A Favor Between Friends

Cole Bennett had his knee hooked over the back of my chair when I told him I wanted a boyfriend.

He stopped peeling the wooden splinter off my chopstick.

For a second, the only sound in our room was the plastic takeout bag rustling under his wrist.

Then he smiled.

“All right. Who are we talking about?”

I should have noticed the we.

Unfortunately, I was twenty-one, hungry, and entirely too confident in my ability to recognize a straight man.

Especially this one.

Ten minutes earlier, I had woken to the smell of sesame chicken. Cole had been sitting at my desk, sleeves pushed up, inspecting a pair of disposable chopsticks as though somebody had commissioned him to build a suspension bridge.

I climbed out of bed and touched his shoulder to get his attention.

“I thought you had practice all afternoon,” I signed. “You said you weren't coming back.”

“Practice finished early.” He glanced at the clock. “And you sleep through your alarms.”

I checked my phone. Three missed alarms. One message from Cole asking whether I had eaten.

A fairly strong case for the prosecution.

He handed me the chopsticks, now apparently safe for human use, and slid the rice closer.

“You're a good person,” I signed before sitting down.

“I keep hearing that.”

His mouth tilted. His knee settled behind me. When I leaned forward, his hand moved automatically between the sharp corner of the desk and my elbow.

Cole did things like that.

He also looked like the sort of man who should have been charging people for the privilege of watching him do them. Dark hair. An unfair mouth. Shoulders that made our university basketball jersey seem like an excellent use of tuition money.

I had eyes. Being his roommate hadn't cured them.

It had, however, taught me that he was straight.

He said so. Repeatedly. Usually after somebody attractive tried to flirt with him.

I ate two bites before he handed me a napkin, pointing at the corner of his own mouth.

Naturally, I wiped the wrong side.

He sighed and did it himself.

We had been roommates since my first semester at Westbridge. Now we shared a bedroom in a four-person campus suite, with Mason and Eli across the hall. There had been opportunities to change rooms. Cole had rejected every one before I could finish considering it.

“The others steal your oat milk,” he'd said.

As if this were the primary concern in choosing a person to sleep twelve feet away from.

I couldn't speak. I could hear perfectly well, including the things people said when they thought silence meant I wasn't taking part.

ASL was easier than typing when someone understood it. Most people didn't, which meant a lot of conversations involved me unlocking my phone and watching someone's attention wander while I wrote an answer.

Cole never wandered.

He had volunteered with a signing youth group before college. The first time I signed something rude about a malfunctioning washing machine, he laughed from the dryer beside me.

Then he helped retrieve my wet clothes.

After that, talking to him became easy in a way I hadn't known I missed.

If I signed across a crowded room, he caught it. If I opened my phone, he waited. If a stranger answered a question about me by looking at him, he pointed them back in my direction.

He knew I was gay. He didn't make a joke out of it or turn careful around me when I took my shirt off.

I had mistaken that relief for the absence of any complications.

That afternoon, while he picked a stray piece of chicken from my rice container, I decided to ask him for help.

“There is someone I like,” I signed.

His fingers went still.

“Someone you know?”

“Not very well. We talked online.”

“Where?”

“Instagram.”

He put the chicken back.

I retrieved it. Whatever was happening, the chicken hadn't done anything wrong.

Cole leaned against the desk. “And what do you need me to do?”

“I want to ask him out. He doesn't sign, and I'm slow on my phone. I thought you could help us talk the first time we meet.”

“Give me his name.”

I showed him Ryan Parker's profile.

He looked at the photograph. Then at me. Then, with impressive determination, at the photograph again.

“Ryan?”

“You know him?”

“He's trying out for the team.”

That was convenient. Cole was the captain. I brightened.

Cole did not.

“He's shorter than me,” he said.

I studied the photo. “Most people are.”

“He takes a lot of gym selfies.”

“You have a whole folder of yours.”

“Those are for tracking progress.”

“Is your progress mostly shirtless?”

He caught my wrist before I could add anything, then seemed to realize he was preventing me from arguing and let go.

I smiled. He didn't.

“You don't know anything about him,” he said. “He could be a complete jerk.”

“He helped me yesterday when a delivery bike nearly hit me.”

Cole straightened. “What bike?”

“I wasn't hurt.”

“Did the rider stop?”

“Cole. I'm telling you about Ryan.”

“I noticed.”

He dragged a hand over his mouth.

I tilted my head. “You sound jealous.”

That made him laugh too quickly.

“Jamie, I'm straight.”

“I know. It's tragic for everyone.”

His eyes narrowed. I gave him my most innocent smile.

“I'm looking out for you,” he said. “That's allowed.”

“Then help me.”

I put my hands together under my chin.

It was shameless. It was also effective. He looked at my face for a long moment, then away, like he needed a private word with the wall.

“Fine.”

I grabbed his arm in thanks.

“Don't celebrate yet.” He looked down at my hand on his sleeve. “There's one condition.”

“What condition?”

“You take me with you whenever you see him.”

I paused.

“At first,” he added. “Until you know him properly.”

That sounded reasonable. I needed someone to interpret, and Cole was the person I trusted most.

I agreed before he could change his mind.

He pushed my lunch back toward me and rubbed his thumb over my knuckles once before releasing them.

“Eat,” he said. “Your chicken's getting cold.”

I picked up my chopsticks, pleased with how well everything had worked out.

I had found a cute guy, arranged a date, and recruited my best friend to help.

Across the desk, Cole was still looking at Ryan's photograph.

He didn't appear to share my enthusiasm.