Unnatural aa-1 Read online

  “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 Ronan’s favorite, there was an extremely good chance that Ronan liked boys just as much as Michael did. When Michael answered, he tried not to reveal too much of his delight in deducing this little bit of information. “He’s cool. Do you, um, have a favorite book of his?”

  Ronan paused. He felt as if he were going to share a deeply guarded secret and even though he was nervous, something told him he could trust Michael. “The Picture of Dorian Gray.”

  Michael had read that book, quickly and only in his bedroom, and had delighted in its every word. He imagined Ronan reading the book in his bed, one soft light illuminating the words on the page, his heart beating a bit faster than normal as the tale of eternal youth, beauty, and forbidden love unfolded line after line. Maybe they could reread the book together and talk about how lucky Dorian was to be so handsome and so admired. “That’s probably his best,” Michael offered.

  Ronan tilted his head, his hair falling across his forehead. “Definitely his most popular and mainstream.”

  “Mainstream?” Michael couldn’t see his grandparents or his mother relating to the story. “You think?”

  “Down deep, everyone feels like an outcast.”

  Ciaran fidgeted in his seat, not sure how much more he could listen to. He had a vague understanding of what the novel was about, but no interest in hearing it discussed and analyzed. In fact, he hated when Ronan prattled on about literature in general, finding it to be self-indulgent and boring.

  Michael completely disagreed even if he didn’t completely understand Ronan’s comment. “Everyone? An outcast?”

  Don’t ramble, Ronan, don’t give too much away. “Wilde was part of …” Choose the right word, Ronan. “A minority. And so he was able to look at life from a different viewpoint. He understood that each of us in some way carries shame.” Ronan glanced at Michael’s eyes but couldn’t hold his gaze, and looked away. “Shame put there by another person, society, to make us feel like an outsider, someone who doesn’t belong.” When Ronan found the courage to look back, he saw that Michael had never taken his eyes off of him.

  It’s like he understands exactly what I’m thinking, what I’m feeling. This was such a new feeling for Michael, to be in direct connection with one other person, that he had forgotten that sitting next to him was the boy who made this whole conversation possible.

  Odd man out. Ciaran hated the feeling, hated being once again in this position. It’s always the same when it comes to Ronan, though, isn’t it, he thought. His brother always had time to talk to someone else and never to him. He wanted to blame Michael, but he knew he couldn’t. He wanted to blame Ronan, but he knew t
hat would be useless. So he blamed himself. You should’ve kept your mouth shut and never called Ronan this morning to tell him that Michael had asked about him in that voice, that tone that said exactly what was in his heart. And when Ronan demanded in the guise of a whispered request, “You must bring him to me,” I should’ve said, “No, go find him yourself.” Why can’t I resist him? Ever. But enough. Enough is enough.

  “Whilst I find this dialogue scintillating, an organic chem lab awaits,” Ciaran said, standing up. “And please note that the scientist was able to wedge the word ’whilst’ into his farewell.”

  Michael started to stand up, but halfway through his motion realized how awkward he must look and quickly sat back down. He caught Ronan’s bemused look. “I’ll, um, see you at lunch, Ciaran. Okay?” Ciaran didn’t stop to answer Michael but kept walking until he was outside. The mixture of sunshine and wind was refreshing and he paused for a moment to allow it to revive him. A breeze flew through him and he got a chill; he knew he shouldn’t have told Michael he was related to Ronan. Some things are best unsaid. But he consoled himself with the knowledge that he did not introduce them. They met on their own with no interference from him, so whatever happened between them, and Ciaran knew in his heart that something would definitely happen between them, Michael could never accuse him of setting things into motion.

  Ronan was watching Ciaran through the window. “My brother prefers the company of a laboratory over a library.”

  Michael was still having a hard time conceiving these two as brothers. “I can’t believe you two are half brothers.”

  “Brother, half brother, same thing, isn’t it?” Ronan traced the stubble on his chin with his fingers. “Still bound by blood.”

  “I’m an only child,” Michael offered. “I wouldn’t really know.”

  He is so easy to talk to. “Sometimes I feel like an only child.”

  “You and Ciaran didn’t grow up together?” Michael asked.

  “Oh no,” Ronan said, his gaze not meeting Michael’s. “Our childhoods couldn’t have been any more different.” Michael used every ounce of restraint not to respond immediately but to let Ronan offer whatever information he chose. It’s not that he didn’t want to know everything there was to know about him; he simply wanted to appear interested and not obsessed. Thankfully, after a moment or two of silence, Ronan explained. “We have the same mother, but Ciaran was raised by his father in London. Well, really by his father’s employees, nannies and such; his father travels a lot. Bit too busy sometimes to be a full-time parent.”

  “That’s too bad. And you?”

  “Edwige raised me in Ireland.”

  “That’s a cool name, Edwige. Sounds beautiful.”

  Ronan laughed. “It means ’war.’ “ His laughter was like a rock hitting the surface of a lake, unexpected with a loud thump and then with smaller echoes cascading out after it. “Which is exactly what she had with Ciaran’s father.”

  “A war?”

  “Let’s just say that our mum raised me as if I didn’t have a brother.”

  “Wait a second,” Michael said. “Ciaran mentioned his mother to me; he made it sound as if she was a part of his life.”

  Ronan shrugged and shifted in his chair, leaning his body to the right and crossing his legs. A feminine gesture, but on him it looked anything but. “Trust me, Michael, he wasn’t talking about Edwige. He must have been referring to his dad’s new wife. Can’t remember her name, but from what I remember, she has less interest in being a parent than his father. The bloke’s very much on his own.”

  At a different time, Michael would have cared to hear more about Ciaran’s non-relationship with his parents, but Ronan had just called him by his first name. Michael, when spoken with an Irish brogue, sounded like a question. There was a lilt to it, an air of expectancy as if something should come after it. He liked the way it sounded and especially how it sounded flowing from Ronan’s lips. But what came after it was not what Michael wanted to hear.

  “What’s your mum like?”

  What was my mother like? Michael thought. Sadly, he didn’t know. Complicated, depressed, dead. “She passed away,” Michael said. “Recently.”

  Ronan’s blue eyes filled with genuine regret. “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right,” Michael said. And he meant it. “I can’t run away from it. It can be difficult, but I have my dad. And her death, you know, is what brought me here, so in a weird way I’m grateful.”

  Ronan stood up. No, Michael thought, why did I have to say something so stupid? Grateful; that was absurd. Ronan can’t possibly understand what I meant by it; no wonder he wants to leave. But he thought wrong. “Take a walk with me, Michael.” It took Michael a second to realize that it wasn’t a question but a command. Once he understood the difference, he obeyed without hesitation.

  Outside, walking side by side, Michael could feel the space between them, like a magnet pulling them together yet not allowing them to touch. This was good, for now. At least they were walking together in the same direction. Now he just had to think of something to say. Silence was good, but only in brief snippets.

  “So, um … where in Ireland did you grow up?”

  “Oh … a little place you’ve never heard of,” Ronan said, pausing to stare down at his shoes, at the grass. “Inishtrahull Island.”

  “Inish … what?”

  Ronan laughed, then overenunciated. “Inish … tra … hull Is … land.”

  It sounded like music, albeit an unknown melody. “You’re right, I’ve never heard of it.”

  Ronan finally looked in Michael’s direction. “Not many have. It’s in Northern Ireland, not where they had the Troubles, in Belfast, although it does have its own violent history.”

  Something about the sunlight and the crisp breeze made Michael feel relaxed. “C’mon, don’t leave me hanging. Sounds more interesting than Willows’s lecture about the Crusades.”

  There was Ronan’s smile again, reluctant, boyish. I just can’t resist this bloke, can I? Resigned, Ronan continued. “Well, if you must know, Inishtrahull Island translates to Island of the Bloody Beach.”

  “No joke?”

  Ronan stopped under a huge oak tree and pulled a piece of bark from the trunk.

  “No, I wouldn’t joke about a thing like that.”

  The wind stirred the leaves as Michael spoke. “Of course not, no, I mean, that’s … that’s a really interesting translation, Ronan.”

  Ronan felt that his name spoken with an American accent sounded the way it was meant to sound, harsher, more grounded and less melodic. He liked it. Leaning back against the tree, he tilted his head and closed his eyes. He should resist, he should walk away without looking back, but he couldn’t. He was where he wanted to be.

  And exactly where Michael had dreamed he would be. It’s happening again. As unbelievable as it sounds, I’ve seen him do this before, he thought, in my dream. How is this possible?

  “According to folklore, the island got its name because a group of men got into a vicious, bloody battle with some Scots from Islay over a woman.” Ronan opened his eyes suddenly. “A woman, can you imagine that?” Michael couldn’t. “A man can be happy with any woman,” Ronan said, reaching up overhead to pull on one of the branches and pluck off a leaf. “As long as he doesn’t fall in love with her.” He let go and the branch shot back up, bouncing a bit before settling into place. Ronan stared at the leaf for a few seconds, inspecting it, rubbing it between his fingers. “At least that’s what Wilde said.” Then he brushed it against Michael’s nose before letting it fall, carefree, to the ground. Michael felt his knees buckle and thought he would follow the leaf, but he pushed the soles of his feet firmer into the soft ground. Firmer still until he felt, once again, in control of his body. What was happening was absolutely unreal. This handsome boy was flirting with him; he was certain about it. Under this tree, on this campus, with students coming and going all around them, he was flirting with him. There was absol
utely no doubt about it. Ronan was just like him. Now, if only Michael knew how to flirt back.

  “Oh! Weeping Water has some folklore of its own too you know.”

  “That’s where you’re from?”

  “Well, I’m originally from London,” Michael explained.

  “Really?” Ronan said. “Keeping secrets, I see.”

  Flustered, Michael tried to explain. “No, not at all, it’s just that … well, I didn’t have a typical upbringing either. I, um, moved with my mother to Weeping Water, Nebraska, when I was three.” Michael reached up to grab a leaf for himself, but when he pulled, the leaf proved too strong and wouldn’t break off. He tugged harder while trying to continue his story. “We moved in with my grandparents.” Finally, Michael gave up and let go of the branch but used a bit too much force, so instead of it bobbing gently back into place the way it did when Ronan released it from his grip, it bounced hard, hitting Michael on top of the head. “Ow!”

  Hurt and embarrassed, Michael grabbed his head, knowing he looked like a klutz. Ronan thought he looked cute. “Are you okay?” When he reached over to try and soothe Michael’s head, Michael flinched and ducked a few inches. Oh God, what am I doing? Ronan was very impressed with himself that he didn’t laugh. He wanted to, but he could tell that Michael didn’t find his slapstick as humorous as he did. Instead Ronan put his arms behind his back and crossed his ankles. “So tell me about this legend.”

  The sun was shining directly into Michael’s eyes, so he took a step closer to Ronan, just a step and for practical reasons, but may be it would look like he was finally flirting back. Better late than never. “Well, um, the ’Ballad of Weeping Water’ is a poem that tells of a fight between these two Indian tribes. It was so bloody that all the squaws from both tribes wept for days,” Michael said. “Their tears formed a stream, which was named Weeping Water, and that’s, well, that’s how the town got its name.”