Calm down. If you can’t talk about it, how are you going to actually do it in four weeks?

“Some. But I prefer books.”

“Books?” He startles at my response, as if the thought of an erotic book has never occurred to him.

“Yeah, romance novels…” I answer, embarrassed at my confession.

“Oh, I know what you mean. I had a foster mom who read some of the smutty stuff with jacked shirtless dudes on the cover.” He dismisses the idea.

“It’s better than porn. At least there is a plot and you’re invested in the story,” I retort.

He chuckles. I swear, that sound is connected to my stomach. And other parts.

“Hey, no judgment here. To each their own. Just don’t think I want to read two hundred pages about a pirate and a princess before I get to jerk off.”

“Sometimes things are better when they’re hard,” I quip, feeling philosophical.

Austin laughs. I bite my lip and resist the urge to rip his clothes off. Yep, I definitely have a thing for his laugh.

You’re such a weirdo.

“Yeah, yeah. Ha ha. What are you, five? I mean some things are better when you have to wait for it, work for it. Then you know how badly you want it. The buildup, the anticipation—that’s half the pleasure.”

I’m lost in my thoughts, rambling more to myself than to him at this point. My monologue isn’t unusual, it’s just usually internal. For whatever reason, I can’t seem to keep my mouth shut around Austin.

“That’s pretty deep. I’m just talking about getting off, and believe me when I say I always know how badly I want it,” he teases.

Blushing and ready to change the subject, I ask, “Foster mom?”

“Caught that, did you?” He only half turns toward me before focusing back on the chicken. “I spent a couple years in foster homes before ending up in a group home in high school.”

I can’t stop myself from asking, “What happened to your parents?”

“Never knew my dad, and my mom died when I was eleven,” he answers.

“I’m sorry.”

Why the hell did you ask? This is none of your business.

“Why? You didn’t put me there.”

“Yeah, but it must’ve been hard.”

“It was what it was. I’m here now.” He doesn’t turn around. The muscles in his back are tense. I take the hint and happily drop it.

In the quiet I think about eleven-year-old Austin, alone and scared. I never would’ve guessed his past. He never seems to have a care in the world, to let anything bother him. Unflappable. I guess he’s had to be. I want to reach out to him, but I don’t know how.

I snap back to reality, racking my brain to think of something safe to ask Austin. What could we possibly have in common?

“How long have you been playing football?” I decide on a topic I know he must be interested in.

“Since high school.” He doesn’t seem very chatty. I can’t blame him after my last catastrophic attempt at small talk, but I keep going anyway because I’m a glutton for punishment.