“Whoa. I’m shook. Cold pizza left out all night in the box is basically a food group at my place. I don’t know if we can be friends.”
“Oh.” Friends? Was that on the table? Jeremy knew Max was joking, but the idea of becoming friends with this gorgeous, confident senior had apparently fried his brain. “Uh…”
Max shot him a wink, and Jesus, that cleft in his chin should be illegal. “I suppose I’ll allow the reheated pizza. So your roommate’s cool with you?”
“Yeah. He doesn’t seem to care. He’s chill. Comes in every week and goes to class and does his assignments. Then takes off home for three days. Perfect roommate, I guess.”
“Not so much when you’re trying to make friends.”
Jeremy shrugged. “That’s on me, though.”
“Hmm. And what’s the deal with your parents?”
He tried to shrug that off too. “It’s… It didn’t go great. Coming out, I mean.” Understatement of the year. The hurt swelled, so huge and terribly hollow at the same time. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Sorry. That’s rough.”
Nodding, Jeremy took another sip from the cold beer bottle. His fingers were wet with condensation, and he peeled at the green label.
“No high school friends out here?”
“Nope. Kara’s at McGill, and we said we’d totally get together since Montreal’s only a six-hour drive—not that I have a car, but there’s the train.” He sighed, trying for a careless smile. “We got busy, I guess. She has a new boyfriend. All my high school friends seem to be having an amazing time at university. Having a blast. Which is great! I’m really happy for them.”
“Sucks to lose touch though. Happened to me too. Is Kara your best friend?”
“Not really. I never had a best friend, even when I was little. The people I hung out with are scattered all over now and…moving on. I see them on Insta or wherever, but I have nothing to post myself.”
“You’ve got a whole city outside your door. I bet people would like to see your pics.”
“Maybe.” Jeremy groaned. “Talk about a pity party. I’ll shut up now.”
Max didn’t seem bothered. “Nah, it’s cool. So what’s the prob? You’re too nervous to make friends?”
“Dumb, I know. I’m living in downtown Toronto with a million people, and I can’t meet anyone.”
Max shifted on Doug’s bed, crossing his legs. His exposed toe still poked from its red sock. “I get it, man. The city can be really lonely. So many people around, but they’re strangers.”
“Yeah. But it’s not like I’ve never been to the city before. Victoria’s not huge, but I’ve taken the ferry over to Vancouver enough times. Toronto shouldn’t be so intimidating.”
“This place is a lot. University’s a lot. Leaving home’s a lot. Especially if it’s tense with your parents.”
Jeremy exhaled a long breath. He wasn’t sure how the captain of the football team could even begin to understand not fitting in, but somehow Max seemed to. “I got here just before frosh week, and I tried to have fun. Meet people and make friends. But after a couple of events, it was just…” He shook his head. “I kept thinking about home and my parents. My brother who I can’t even talk to besides emails to his monitored school account. He’s in grade seven, and our folks won’t let him have a cell yet. He actually sent me a postcard as part of a school project, but he’s busy being a kid.”
“Was the project on ancient communication?” Max nodded to the bulletin board nailed up over Jeremy’s desk. “Is that it?”
“Something like that, and yeah.” Jeremy went over and plucked the glossy postcard of the Rockies from the top corner. The only other thing he had tacked up was his class schedule, which was dumb because he’d memorized it by day two. He handed the postcard to Max.
“Wait, he calls you ‘Cherry’?” Max grinned. “And you thought ‘Honey’ was weird!”
“No, not weird!” I just thought he was your boyfriend, but apparently you don’t have one, which shouldn’t be as exciting as it is.
“I’m teasing.”
“Right. And yeah, Sean couldn’t say ‘Jeremy’ when he was little. Called me ‘Cherry,’ and with my hair, it stuck.”
Max smiled, reading the postcard, which was only a few lines saying that Sean missed him and would kick his butt at Super Mario when Jeremy came home. Jeremy had read the messy scrawl of words a hundred times. He wished he knew when exactly he would be going home. They hadn’t kicked him out, but…
“Must be fun to have a little brother.”
“Yeah.” Jeremy took the postcard and carefully tacked it back up before sitting across from Max again.
Max carefully said, “Must’ve been tough to leave him and come here and not know anyone and have drama with your folks on top of it.”
“Yeah,” Jeremy repeated. “Frosh Week was like torture trying to be social and smile when I just wanted to cry.”
Max’s brow creased, his mouth turning down in sympathy, and shit, Jeremy’s eyes burned. No. He would not cry now. He refused, forcing a laugh. “Man, this pity party is turning into a rager. You sure you wouldn’t rather brave icy sidewalks and your clingy ex?”
Max laughed softly. “I’m good. And I don’t blame you. That all sucks. Hard.”
The sympathy and kindness from this stranger made Jeremy’s throat tighten, but he breathed through it. No tears shed. “Thanks.”
“What about classes? There must be kids in your major you can get to know.”
“First year it’s all prereqs in these massive lecture halls. In September, I should have talked to people, but I was so…” He tore off a strip of wet beer label, not knowing the right word. Pathetic? Cowardly?
Raw. Breakable.
That felt too…real to say aloud. Instead, Jeremy said, “It seems so easy for everyone else. I just want to hide. Like… I don’t, but I do. You know?”
“Yeah. And don’t be too sure other people are doing so great. They might just be better at faking it.”
Jeremy smiled. “Maybe.”
“I’m telling you, all the confident people you see rushing around campus are probably just as fucked up as you are.”
“Not possible. I’ve made zero friends, I’m unloading all my trauma on a stranger who is being way too nice, I’m going to be alone for Christmas, and I’m definitely going to die a virgin.”
Oh fuck. That he’d said out loud. For sure this time. He flushed so hot his head spun and he tasted bile.
“Aww, buddy.” Max laughed, a deep, sexy rumble, but it wasn’t unkind. “You really are having a shit time of it.”
“I’m sorry. You’re not my therapist. I don’t even know you! I don’t know what I’m saying anymore. Ignore me.”
“And you’re not even drunk.” Max grinned—lord, the dimples. “At least, I don’t think so.”
“Definitely not. Can I blame this confessional on a concussion?”