Beware of Love in Technicolor by Kirstie Collins Brote Read Free Book Online

So, when Brian Deneen, a starting player on the university’s hockey team and a fellow Intermediate French classmate, asked me to go with him to the foreign film we had to see for class that night, how could I say no? He was a starting player.
                  I was standing in my closet, pulling on my boots when there was a knock at my door. I looked at my clock. It was a bit earlier than I was expecting Brian.
                  “Come in!” I called. We hardly ever locked our door. But instead of Brian, it was John, toting a backpack full of biology books.
                  “Hey,” he said, dropping his pack on my desk. He sat down on my bed and looked at me.
                  “You going somewhere?” he asked.
                  “I have to go see some French film for class,” I told him.
                  “You want some company?”
                  At that moment, Molly entered the room with a basket full of clean laundry. She dropped it with a thud in her closet and turned to us.
                  “Howdy, John. What are you doin’ here?” she asked innocently.
                  And then Brian knocked on the door.
                  “Come in!” Moly called out.
                  He opened the door and said, “Hi.”
                  “Hi Brian,” I started. “This is my roommate, Molly.”
                  He said hello and shook her hand.
                  “And this is John,” I said.
                  Brian stepped forward, hand extended. Despite being an imposing figure on the ice, he was still at least three inches shorter than John, and about twenty pounds lighter. He was plainly handsome in that clean cut, student athlete sort of way. John paused for a moment before shaking his hand. He looked at me.
                  “Is this a date?” he asked, his right eyebrow raised, daring me to respond.
                  “It’s a movie,” I hissed. I turned to Brian before John could say anything else. “Let’s go,” I said in my most chipper voice. “We’ll need seats close enough to read subtitles.”
                  I ushered him out the door without looking back.
     
     
     
    ***
     
     
                  The film was some dreadful piece of work out of Cameroon. As I recall, the story was about an aging man in a small village, attempting to take a virgin wife in an effort to hide his impotence. Hardly a romantic comedy.
                  I was distracted the entire time. I had gotten my hopes up regarding Brian, and here I was, dwelling on John and what he must be thinking. I had to face it. I was a lost cause.
                  I quickly discarded Brian after the film with some excuse about an early morning exam. I hurried back to Wyndham to extract a full account of what transpired once Brian and I left. I figured Molly would be chomping at the bit to tell me. I was not expecting John to still be sitting on my bed.
    He was the first thing I saw when I entered, which stopped me short at the door. He was flipping through my dog-eared copy of Wuthering Heights , the copy I’d had since eighth grade. Molly, sitting at the computer, turned and looked at me. Without saying a word, she conveyed a strong sense of confusion, and a small bit of worry.
    “How was the film?” he asked, placing the paperback down beside himself.
    “Coma-inducing,” I replied, gathering my composure and entering the room.
    “How was the date?”
    “Slightly better.”
    I threw my blazer over the back of my desk chair, opened my fridge, and popped a Diet Coke. I sat on the chair and looked at the boy sitting on my bed.
    “You like to write in books,” he said, fingering the yellowed pages of the classic.
    “It helps me remember how I feel about them,” I answered.
    “You like this