Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Not so long ago, Topher, George, and Asher had lived with Holden and me in the old house on the corner a block away from Chet and Sam. Chet had lived with us for a short stint too. But life changed after grad school. The guys who’d moved out lived with their significant others now and were busy with their careers. Real life and work commitments made it difficult to see each other as often as we used to, so Script Club meeting nights felt more sacred than ever.
What is the Script Club? Well, my friends came up with the bright idea that we should challenge ourselves by doing things outside of our academic comfort zones when we were still in grad school. Brave the beach, go to a bar, talk to a cute boy who might not know the difference between a proton and neutron…that sort of thing.
I have to admit, I didn’t try all that hard. There was always a reason not to go to the beach or a bar and let’s be real, I wouldn’t know the first thing about how to talk to a guy who couldn’t name the components of Newton’s laws of motion. For me, it was a nice idea that became an excuse to stay in touch after graduation.
Once upon a time, we met every other Sunday in the living room to discuss whose turn it was to buy toilet paper. Now we got together whenever we were all available, which was roughly once a month.
Chet volunteered to host tonight—ideal for Holden and me since he lived down the street and always had amazing homemade treats on hand. Extra bonus…his nine-year-old stepson, Lincoln, was a science nerd in the making who thought we were all pretty darn cool. A nice ego boost, to be sure.
“What are you doing, Tommy?” Lincoln sat beside me on the sofa, propping his foot on the coffee table to tie his shoe.
“I’m working on questions for an upcoming exam. This part covers glycolysis,” I replied, swiping at my hair when it flopped into my eyes. When that didn’t help, I tied the poofiest part on top into submission with a rubber band, then massaged the bridge of my nose where a jagged bit of tape had scratched the sensitive skin raw. No kidding, I’d actually had to put a Band-Aid over it when it bled earlier today.
Between my forehead ponytail, the tape, and the bandage, I probably looked ridiculous, but Lincoln just grinned.
“What’s glycolysis?” he asked, furrowing his brow.
“Glycolysis is the catabolic breakdown of glucose, producing energy in the form of ADP, NADH, and pyruvate molecules,” Holden intercepted, bursting into the room, an odd-shaped hat with a white feather perched on his head at a jaunty angle.
I glanced over my shoulder and did a double take. “What’s on your head?”
Holden greeted our friends and exchanged a fist bump with Lincoln before pointing at my hair. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”
“Oh.” I patted my front fluff with an embarrassed chuckle and pulled the rubber band loose, freeing my wild mane. “My hair is out of control at the moment.”
“Just a little,” Holden agreed, perching on the arm of the sofa, his long brocade coat flowing behind him theatrically.
A quick word about Holden. On the surface, he looked kind of like me with brown hair, blue eyes, a sharp nose, and a pointy chin. But everything about Holden was a little more—more theatric, more expressive…more fun. Yet somehow, he was always “put together.” You know, one of those people whose hair was always neat and tidy and whose glasses were never smudged.
Holden was also one of my very best friends, my roommate, and my usual “date” for events like my sister’s wedding and the stupid shower she’d mentioned. Not in a real “date” way. As I told my mom, we were just friends. But the concept of two gay men being close friends confounded her.
Or maybe she just liked Holden. He was fun. His innate flair for the fabulous commanded attention in classrooms, laboratories, and at Renaissance faires and HRS events. That was short for Historical Reenactment Society, by the way.
Yep, in addition to being a genius astrophysicist and a biomolecular engineer on the rise, Holden was an HRS geek who participated in events like Shakespearean festivals, wearing historically accurate costumes. And to the delight of his students, he occasionally wore retro-fashionable items such as cloaks, doublets, and hats that looked like something straight out of The Three Musketeers.
“Can I try on your hat?” Lincoln asked, immediately losing interest in glycolysis.
Holden stroked one of the feathers with the tip of his forefinger before handing it over. He snickered when Lincoln jumped up to show the guys hanging out in the kitchen.
“I like that kid.” Holden grinned as he sat in the chair next to me. “Guess who I went out with tonight?”