeply and held on to each other, tightly, desperately, unsure where they were going, but unable to stop.

Hips and thighs rose and fell; heads changed position; Michael’s hand explored the small of Ronan’s back, pressing into it, and found the courage to move his fingers just a little bit lower. What wonderful freedom this was, to express himself, express the passion that burned deep within him and not keep it locked away, ignored, admonished. What a wonderful gift his mother’s death brought him.

Michael froze. Why was he thinking of his mother at a time like this? Luckily, Ronan didn’t question Michael’s thoughts when his movements stopped; he understood passion had its boundaries, especially behind a library in the middle of the day during a rainstorm. “Sorry,” Ronan gasped, “but this
is
all your fault, you know.”

“My fault?” Michael questioned.

“You’re even more handsome wet than you are dry.”

Blushing, Michael tried to concentrate on the boy in front of him and not the woman in his mind, but for some reason it was proving difficult. His mother was
gone, which was her decision, the way she wanted it. Why was Michael wasting time thinking about her now? He couldn’t speak any further, so he embraced Ronan and rested his cheek against his shoulder, wondering if his mother chose to die so he could live. No, he didn’t want to contemplate her motives; he wanted to lose himself in his boyfriend’s strong arms. “This feels so good, Ronan, so natural.”

“It is,” Ronan whispered. “And don’t let anyone ever make you believe differently.”

Not even your mother.
Michael shut his eyes tightly.
Stop thinking of her,
he commanded. After a second, he opened them and tried to focus on the long strands of black hair matted down on Ronan’s chest, visible beneath his wet white shirt. He was just about to press his lips to them when the thunder roared so loudly he jumped in Ronan’s arms. “Is somebody afraid of a little thunder?”

Smiling, but shivering, Michael replied, “No, but honestly, if I don’t get inside, I think I might freeze to death.”

Ronan’s gym towel wrapped around his shoulders, Michael allowed the warmth of the fire to envelop him. The heat felt good and his shivers had subsided. He looked up and for an instant thought Brother Dahey’s black eyes staring down at him from the portrait were filled with life, examining him, trying to determine if he was worthy of a place here at the academy. Worthy of such an elite education, such a privileged existence, such a welcomed awakening.
Yes, I am,
Michael thought.
But when he looked back up, the monk’s eyes were black but lifeless. “Feeling better?” Ronan asked.

“Yeah, thanks,” Michael said, noticing that Ronan had changed into a T-shirt. “You’re all dry.”

“Bit smelly, though,” Ronan said. “I’m not sure how long this shirt’s been in my knapsack.”

Michael was going to protest, but then took a deep whiff and smelled a stale, musky odor. Not entirely offensive, but definitely not fresh. “I’d say at least a week.”

Another wet student sat on the couch next to Michael to reap the benefits of the fireplace, forcing him to inch closer to Ronan. They both shared a conspiratorial grin as their thighs pressed together, their connection igniting almost as much heat as the flames from the fire. Michael looked up and again caught the monk staring at him. He laughed out loud at the thought of Brother Dahey being a witness to his and Ronan’s budding romance.

“What’s so funny?” Ronan asked.

Michael shook his head. “Nothing.” But then he remembered something he had forgotten to share with his boyfriend. “Well, this isn’t funny, not really, just weird. Last night I went out for a walk and got lost again.” Ronan fought to hide his concern. “Not sure where I got to, but the next thing I knew I was back in front of my dorm.” Michael rubbed his hands vigorously in front of the fire and raised his eyebrows. “Maybe you spiked my cider.”

Ronan smiled but didn’t think anything Michael had
just said was funny. “Why were you walking around last night?”

Looking away, Michael’s impulse was to remain quiet, but he then reminded himself that secrets had no place between boyfriends. “I had a … well, I had a little fight with Ciaran and ran out. It was dumb, but I got mad and just left.”

“What do you mean, a fight?”

“Oh, you know Ciaran,” Michael said, patting his damp hair with the towel. “He said something, then I said something. You know how it can be with a roommate; I don’t even know exactly …”

Ronan grabbed Michael’s hand to make him stop. “What did he say?”

“Look, I shouldn’t have said anything, I don’t want to cause any trouble between you guys. It was nothing, really.”

“It was enough to make you storm out.”

Michael buried his face in the towel, breathing in Ronan’s scent. He couldn’t take back what he said, so he leaned in close to Ronan and whispered, “He said … you’re not like us.”

Luckily, a few more kids burst into the anteroom to escape the downpour that continued outside, and distracted Michael so he didn’t see fury mask Ronan’s face. His porcelain cheeks grew red; his lips clung to each other tightly.
What the hell was Ciaran thinking?
When Michael turned back around, Ronan had regained most of his composure. “Not sure why he’d say such a thing.”

Taking a deep breath, Michael said what was on his
mind. “Do you think he could be jealous? I mean not of us, me and you; he’s your brother and all. But just that we’re together and maybe he’s jealous that he doesn’t have a boyfriend of his own.”

If Ronan weren’t so upset at the moment, he would have laughed out loud. “Ciaran isn’t gay.”

“What?!” Michael shouted so loudly, heads turned.

“My brother isn’t gay, Michael, just very British.”

Michael thought back to the first time he met Ciaran; he appeared so refined, so guarded. And what about his comment about girls? “If you go for that sort of thing.” He thought of his look, his demeanor. “You’re kidding me?”

“Trust me, I know my brother. He may not have a girlfriend, never had one really, but no, he’s straight.”

“Then why in the world would he tell me that you’re not like us?”

Ronan knew; he just couldn’t explain it. “My brother likes to fit in, to be accepted. Maybe he is a little jealous that I spend more time with you than with him.” Ronan didn’t know if he was making any sense, so he just kept talking. “He knows you’re gay, probably did from the first moment he met you, and so he let you think he was the same and tried to get you to think I’m different.” If there was logic in that statement, Michael didn’t recognize it; all he heard was that Ronan thought that anyone who looked at him would immediately assume he was gay.

“Oh, so you’re saying I can’t even pass for a straight guy?”

Ronan smiled. “Michael, there is nothing wrong with appearing on the outside exactly what you are on the inside.”

A log in the fireplace twisted and fell, causing the flames to stir and crackle loudly. Michael shrugged. “Unless of course you’re Dorian.”

Ronan stared into the fire, watching the embers burn, and it reminded him of things that Michael couldn’t comprehend and things Ronan hoped Michael would never have to see. “You don’t have to worry; your soul is far from black and burning.”

There it was again, Michael thought, the melancholy, the sadness that sometimes took over Ronan’s eyes. He wished he was back outside with Ronan underneath the tiny stone roof, so he could hold him in his arms and tell him that
he
would protect
him,
that he would help prevent those feelings of sorrow from ever returning. He couldn’t do that, but he could make a small gesture. He placed his hand over Ronan’s and let his fingers caress his briefly, hoping that his touch conveyed compassion. Michael couldn’t tell because Ronan’s eyes drifted back to the flames, orangey, red, and some a deep chestnut brown, the color they were just before they turned black and evaporated into smoke. The same exact color as Phaedra’s hair.

“What are you doing here?” Michael asked when he noticed the girl standing next to him.

“I picked a fine day to search for a book,” Phaedra replied, her normally curly hair plastered down against her face.

Michael handed her Ronan’s towel. “Doesn’t St. Anne’s have its own library?”

Rubbing her head furiously, Phaedra’s words shook a bit when she spoke. “Yes, but it’s not as complete as yours.” She explained that she was writing a paper on the Brontë sisters, and the library on St. Anne’s campus didn’t have a copy of
Agnes Grey.

“Which one wrote that?” Michael asked.

“Anne,” Ronan answered, staring at Phaedra.

“Impressive,” she said, tossing the towel back to Michael and wiping away some remaining drops of water from beneath her eyes. “Not everyone knows there’s a third sister.”

“There were actually five sisters; two died of tuberculosis at boarding school,” Ronan said. “And there was a brother too. Branwell.”

“Branwell Brontë?” Michael said. “Sounds like a character from one of their novels.”

“His first name was Patrick,” Ronan explained. “But he was a bit of a dandy in his day and ’Patrick’ lacks luster.”

Michael was so happy that his boyfriend and this girl, whom he already considered a friend, had so much in common. He imagined that the three of them could spend hours chatting about the Brontë siblings, Oscar Wilde, and a ton of more unliterary topics. He never imagined that both Ronan and Phaedra were trying to hide their growing suspicions of each other behind innocuous conversation. “Maybe I should get you to help
me with my paper. My lit professor wasn’t too thrilled with my antifeminist take on Virginia Woolf.”

Ronan leaned back, folding his arms against his chest. “I’m sure you’re being modest.”

Phaedra smiled as the fire roared behind her. “Yeah, just a little. You know us urban snobs; we’re perfectionists.”

“Well, I’m just a laid-back country boy,” Michael joked. “I don’t believe in trying too hard.”

“Miss Antonides, I have your book,” the librarian called out, interrupting them. “And an umbrella that you may borrow.”

Phaedra bent forward, her damp hair hanging loose in the space between her and Michael. “Which is code for the girl intruder must now leave the premises.” They all laughed, Michael much more than Ronan and Phaedra. Before she disappeared, she said, “See you Saturday night at the festival.”

The Archangel Festival! In all the excitement the other day, Michael had forgotten about asking Ronan to be his date. Coinciding with Archangel Day, the annual festival was held in early November and was the only official event that brought together Double A with Saint Anne’s on the same turf, the gymnasium at St. Sebastian’s. Penry had told Michael that it wasn’t as posh as the high school proms Americans were known for, but it was fun, and Fritz could always be relied upon to sneak some alcohol onto the grounds. Penry, of course, was taking Imogene, and rumor had it that Fritz had
asked Phaedra. Now it was Michael’s turn. “Would you like to be my date?”

“What?” Ronan replied, startled since he was paying more attention to the girl leaving the room than to the boy sitting next to him.

“Oh, I, um, just thought, that we could, maybe go together,” Michael stuttered. “But that’s okay. We don’t have to.”

“No, of course we’re going together,” Ronan declared. “I’d be honored to be your date.”

“Excellent!”
Don’t get too excited,
Michael reminded himself.
It’s just a dumb dance.
“You just sounded, you know, surprised, like it was the last thing you wanted to do.”

Best to be honest, Ronan, or as honest as you can possibly be. “I’m not sure if I like her.”

“Phaedra?”

“There’s something, I don’t know what exactly, but I don’t trust her.”

“Maybe it’s because Ciaran’s right. You’re not gay and you think she’s kinda hot.”

Despite the fact that they were sitting in a crowded room with a bunch of other students all trying to dry off from getting caught in the sudden downpour, Ronan grabbed Michael’s hand and leaned into him so they were a breath away. “You are the only person, Michael, male or female, that I’m attracted to. And that’s not going to change. Not ever.”

“I have to get to geometry,” Michael replied. It wasn’t an appropriate response, but it’s all Michael could think
of. Well, it was the only thing he could think of saying or doing that he had the guts to say or do in public. He would have to wait until later when he and Ronan were again alone to respond the way he wanted to.

But as Michael turned to leave, he noticed that no one was really looking at them. They were all engrossed in their own conversation or drying themselves off, so he grabbed on to impulse and bent forward to give Ronan a quick kiss on the lips. Chaste, but courageous. He left without saying another word, not that one was necessary.

Alone, Ronan was conflicted. He loved the fact that Michael was brave enough to kiss him in public. It meant that his feelings for him were growing, that their relationship was indeed moving forward, perhaps, maybe, toward where Ronan wanted it to end up. But he hated the fact that he had come face-to-face with a liar. Phaedra hadn’t come to St. Joshua’s searching for a book; she had come searching for them. She obviously didn’t know that he, against his mother’s wishes, bought an entire collection of first-edition Brontë’s and, after reading them, donated them to St. Anne’s library.
Agnes Grey
was right there on the shelf, aisle four, third row from the top, if Ronan remembered correctly. It was a clever lie but, like most, not foolproof.