pockets. Somewhat more verbal, Michael was able to add a “yes” to his nod.
The three of them sat in the anteroom to the main library. It wasn’t a large room but one where conversation was allowed. In front of them was a bay of windows that allowed the light to illuminate and heat the room, and to their left was a large fireplace, unlit at the moment. Its size meant it would be a great help during the winter months when the room would need more than sunlight to create warmth. Above the fireplace in a beveled gold frame was a huge painting of a monk, Brother Dahey, according to the small inscription, who Michael presumed was one of the founders of Archangel Academy or at least a prominent person in its history. He was dressed in a simple brown robe, his red hair cut short in the unflattering style adopted by monks in the fifteenth century, and while his expression was serious, it was oddly alluring. But there was something wrong with the painting. The monk’s eyes were incredibly black, not typical for a redhead, yet that wasn’t completely it. Then Michael realized he didn’t see any rosary beads hanging from his waist or around his neck. Despite attending mass regularly on Sundays, Michael didn’t know a great deal about religion, but he thought monks were supposed to adorn themselves with rosary beads or at least a crucifix. Wasn’t that the whole point of their existence? And wasn’t the whole point of his being here to get to know Ronan better? Ecumenical ponderings would have to wait until another time because Michael needed to concentrate on making a good impression.
He and Ciaran shared a small sofa made of velvet in a pattern of brown and gold paisley while Ronan sat to their right in a wing-backed olive green leather chair. Michael noticed that Ronan’s hair, now dry and set off against the green material, looked fuller and more luxuriant than it did the night before. Unfortunately, he also noticed that Ronan looked terribly uncomfortable, sitting hunched forward, his hands clasped, head down. This was a mistake.
Ciaran shouldn’t have arranged this meeting without talking to him first. At least give me the chance to prepare, Michael thought. What was he thinking? Yes, what exactly was Ciaran thinking? Maybe Michael was wrong; maybe Ciaran wasn’t like him and he wasn’t gay and he didn’t understand when he spoke to him about Ronan. Maybe it was only wishful thinking on Michael’s part, an incorrect assumption that Ciaran was like him. That had to be it. Ciaran probably thought he was simply introducing Michael to another friend, someone like Penry. It was not as if Michael said anything specific about Ronan the night before; he merely asked if Ciaran knew him. And now the three of them were sitting in silence. Until Ciaran realized he would have to begin the proceedings.
“I thought this would be a good place for the two of you to officially meet,” Ciaran announced. “This library is Ronan’s favorite place on campus and you seem to share his passion for literature.”
Without moving his head, Ronan raised his eyes and spoke in a voice hardly more than a whisper. “You like books?”
Find your voice, Michael told himself. “Yeah.” Make it stronger. “Yes, I really do like to read.”
Ronan lifted his head and turned to look at Michael. It wasn’t a dream; he was real. “What else do you like?”
What? Think, Michael, think. This isn’t a trick question. Just think of something and answer him. “The usual stuff.” Oh, a brilliant response, he thought, brilliantly stupid. “Movies and stuff … you know.”
Ronan didn’t know, but it didn’t matter because he wasn’t focused on Michael’s words, but on his hair, how blond it was, like sunlight. Ronan spoke without thinking. “Yeah, me too.” Me too what? What did I just agree to? Oh yes, movies. Sure, movies were nice, but not as nice as Michael’s hair.
Ronan’s comment mattered even less to Michael because he was too busy staring at Ronan’s arms. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, exposing his forearms, and Michael loved the slanted strands of jet-black hair on top of unblemished, pure white flesh, such a stark contrast.
“And sports.”
What?! Did Michael just say that he liked sports? “Really?” Ronan wasn’t expecting that. “Any chance you like rugby?”
“Um, well, you know,” Michael stammered. “I don’t really know much about rugby.”
“Oh, right,” Ronan said. “America.”
“Yeah, America. You know, we Americans aren’t really what you’d call your typical rugby fans,” Michael said. “But it looks cool.”
“Oh yes, yes, it is.” That was smart, Ronan; like he’s going to know anything about rugby. “Football?”
“What?” This time Michael didn’t hear him because he was desperately trying to think of a topic that had nothing to do with sports.
“Do you like American football?” Oh, Ronan, what are you saying? As if American football is any better a topic of conversation than rugby.
“It’s okay.” You brought up the subject, Michael reminded himself, so pick a sport, any sport that you can say more than a few words about. “Tennis! I like tennis,” Michael declared, feeling very relieved and even a little bit triumphant.
“Oh yes,” Ronan said. “Tennis is good.”
“Yes. Yes, it is.”
Neither of them knows a bloody thing about sports, Ciaran silently fumed. I wish they would shut up and quit rambling. This was a dumb idea, bringing these two together. What was I thinking?
After a pause that bordered on awkward, Ronan asked, “So you’re enjoying Double A?”
Finally, something I can answer easily. “Yes. Even though, you know, it’s only day two, I’m really enjoying it. Very much.”
So am I, Ronan thought. But what on earth am I doing? He’s so beautiful, so innocent. So unlike me. No, don’t think about that, not now. There’s enough time for that later. Just try and enjoy this. Enjoy him. “That’s good. It’s a great school.”
“Yes, much better than my old one.”
“In America?”
“Yes, Nebraska.”
“Never been there.”
“Not a place most people visit.”
“Yeah, guess so.”
“Yeah.”
He couldn’t remain silent any longer. The words poured out of Ciaran like a waterfall. “So imagine my surprise when my dorm mate told me he met my half brother on such a dark and stormy night. Why, it’s like the plot of one of those prim and proper romantic novels you’re so fond of, Ronan.”
Before Ronan spoke, he reminded himself that Ciaran was just jealous. Don’t let him get to you, not in front of Michael. “Ciaran doesn’t get Jane Austen.”
“And you do?” Michael blurted out. Oh no, did that sound as insulting as I think it did? Ronan wasn’t insulted; he was amused. He sat back and unclasped his hands, placing them on the arms of the chair. He smirked slightly. “Don’t I look like the typical Austen fan?”
“No, I must say that you don’t.” It felt good to say what was on his mind. Ronan may have been telling the truth, but he looked like a rugby player or a soccer player or a player of any type of sport, but not a devotee of nineteenth-century fiction.
“Well, I cannot tell a lie. I like her,” Ronan said. “And she’s kind of hot.”
Michael laughed and Ronan loved the way his green eyes glistened in the light. And how he kept laughing even when he spoke. “Yeah, in that nineteenth-century-spinstery sort of way.”
Fighting to keep a serious expression, Ronan stood up for one of his literary idols. “Do not mock my Jane.”
“Nope, not mocking. I’m a fan myself.”
“Oh, really?” Ronan asked. “First you mock her, now you’re a fan?”
“I’ll have you know I’ve read all her books. Is she your favorite?”
“One of.”
“So who tops the list, then?”
A faint shade of pink started to slither up the curve of Ronan’s ears. “I guess if I have to pick one, it would be Oscar Wilde.”
Michael hadn’t read all of Oscar Wilde’s books, but he knew enough about the author to know that if he was
