The Things He Already Knew

By Saturday afternoon, half the people who knew Cole appeared to know he was taking me on a date.

I discovered this when Eli stuck his head into our room and said, “Congratulations on surviving whatever the hell this week was.”

I threw a clean sock at him.

He dodged it.

Mason, from the doorway behind him, asked whether our refrigerator was now officially a couple's refrigerator, or whether the rest of the suite could still use it.

Cole didn't look up from tying his shoes.

“You can use it when you stop drinking Jamie's oat milk.”

Mason pointed at me. “See? Married.”

I hid my face in the jacket I was trying to decide whether to wear.

Cole stood and glanced at the two options on my bed.

“The green one,” he said.

I looked up.

“It brings out your eyes.”

Mason made a wounded noise.

Eli dragged him away before I could throw the other sock.

When we were alone, Cole rubbed the back of his neck.

“Too much?”

I shook my head.

I put on the green jacket.

That seemed to make him happier than anything I'd said all week.

Dinner was at a place a few blocks beyond campus, with little lamps on the tables and enough space between them for my hands.

Cole started toward the seat beside me, stopped, and sat across from me instead.

I raised my eyebrows.

“I'd like to see what you're saying,” he said.

“You managed before.”

“Before, I mostly used it as an excuse to sit close to you.”

I nearly dropped the menu.

He smiled into his water.

It turned out that a Cole who knew what he wanted was substantially more dangerous than a Cole who didn't.

He still ordered extra napkins. He still moved the candle when it stood too close to my sleeve. When I chose a spicy dish, he opened his mouth, caught my expression, and closed it again.

“Go on,” I signed.

He shook his head solemnly.

“I've decided to respect the pepper-related decisions of another adult.”

I laughed. He watched my face instead of his menu.

“What?”

“I like that.”

“What?” I asked again, though I knew.

“You laughing.”

I looked down quickly.

He let me. When I was ready, he was still there, waiting for the rest of the conversation.

We talked about classes, a terrible call during his last game, the poster I was designing for an exhibition. Familiar subjects, except he asked whether he could come to the exhibition and I understood the question differently.

He wanted to be there with me.

I wanted that too.

After dinner, he asked before taking my hand.

I looked at his open palm.

He'd held my hand before. Through crowds, across icy pavement, once for an entire film in our room because he'd claimed my fingers were freezing.

Now I could not pretend to misunderstand the invitation.

I put my hand in his.

His fingers closed around mine.

We walked back more slowly than necessary.

At the residence hall, he stopped beneath the entrance light.

“I'd kiss you goodnight,” he said, “but we live in the same room, so the logistics are a little strange.”

I laughed and covered my mouth with my free hand.

He watched me, hopeful but waiting.

I wanted to kiss him. I was also suddenly aware of the students passing us, the light on my face, the impossible fact that this was Cole.

I squeezed his fingers instead.

He squeezed back.

“Next time,” he said, without making it a question I had to answer.

He opened the door, and I followed him upstairs with my stomach full of ridiculous, fluttering things.

Over the next few days, he made his intentions impossible to miss.

He brought breakfast and called it breakfast for the man he was dating. He collected a package for me and asked whether this counted as an impressive romantic gesture.

I told him it was a five-minute walk.

He said he'd suffered heroically on every step.

When a guy approached him outside the gym, he didn't announce that he was straight.

He said, “I'm seeing someone.”

I was standing right beside him. His hand found the small of my back.

The guy looked at me, then nodded and left.

For the rest of the afternoon, I couldn't stop smiling.

And yet, when Cole asked if he could officially call me his boyfriend, I hesitated.

He saw it.

“I'm not rushing you,” he said.

“I know.”

“You can tell me if something's wrong.”

I thought about that for a moment.

“I'm trying to tell the difference,” I signed.

“Between what?”

“Us before. Us now.”

He looked down at the takeout bags in his hands.

“Too much of the same food?”

I shook my head and smiled a little.

“The food is good.”

“Then I have at least one thing going for me.”

Later, I messaged Ryan.

He'd made the team. He seemed far less concerned about navigating practice with Cole than I would have been.

Ryan: Is he being weird?

Me: He's being nice.

Ryan: That sounds ominous.

Me: He was already nice. That's the problem.

Ryan took a moment to answer.

Ryan: Do you want him to stop?

I looked across our room.

Cole was at his desk, damp hair curling at the nape of his neck. He had put the dryer on my bed because I'd showered, then left me alone to finish my assignment.

I remembered the empty space beside my chair during our cold war. The way I'd wanted him to touch my face in the car after he'd stopped.

Me: No.

Ryan: There you go.

I set my phone down.

Cole looked over at once.

I lifted the hair dryer and tilted my head toward it.

His smile came slowly.

“Come here, then.”

I took my usual place on the floor between his knees while he sat on the edge of the bed.

The dryer started. Warm air moved through my hair. His fingers combed gently from my forehead toward the back of my head.

I leaned into his hand.

He noticed.

I could tell by the way he went still for a second before continuing.

For once, I let him notice.