Autoboyography
Page 22
“Tanner,” Sebastian says quietly. I look at him, and a slow grin spreads over his face until he breaks, laughing. “Is it that fascinating?”
The way he’s teasing me makes me realize I’m acting like early man emerging from a cave. “Sorry. It’s just so adorably wholesome.”
He shakes his head, looking down, but he’s still smiling. “Okay, so about your book.”
Yeah, Sebastian. About my book. My book about you.
My confidence bolts, leaving the scene of the crime. I hand over the printed pages. “I don’t think it’s great yet, but . . .”
This makes him look up at me, interest lighting his eyes. “We’ll get it there.”
Well, at least one of us is optimistic.
I lift my chin, gesturing that he should dig in. He smiles, holding my gaze and offering a teasing “Don’t be nervous” before he blinks down to the pages in his hand. I watch his eyes flicker back and forth, and my heart is a grenade in my throat.
Why did I even agree to this? Why did I try to rewrite the class sections? Yes, I wanted to spend time with Sebastian today, but wouldn’t it be so much easier to keep this a secret from him until I know where he and I stand?
As soon as I have the thought, I realize my subconscious has already won: I wanted him to look for himself in it. So much of this is taken from our conversations. I’m here because I want him to tell me which love interest he wants to be: Evan or Ian.
He nods as he finishes, and it seems like he goes back and reads the last section again.
I do not expect him to say, “I have some time this weekend. I could help then.”
This is probably a terrible idea. Yes, I’m attracted to him, but I worry that if I dig deeper, I won’t like him.
But that would be for the best, wouldn’t it? It certainly wouldn’t hurt to get some time outside of this class, to get an answer to my question: Could we even be friends, let alone more?
He swallows, and I watch as it moves his throat.
“Does that work?” he asks, pulling my eyes back up to his face.
“Yeah,” I say, and swallow. This time he watches. “What time?”
He grins, handing it back to me. “Wow.”
Wow? I wince. Obviously, that means it’s horrible. “I feel like an idiot.”
“Don’t,” he says. “Tanner, I really like it.”
“Yeah?”
He nods and then bites his lip. “So . . . I’m in your book?”
I shake my head. The pin is pulled from the grenade. “No one we know. Well, except Franklin is a stand-in for Fujita, obviously. I’m just using the class as the structure.”
Running a finger under his bottom lip, Sebastian watches me for a few quiet seconds. “I think . . . I mean, I think this is about us.”
I feel the blood drain from my face. “What? No.”
He laughs easily. “Colin and . . . Ian? Or is it Evan, the TA?”
“It’s about Colin and Ian. Another student.”
Oh God. Oh God.
“But,” he starts, and then looks down, blushing.
I struggle to hold my cards close to my chest. “What?”
He flips to a page and puts his index finger there. “You had a typo in Tanner here. Right where I think you mean to put ‘Colin.’ It didn’t pick up on your search and replace.”
ARGH.
The same stupid typo in my name I always make. “Okay, yeah. Originally it was about me and some theoretical person.”
“Really?” he asks, eyes lit with curiosity.
I fidget with the binder clip I’d used to hold the pages together. “No. I know you’re not . . .”
He flips to another page and hands it to me.
I curse under my breath.
With his hands laced together in front of him, Franklin rocks back on his heels. “Seb has a very busy schedule, of course”—I mentally groan. Seb— “but he and I both feel that his experience can benefit each of you. I believe he will inspire you.”
Seb. I never did a search and replace for the nickname.
Sebastian’s about to say something else—his expression is impossible for me to read, but it doesn’t look like horror—when a voice rises from the doorway.
“Sebastian, honey?”
We both turn and look up at the sound. I want to kiss the woman who has derailed this awkward hellhole. His mother, I recognize from the photos, steps into the room. She’s petite, with dark blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing a simple long-sleeved shirt and jeans. I don’t know why I was expecting some frumpy, floral sister-wife dress and a giant Molly Mormon bow in her hair, but my synapses quickly rearrange themselves.
“Hey, Mom,” Sebastian says, smiling. “This is Tanner. He’s in the Seminar this term.”
His mother smiles at me, walking over to shake my hand and welcome me to the house. My heart is still jackhammering around inside my ribs, and I wonder if I look like I might pass out. She offers me something to drink, something to eat. She asks what we’re working on, and we both mumble out something blah, blah book-related without looking at each other.
But apparently our answers were sufficiently wholesome because she turns to Sebastian. “Did you call Ashley Davis back?”
As if on their own steam, Sebastian’s eyes flicker to me and then back. “Remind me again who she is?”
Her clarification makes my stomach plummet to my gut: “The activities coordinator.” She pauses, adding meaningfully, “She organizes the singles ward.”
“Oh. Not yet.”
“So,” she says, smiling warmly, “make sure you do, okay? I’ve told her you’ll be calling. I just think it’s time.”
It’s time? What does that mean? Does it bother his parents that he’s nineteen and doesn’t have a girlfriend? I thought he wasn’t supposed to be in a relationship when he left on his mission.
Do they suspect he’s gay?
He starts to speak, but she gently cuts in, answering some of my questions. “I’m not saying you should grow attached to anyone. I just want you to know some . . . people . . .”—Ugh, she means girls—“so that when you come home—”
“Okay, Mom,” Sebastian says quietly, blinking to me and away again. He smiles at her to remove the insult of his interruption.
She seems satisfied with this answer and moves on. “Have we received your promotional schedule from your publicist?”
Sebastian winces, shaking his head. “Not yet.”
His mom’s smile droops, and a furrow takes up residence on her brow. “I’m worried we won’t have time to coordinate everything,” she says. “We still need to do your paperwork and coordinate with the MTC. If you leave in June, you’ll be cutting it close. We don’t know where you’ll be going, so we assume you need three months at the center before you leave.”
In any other house, this detailed planning would have me making a crack about spies and Agent Q and pens that turn into machetes. Not here.
But then something clicks. My brain suddenly feels like Mom’s old Buick. She would always push the accelerator before the motor turned over, and the engine would flood, needing a few extra seconds to clear. It takes me the same amount of time to realize Sebastian and his mom are talking about this summer.
As in, when he’ll leave Provo for two years.
The MTC is the Missionary Training Center. He’s leaving in four months.
The way he’s teasing me makes me realize I’m acting like early man emerging from a cave. “Sorry. It’s just so adorably wholesome.”
He shakes his head, looking down, but he’s still smiling. “Okay, so about your book.”
Yeah, Sebastian. About my book. My book about you.
My confidence bolts, leaving the scene of the crime. I hand over the printed pages. “I don’t think it’s great yet, but . . .”
This makes him look up at me, interest lighting his eyes. “We’ll get it there.”
Well, at least one of us is optimistic.
I lift my chin, gesturing that he should dig in. He smiles, holding my gaze and offering a teasing “Don’t be nervous” before he blinks down to the pages in his hand. I watch his eyes flicker back and forth, and my heart is a grenade in my throat.
Why did I even agree to this? Why did I try to rewrite the class sections? Yes, I wanted to spend time with Sebastian today, but wouldn’t it be so much easier to keep this a secret from him until I know where he and I stand?
As soon as I have the thought, I realize my subconscious has already won: I wanted him to look for himself in it. So much of this is taken from our conversations. I’m here because I want him to tell me which love interest he wants to be: Evan or Ian.
He nods as he finishes, and it seems like he goes back and reads the last section again.
I do not expect him to say, “I have some time this weekend. I could help then.”
This is probably a terrible idea. Yes, I’m attracted to him, but I worry that if I dig deeper, I won’t like him.
But that would be for the best, wouldn’t it? It certainly wouldn’t hurt to get some time outside of this class, to get an answer to my question: Could we even be friends, let alone more?
He swallows, and I watch as it moves his throat.
“Does that work?” he asks, pulling my eyes back up to his face.
“Yeah,” I say, and swallow. This time he watches. “What time?”
He grins, handing it back to me. “Wow.”
Wow? I wince. Obviously, that means it’s horrible. “I feel like an idiot.”
“Don’t,” he says. “Tanner, I really like it.”
“Yeah?”
He nods and then bites his lip. “So . . . I’m in your book?”
I shake my head. The pin is pulled from the grenade. “No one we know. Well, except Franklin is a stand-in for Fujita, obviously. I’m just using the class as the structure.”
Running a finger under his bottom lip, Sebastian watches me for a few quiet seconds. “I think . . . I mean, I think this is about us.”
I feel the blood drain from my face. “What? No.”
He laughs easily. “Colin and . . . Ian? Or is it Evan, the TA?”
“It’s about Colin and Ian. Another student.”
Oh God. Oh God.
“But,” he starts, and then looks down, blushing.
I struggle to hold my cards close to my chest. “What?”
He flips to a page and puts his index finger there. “You had a typo in Tanner here. Right where I think you mean to put ‘Colin.’ It didn’t pick up on your search and replace.”
ARGH.
The same stupid typo in my name I always make. “Okay, yeah. Originally it was about me and some theoretical person.”
“Really?” he asks, eyes lit with curiosity.
I fidget with the binder clip I’d used to hold the pages together. “No. I know you’re not . . .”
He flips to another page and hands it to me.
I curse under my breath.
With his hands laced together in front of him, Franklin rocks back on his heels. “Seb has a very busy schedule, of course”—I mentally groan. Seb— “but he and I both feel that his experience can benefit each of you. I believe he will inspire you.”
Seb. I never did a search and replace for the nickname.
Sebastian’s about to say something else—his expression is impossible for me to read, but it doesn’t look like horror—when a voice rises from the doorway.
“Sebastian, honey?”
We both turn and look up at the sound. I want to kiss the woman who has derailed this awkward hellhole. His mother, I recognize from the photos, steps into the room. She’s petite, with dark blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing a simple long-sleeved shirt and jeans. I don’t know why I was expecting some frumpy, floral sister-wife dress and a giant Molly Mormon bow in her hair, but my synapses quickly rearrange themselves.
“Hey, Mom,” Sebastian says, smiling. “This is Tanner. He’s in the Seminar this term.”
His mother smiles at me, walking over to shake my hand and welcome me to the house. My heart is still jackhammering around inside my ribs, and I wonder if I look like I might pass out. She offers me something to drink, something to eat. She asks what we’re working on, and we both mumble out something blah, blah book-related without looking at each other.
But apparently our answers were sufficiently wholesome because she turns to Sebastian. “Did you call Ashley Davis back?”
As if on their own steam, Sebastian’s eyes flicker to me and then back. “Remind me again who she is?”
Her clarification makes my stomach plummet to my gut: “The activities coordinator.” She pauses, adding meaningfully, “She organizes the singles ward.”
“Oh. Not yet.”
“So,” she says, smiling warmly, “make sure you do, okay? I’ve told her you’ll be calling. I just think it’s time.”
It’s time? What does that mean? Does it bother his parents that he’s nineteen and doesn’t have a girlfriend? I thought he wasn’t supposed to be in a relationship when he left on his mission.
Do they suspect he’s gay?
He starts to speak, but she gently cuts in, answering some of my questions. “I’m not saying you should grow attached to anyone. I just want you to know some . . . people . . .”—Ugh, she means girls—“so that when you come home—”
“Okay, Mom,” Sebastian says quietly, blinking to me and away again. He smiles at her to remove the insult of his interruption.
She seems satisfied with this answer and moves on. “Have we received your promotional schedule from your publicist?”
Sebastian winces, shaking his head. “Not yet.”
His mom’s smile droops, and a furrow takes up residence on her brow. “I’m worried we won’t have time to coordinate everything,” she says. “We still need to do your paperwork and coordinate with the MTC. If you leave in June, you’ll be cutting it close. We don’t know where you’ll be going, so we assume you need three months at the center before you leave.”
In any other house, this detailed planning would have me making a crack about spies and Agent Q and pens that turn into machetes. Not here.
But then something clicks. My brain suddenly feels like Mom’s old Buick. She would always push the accelerator before the motor turned over, and the engine would flood, needing a few extra seconds to clear. It takes me the same amount of time to realize Sebastian and his mom are talking about this summer.
As in, when he’ll leave Provo for two years.
The MTC is the Missionary Training Center. He’s leaving in four months.
