I pulled a muscle in my back yesterday, trying to get all the game room tables and couches moved back into place after the tournament. I thought after a good night’s sleep, it would feel better, but no. It feels worse. Every time I twist to get out of bed, a pain shoots across my back.

I finally make it out of bed and get a pot of coffee started. The clock on the coffee maker tells me I slept later than usual. Although I don’t work on Saturdays, I still usually check in at least once during the day. I try not to be a control freak, now that I have others working who I trust, but the early days from when I had to spend every waking minute there are still permanently embedded in my body’s internal clock, and it feels wrong not to go in every day.

There’s enough coffee left over for Jonathan, but I’m not sure if he’s already up or what. When Jonathan first moved in with me, the summer before he began going to CSU, I had prepared and taken classes in ASL so that we could communicate. I was worried that he would be stuck in his own world at school and have a hard time making friends. Ha. I needn’t have worried. Jonathan has so many friends, the kid is rarely at home. Between the LGBT group, the deaf group, the environmental group, and the music group, he’s rarely at home. Always out running around with friends, but thankfully never getting into trouble. I couldn’t ask for a better roommate or nephew.

After a twinge shoots across to my shoulder when I bend down to put my coffee mug into the dishwasher, I relent to the inevitable. I’m not going to be able to get anything else done today if I don’t get some relief, so I grab my keys and head to the drug store. Standing in the middle of the aisle, trying to decide between Icy Hot varieties, a movement at the end of the aisle draws my attention to a man wrapped in a thick winter coat, looking pale and clammy.

“Kieran, hey– oh. You don’t look so good.”

I set down the boxes of Icy Hot and rush to Kieran’s side, pressing the back of my hand to his forehead to feel his fever. He doesn’t even flinch. He’s so sick, he’s not grasping my movements in real time.

“You’re burning up.”

“I’m sick,” he finally says, swaying on his feet when I step back.

“Are you allergic to any medicines?” I ask, before turning around and scanning the cold medicines on the other side of the aisle.

“Nope,” he says and pulls his heavy coat tighter, hacking a cough into its downy thickness that makes me cringe. That cough does not sound good.

“Is your throat sore?”

He nods, still coughing.

I quickly decide on a box for him and a box for me before taking his arm and guiding him to a different aisle. Letting him rest his weight on me is killer on my back, but I can deal. The drug store has a sparse selection of canned and boxed food, and definitely no veggie broth. But I’ve seen Kieran eat meat, damn it brain, not the time for innuendo, so I don’t need to worry about that. I grab a few cans of chicken noodle soup, a few more of plain chicken broth, and a box of popsicles.

Kieran continues to sway as I grab his items, so I tuck him into my side as much as possible. His hip digs into the lower part of my ass, and I freeze as he lays his head onto my shoulder and sighs. He’s just sick and you’re a convenient pillow, I tell myself, before grabbing the shopping basket in one arm and Kieran in the other and heading to the front to pay.

“Tell me Ben’s waiting for you in a car outside,” I say as we walk out the front door. The sun is bright in the mid-morning sky, but I don’t have a free hand to shield my eyes as I scan the parking lot for Ben.

“I wasn’t feeling this bad on the way here. Promise.”

I can’t keep the growl at bay. I’m not letting him drive himself home in this condition. Thank god I’m in my truck and not on my bike today. I guide him to the passenger seat and buckle him in. His head bobs forward as he falls asleep almost as soon as his butt hits the seat. I have an old sweatshirt stuffed in the back of the truck that I dust off before rolling up and sticking behind his head. Don’t want to give the poor thing whiplash.

When I finally get Kieran home, I have to wake him to get him up the stairs, but he falls right back to sleep the second his head hits the couch. I grab some pillows and a comforter off what I hope is his bed to make him comfortable on the couch.

I wake him one final time to pour some medicine down his throat and make him drink as much water as he can. He tries to stop drinking when the glass is half empty, but I halt his hand and lead the glass back up to his face.

Kieran’s too weak for his displeasure to be more than a feather-light huff of breath. But he has enough energy to say, “Okay, Daddy,” with an eye roll before finishing off the water and sinking back into his cocoon.

Thank god he’s unconscious and there’s no one else in the room to hear my growl. I busy myself stacking cans in the kitchen and writing instructions for Ben, when the man himself walks into the apartment.

“Ted, what are you doing here?” Ben says, lugging a gym bag over his shoulder as he heads into the kitchen.

“I found a lost puppy at the drug store this morning and didn’t want to leave him to his own devices,” I say with a nod to the couch.

Ben follows my gaze to the sleeping beauty lying there. “Shit, what happened?”

“He’s sick. Don’t know how he made it there on his own, but he could barely walk straight when I ran into him in the medicine aisle. Thought it would be best if I drove him home, so when he’s feeling better later, you might remind him his car is still there. I left you instructions.” If it wouldn’t be extra awkward, I would palm my own face so hard right now.

“Right. Thanks, man. Really nice of you to go to that trouble,” Ben says with a smirk.

Shit. I don’t want him getting the wrong idea. Last thing I need is to make things weird because my fantasies have all taken a redheaded bent lately.

“Tell Kieran I hope he feels better.”

I rush out the door and to my car before I can say anything else I’ll regret. I apparently have no self-control when it comes to a certain freckled twink.

* * *

“Where were you yesterday? I went by the store, but you weren’t there.”

Jonathan speaks the words as he enters the living room. When it’s just the two of us, he doesn’t hesitate to talk out loud. I’m already home from my Sunday inventory duty at the store, chilling out on the couch watching stupid cooking shows before getting up the energy to do my own cooking. They’re pretty motivating – all the good food on-screen makes me hungry. He plops down next to me, kicking his sock-clad feet up onto the coffee table. He wears glasses instead of contacts, so I bet he spent the day studying. His hair sticks up in tufts like he didn’t bother with a shower today.

“I was helping a friend who was sick.”

“Would this friend happen to have red hair and look like a leprechaun?”

“No.”

“Look, I think you and Kieran would be good for each other. What’s holding you back from asking him out? Or anyone out for that matter?”

This conversation is motivation enough to get off my ass and go to the kitchen and start dinner. Unfortunately, Jonathan doesn’t take the hint, or he flat-out disregards it, because he follows me into the kitchen.

“It’s been almost ten years since Dylan. I know you think I’m too young to remember it, but I’m not. You can’t tell me you’re still hung up on him.”

“No. Definitely not.” Since I’m searching for veggies in the fridge, I sign the phrase.

“Then what is it? Why won’t you give someone else a chance?”

I set a chopping board, knife, and the vegetables on the counter and slide them in front of him. We’ve lived together long enough that there doesn’t need to be anything asked or spoken. Jonathan washes his hands and sets to chopping.

I wait until he looks up to respond. “I will give someone else a chance. Just not someone the same age as my nephew.”

“Fine, prove it.” Jonathan sets down the knife before he signs, then grabs my phone and enters in the passcode without even pretending to hesitate.

He’s only about halfway through the vegetables I’m going to need for the soup, so I slide the cutting board back over and continue to slice potatoes. They all go into a pot with some already chopped leeks and veggie broth. Another pot starts to boil for quinoa.

While I work on the vegetables for the quinoa, now that the soup is on to boil, Jonathan downloads Tinder onto my phone. Bastard.

“How tall are you again?” he asks.

“Six one. And if you ask my weight, I might have to pummel you,” I say as I look up from the task at hand so he can see my lips.

“You’d rather I guess?”

I grab the phone and enter in the number, then hand it back.

“I can still see it,” Jonathan says with an eye roll.

I bring my four fingers and thumb together quickly in front of my mouth – ASL for “shut up,” but I can tell Jonathan is laughing to himself.

“You need a username. What about GameBear?”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It’s a play on words with GameBoy, but you’re a bear. Get it?” Jonathan smiles wide, apparently very pleased with his own humor.

I shake my head. “It would be funny if it at least rhymed, but it doesn’t. Like GameBoi with a b-o-i would work as a pun.”

“But definitely not to describe you,” Jonathan signs with eyebrows raised high.

“Thanks.”

“Well, that’s all I can think of. Can you make a pun from Switch? Are you even vers? ‘Cause you’d have to be for that to work. Or over, since that’s the other half of your store name.”

Over. I mull over different phrases as I take the quinoa off the stove and add the chopped tomatoes, onion, and cucumber and toss it together. Jonathan brings two plates and bowls, and we serve up the soup and salad.

“Over your head. Overwatch.” Jonathan snickers at that one. “Over the rainbow. Hey, that one works. You know, Friends of Dorothy and all.”

Jonathan sets his plate across from mine on the small kitchen table we share for our meals. The dining table sees Game Over storage and paperwork more often than it sees food.

“If you used that, the only hits you’re going to get will be from sixty-year-olds.”

“Hey, I’d get that reference.”

“My point.”

I circle my finger and thumb together and wave it at him. “Asshole.”

“Besides, if they don’t get the reference, then they will definitely be too young for me. It will be a good way to weed out the twinks.”

Jonathan bangs a hand on the table to get my attention. “There is nothing wrong with twinks.”

“When you’re my age, there is.”

This time, he flashes the asshole sign to me.

“Who were you out with this weekend?” I sign because my mouth is full and because it’s easier to ask personal questions with my hands. I don’t have to worry so much about erasing the accusatory tone from my voice, just from my facial expression.

“I went out with Eric from SignOn on Friday, and Paul from GSA last night. No biggie,” he signs back.

“Are there any guys left at CSU that you haven’t slept with?” I mutter.

Jonathan’s jaw drops. Shit. I didn’t mean it to come out like that. He speaks this time, to emphasize his words.

“Are you attempting to slut shame me, Ted? Because even though it’s not any of your business, we don’t always have sex. But thanks for that.”

“No. Argh.” I speak the words as I toss down my soup spoon in frustration. “That’s not what I was trying to say. I just want you to find someone special who you can build something with. You know, kind of like how you’re urging me to go out and find someone.” I shake my phone to try to emphasize my point.

“No. I’m just trying to get you laid so you’ll stop being such a grouch.”

* * *

GameBoi22: Nice username. Are you a gung-ho iguana?

Grig77: Well I am interstellar.

I ended up using a reference from an old ’80s movie that was, and still is, a favorite. Most people wouldn’t get it, and it would probably date them as much as a Friends of Dorothy reference, but hey. I’ve gotten about a dozen chats already, most asking for more pics. This is the first one I’ve responded to, mostly because of his username, as well as him getting mine. Not at all because his freckled chest pic has me dreaming of someone else.

GameBoi22: :)

Grig77: Doing anything fun?

Oh my god, please send help. I can barely chat someone up in a bar. Despite what Jonathan thinks, I do sometimes go out and get laid. Just rarely. Like once-a-year-if-I’m-lucky rarely. But good grief, maybe I should just let Jonathan handle this part for me too.

GameBoi22: Just got through watching Empire with my roommate.

Grig77: Original or remastered?

I ask the question, and then remember that there’s some show actually called Empire now, and it might not be the Star Wars reference I originally took it for.

GameBoi22: Original, of course.

Grig77: Whew. I was going to have to suddenly be very busy if you had said otherwise. :)

Surprisingly, I stay on the phone with GameBoi22 for the rest of the evening. At first, I was worried that if the twenty-two in his username referred to his age, we wouldn’t have anything in common. But the conversation over movies, video games, and life in general flows naturally, and I’m surprised by how easy he is to talk to. I had thought it would be all dick pics and aggro come-ons.

The next morning, I wake to a message.

GameBoi22: I had fun chatting last night. Hope you have a good day!

Grig77: Thanks! You too. Do you have any plans tonight? Maybe we could do it again?

GameBoi22: I’d like that.

Grig77: Great. :) Later.

The day passes faster than my usual Mondays off. The pulled muscle in my back is better, so I lift some weights in the extra bedroom-turned-workout room. The house belonged to my nana, but she left it to me when she passed away. It’s a beautiful old Victorian between Old Town and City Park. It has plenty of rooms, even with Jonathan here, and I was able to convert one so that I didn’t have to worry about the alpha-male-fest at the gym.

We’re low on fresh veggies for dinner, so I do a grocery run. Just a typical day, but having something to look forward to makes a remarkable amount of difference. Not that I’d ever let Jonathan know he was right.

The distraction also keeps me from reaching out to Kieran and asking him how he’s feeling. It’s been on the back of my mind all day. Once or twice I might have even gotten as far as having his number dialed up on my phone before chickening out and clicking cancel.

I end up deciding on baked zucchini boats for dinner, filled with other vegetables, bread crumbs, and tofu sausage. Jonathan is still out, whether for class or his Forest Service internship, I’m not sure. I seal up the leftovers but leave them out for now. If he isn’t home within the hour, I’ll put it in the fridge, but it will taste so much better if he can eat it while it’s warm.

Grig77: Did you have an exciting day?

GameBoi22: Not really. Same old. At least I’m over being sick. That sucked. You?

Grig77: Nah. Mondays are my days off. I get lots of errands and chores done, but nothing that qualifies as exciting.

GameBoi22: When do you have another day off?

Grig77: Not until Saturday. What about you?

GameBoi22: Same. I was thinking we could meet for dinner or drinks?

At that moment, the front door opens and I pause mid-text so that I can pull out Jonathan’s still-warm zucchini boats and plate them properly. Which is good because it gives me a second to freak out. He wants to meet. Is it too early to do that? I’m having so much fun chatting with him, what if seeing him in person – or let’s be real, him seeing me – ruins all that?

“Thanks, Ted.” Jonathan stuffs half of one in his mouth and takes the plate to his room. I tap his shoulder so he’ll look back at me when I sign and say, “There’s also leftover soup in the fridge. If you’re still hungry.”

I thought it was only through puberty that boys were supposed to be walking garbage cans.

GameBoi22: If you want.

GameBoi22: Or maybe not. No big.

Well, shit. His nervousness prompts a sudden bout of courage in me.

Grig77: Sorry. Had to heat up dinner for my roommate. He got home late. And yes, I’d very much like to meet up.

GameBoi22: Espresso Patronum at 7? We can figure out where to go from there?

Grig77: See you then.

“So, who have you been busy texting? I’ve noticed your phone glued to your hand since last night, along with that goofy smile on your face,” Jonathan says, leaning against the kitchen door frame. I’m not sure how long he’s been there or what secrets my face has already given away.

“Just a guy.”

“Hmm, do I need to screen this guy?”

“No,” I say so firmly no signs are needed, and it makes him laugh, which makes me laugh. For the first time in a long time, I’m experiencing the giddy nerves of an impending first date. And it’s actually pretty awesome.