“Design stuff?”
He shakes his head. “Applications.”
“Which ones?”
“Michigan,” he says without looking at me. “It’s due Monday.”
This is a bit of a sore point between us. Ever since Leo’s art began to migrate from his notebooks to his computer, the graphic design program at the School of the Art Institute here in Chicago has been his dream. But now that Max is at Michigan, his focus seems to be shifting.
“Well,” I say, my voice a few octaves too high, “I think that’s great.”
I’ve been trying to keep my feelings on the subject to myself, since it’s obviously a decision he needs to make on his own. But we know each other too well for that, and my disapproval keeps shining through in spite of my best efforts.
“No, you don’t,” Leo says. “But it’s fine. I’m just keeping my options open.”
“I know.”
“It’s not like I don’t still want to go to—”
“I know.”
“It’s just that I really miss—”
I smile. “I know that too.”
We’re both quiet for a second.
“Okay,” he says, standing up. “Want to head back with me?”
I look around the room, which is a disaster. There are cups everywhere, half-eaten bags of chips strewn around, and a bottle of soda tipped over on the counter, still dripping down the cabinets. Pretty much every surface is covered with sticky ring stains, and the overflowing garbage bin is surrounded by dented cans and balled-up paper towels.
“I should probably help him clean up before his mom gets home,” I say, glancing at the clock; it’s almost eight, which means she’ll be back soon. “Just to make sure he gets to see his nineteenth birthday.”
“Don’t worry,” Teddy says, padding down the hall behind us. I twist to look at him, then flick my eyes away, remembering again. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants, a green T-shirt tossed over one shoulder, and the sight of his bare chest is almost too much to take this morning. “My mom just called to say she has to cover the morning shift. I guess the snow’s screwing everything up down there.”
“Best birthday present you could’ve gotten,” Leo says as he grabs his coat.
Teddy tugs his shirt on, then ambles over to the kitchen counter, lifting the tinfoil off the cake his mom made for him. They had their own celebration last night before she left for work, and what was left over was pretty much demolished at the party last night. But he scrapes some crusted frosting off the side of the dish with his finger, then walks over to drop onto the couch besideme.
It takes me a second to brave a sideways glance at him. The need to know what he’s thinking is nearly overwhelming. But as soon as Leo puts a hand on the doorknob, I feel a surge of panic at the thought of being alone with him and decide maybe it’s best not to know after all.
“Sure you don’t want to wait a bit?” I ask, my voice strained. “I bet the roads aren’t great, and you don’t even have your glasses.”
“I’ll be fine,” Leo says, then spins around and bumps into the coatrack, grabbing it to steady himself and squinting at it in mock confusion. “Teddy?”
“Very funny,” I say as he takes a little bow. Then he gives us a wave, opens the door, and walks out into the hallway. And just like that we’re all alone.
As we stand in the kitchen tossing cups into a garbage bag, neither of us mentions what almost happened last night. Even so, it hangs in the air between us.
“Here,” Teddy says, stepping in just as I bend to grab a paper towel that’s fallen to the floor. He picks it up, then drops it into the bag with an overly solicitous smile. “I gotit.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, turning my attention to a different corner of the room, but again he’s right there, following me around, offering to take over even the simplest tasks, hovering and helping and just generally trying way too hard.
This only makes it worse.
Nothing even happened and, still, something has changed.
This isn’t how we are together. And this certainly isn’t Teddy. Teddy is the guy who teases me about my do-gooding and throws snowballs at me and never bothers to help clean anything up. When he gives me a hug, he always lifts me off the ground so that my toes dangle a few inches from the floor, and sometimes he draws little alligators in honor of his nickname for me, which matches mine for him: Al E. Gator.
