a kid. Cleaning, stocking. Running errands. Being in the way, usually.”
Justin reached for Wes’s knee and squeezed.
“But then…” Wes stretched his arms all the way over his head as he inhaled deep and held it. His hands came down, and he laid his palm over Justin’s on his knee. “She caught tuberculosis, and it was a bad strain. One of those multidrug-resistant ones. She died seven months later. My dad and I had to take a year-long course of antibiotics, but we didn’t get it. Just her.”
“Wes… I’m so sorry…”
Wes went quiet again, watching dust float in and out of sunbeams.
“Uh, this explains your major, though. I wondered about it. Public health.”
“Yeah. I just…” Wes shook his head. “I watched her die, and it was horrible. Ten million people a year get TB.” He shook his head. “She saw it a lot, so I guess it was only a matter of time before she caught it, but…”
“It shouldn’t have happened.”
“No. It shouldn’t have.” Wes squeezed his hand again, and, finally, met Justin’s gaze. “I never tell anyone about her.”
“Not even Colton?”
“Nope. He thinks I’m insane for going into public health. Way too much studying for him. I told him I wanted to fight zombie outbreaks, and I think he believed me.”
Justin laughed. “Is Colton a general studies major?”
“Worse.” Wes grinned. “He’s an ergonomics major.”
“A what?”
“It’s basically the new underwater basket weaving. For his final last year, he had to make a comfy chair. One that wouldn’t strain you while you worked. Know what he made? A bean bag, but with a laptop tray and a cup holder.”
He couldn’t help it. He tipped forward, burying his forehead against Wes’s knee as he giggled. Wes’s hand slid through his hair, there and then gone, only a moment’s touch. “I dunno, I think Colton may be the smartest one of us. I had to write a thirty-page paper last year. I think I would rather have made a bean bag chair.”
They laughed some more, and Wes told him more ridiculous stories about Colton until Justin’s sides hurt and he couldn’t sit up, and he lay on the ground, almost screaming he was laughing so hard. But eventually, Wes’s phone alarm went off. He sighed. “I have to get to the stadium for the pre-practice meeting soon.”
“I’ve got class in half an hour, too.” Justin stood and held out his hand to Wes. Wes, to his credit, didn’t balk, and he took Justin’s hand to steady himself as he rose. “When are you done?”
“Maybe seven, depending on the post-practice meeting.”
“Text me?”
“Of course.”
Wes didn’t get back from practice until almost nine, late enough that, even though he said his coach had fed him, he was a little surly on his texts with Justin, a little “Betty White needing a Snickers.” Justin ordered him a Jimmy John’s sandwich delivered to his house, and Wes sent him a line of heart emojis and a sorry I was hangry.
Wes was waiting for him again the next morning, and they walked to class, interrupted again every few minutes. Before they parted, Justin told Wes to meet him by the bookstore at lunch instead of in the dining hall, and to text him what he wanted to eat. “I’ll get lunch to go from the dining hall and we can go to that park. Maybe it will be quieter.”
It was quieter, and Wes ate his French dip sandwich, chicken Caesar salad, lasagna and garlic bread, two yogurt parfaits, and steamed vegetables in peace while Justin ate a stir-fry bowl and a banana. “I lost four pounds in a week,” Wes said, after he finished his lasagna. “The nutritionist was mad yesterday at weigh-in. I’m supposed to eat peanut butter every hour now.”
“I didn’t get you any peanut butter.”
Wes cringed. “If I have another spoonful, I think I’ll puke.”
“Well, if you need some extra protein shots, I’m sure I could help you out another way. You know, if you want.”
Wes sprayed a mouthful of water across the grass, tipping sideways on his elbow as he coughed and laughed at the same time. Justin peeled his banana and took a bite, blinking at Wes with the most innocent expression he could summon.
“We’d have to measure the amount of protein so I could put it on my spreadsheet,” Wes said, once he got his breathing back under control. His cheeks, his neck, even the tips of his ears, were dark maroon. “Think you could hold still and aim for a teaspoon?”