Page 68 of Muscle Cub

“It would be if I were practicing on an actual project.”

“Why don’t you write about a handsome, nerdy professor who goes to a naked campground and meets a spunky younger man?”

“One that starts with a string of sex scenes and ends with them butchered in a tent by a serial killer?”

“Damn, Prof. You can be so fucking gloomy sometimes,” he teased. “It’s a love story. An MM romance. That stands for male-male.”

“I know what MM romance is.” My sister Veronica was a voracious reader of the genre and brought it up every time I mentioned writing. I could only imagine what would happen if the two of them ever put their heads together and decided to gang up on me.

“Remember when I was telling you about Jody Summers, and I said there was another author who came here too? Well, he writes romances set at the campground. Of course, he changes all the names and stuff, but we all know it’s about us. I’m definitely gonna buy the next one and see if he put me in it.”

“But are you going to read it?” I deadpanned.

“Har, har. I’m gonna read the sex scenes. Out loud. To you. Over the phone.”

“Please do. That’d be priceless.”

We chatted for almost two hours, most of it silly, dueling banter about everything and nothing. At one point, he pretended to argue that adaptations began as movies and TV shows, and if they were popular enough they were made into books. Eventually, we both agreed to get some sleep, and I reluctantly said goodbye.

I didn’t regret having spent the time with him, but I was exhausted the next morning. No amount of coffee could’ve forced meaningful words from my brain. I convinced myself it would be a good day for admin tasks.

I responded to a few emails I’d been avoiding from the English department about the classes I was scheduled to teach during the fall semester. The looming end of my sabbatical depressed me.

I checked my phone for the hundredth time, but there was no response to my text wishing Austin a good day.

I tried to take a nap, thinking it’d be easier to pass the time until I could talk to him again if I were unconscious, but my mind raced. I read for a bit, but I resented the author for having inspired ideas and polished prose. I even broke down and listened to a guided meditation that purported to help release creative blocks, but the narrator’s simpering tone grated on my nerves.

With a burst of manic motivation, I decided to take Austin’s advice and go for a walk. Exercising again would be the quickest way to work through the soreness in my muscles. I put on some of the new workout clothes I hadn’t worn yet, grabbed my wireless earbuds, and before I could change my mind, set off down the street.

Choosing the hottest part of the day was a total rookie move, but I’d already waved to two of my neighbors, so I couldn’t exactly turn around without looking like a fool. I felt on display like the occupants of every car that passed were thinking, Oh, good for him. He looks like he needs it.

Impostor syndrome and performance anxiety even affected my ability to walk down the fucking street.

When the health app on my phone reported I’d gone a mile, I turned around and headed back. I hadn’t expected an instant transformation, but it was every bit as daunting as writing—one tiny turn of a hamster wheel that would require days and weeks and months of sustained discipline to produce any results.

But there was one reward—being able to tell Austin I’d done it and hearing his praise.

I passed the rest of my Friday grocery shopping, making myself dinner, eating it alone in front of the TV, and incessantly checking my phone.

Eric texted wanting the scoop about Wednesday night. Mom and Veronica both sent reminders about Sadie’s birthday party the next day, but still nothing from Austin.

I must have answered the phone in my sleep because Austin was already talking. “I thought of the perfect song for you.”

“What?”

“Well, I’m kinda debating whether it suits your voice or mine.”

“What time is it?”

“Lemme sing it for you, and you can tell me what you think.” Austin brayed the chorus to “Wonderwall” in what he must have believed was a Mancunian accent.

I held the phone away from my ear and glanced at the time. It would have been torture to hear anyone sing that song at one in the morning, let alone him. I chose my words carefully. “You… killed that.”

“Thanks, Prof!” Austin said without a trace of irony. “Now you try it. It’s an audition. Whoever sings it best gets to claim it.”

“I’m not singing.”

“Why not? Nobody’s gonna hear you but me.”