Adam says, “When I was a kid—hell, even at Aglionby, I would go all day on just, like, a cheese sandwich and maybe a vending machine candy bar.” Adam had tried the same trick today only to be faced with a growling, miserable pit where his stomach should have been and a mass of frustration that grew more unmanageable by the second. He’d gone soft at college, thanks to Harvard’s meal plan. “It sucked, but I did it, even though I always… I always wanted, just once, to be really full.”
Ronan’s pupils are wide and black in the dark, ringed by a sliver of icy blue. He says, “Hm.”
“Now if I don’t have three square meals a day I get cranky, it’s so stupid.”
Ronan eyes him very seriously and leans forward so he can rest a hand on Adam’s shoulder. Heat seeps through the thin fabric of his shirt. Ronan’s stomach pooches and falls between his thighs. He says, “Parrish, I was around for at least a few of those days where you didn’t eat anything, so I think I can say this with some authority: You were always cranky.”
“Shit.” Adam says, looking back. He had always thought it had just been his circumstances, but he’d never eaten enough to notice the difference. “I was, wasn’t I?”
Ronan laughs uproariously. The sound of it seizes in Adam’s chest cavity, even though it’s at his own expense. “Crankiest motherfucker I ever met, and I know Declan.”
Adam sighs and rests his face in his hands. His cheeks are burning hot. “Jesus.”
“Hey, man.” Ronan slaps him on the back, a little too hard. “It’s not a bad thing that you don’t wanna keep starving yourself when you don’t have to. You’re not gonna get a medal for like, suffering the most. Fucking protestant.”
“I’m agnostic.”
Ronan draws back his hand, but he stays close, drapes his arms over his bent knees. He says, “That’s worse.”
“It’s easier when I’m at school. I don’t have to keep a tight food budget.” He’s thought about it every day since he came back to Henrietta, kicked out of his dorm for the entire summer. He misses being able to really eat, knowing it’s already paid for. His voice comes out a little wistful when he says, “Can eat whatever I want.”
“Yeah.” Ronan’s smile is crooked and teasing. His eyes track up and down Adam’s body, shameless. He reaches out to poke his pointer finger into Adam’s stomach. “Seems like that meal plan’s been treating you real nice.”
Adam flinches, his ears suddenly red hot. He smacks Ronan’s hand away and fires back, “Seems like farm life’s been treating you real nice.”
Ronan’s chin tilts back, lofty and smug. He should be. He looks so good, like he’d be soft and solid at once, so heavy. It’s like he was always meant to look like this.
Ronan says, “Yeah,” and then he sits up straight, pointing an accusatory finger at Adam. “Wait. Tell me you ate something before you showed up at my house with the shittiest whiskey on God’s green earth.”
Adam pauses, trying to come up with a convincing half-truth. When it reaches conspicuous, he says, “Yes.”
Predictably, Ronan’s eyes narrow with suspicion. “When?”
“Lunch.”
“Jesus Mary, Parrish, drinking on an empty stomach? Fucking amateur hour over here. No wonder you’re so cranky.”
Crankily, Adam insists, “I’m fine.”
