“Uh, no. Sit and relax. I’ve got this.”
I cross my legs at the ankles, hook my arms over the back of the sofa, and enjoy the view of Emory’s arse in stonewashed jeans as he pops corn. My phone beeps.
Grant
Party?
I told you I wasn’t having one tonight.
Why are you so boring all of a sudden?
He sends me a photo of him with his arms around the shoulders of two girls. They’re holding bottles of beer.
We’re drunk with nowhere to go. Party!
Not tonight.
Tomorrow?
I have plans.
Who with? Can we gatecrash?
No one you know and no.
When are you going to throw another party? I miss wild nights at Ollie’s.
Ollie? Who the fuck is Ollie?
Uh. You are.
I scrunch my eyes shut and swear under my breath. What the fuck?
I’m Auggie.
Oh. I’ve had your name wrong in my phone. Oops. My bad. Party?
I found a guy. He’s hot.
He sends me a photo of an attractive guy in a skin-tight T-shirt.
He wants to party too. We can be at party central in half an hour.
That’s your place, by the way.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Either Grant is too drunk to take no for an answer, or he truly believes that I’ll cave and invite them all over. The thing is, I would have done not that long ago, but now the last thing I want is to have a bunch of strangers in my house. Or my bed. I want to be here with Emory and, in a few minutes, Casey. I want to have a relaxed night watching a film I probably would have avoided like the plague before meeting Emory. Why? Because what I have with them is real. It’s genuine. They give a shit about me, what I want, and how I’m feeling. And they know my name.
No party.
Boring.
“Fuck you,” I hiss.
“Are you okay?” Emory is standing in the doorway, holding two bowls of popcorn, one bigger than the other.
“Fine. I hope the bigger bowl is full of sweet popcorn.”
“It is.” He puts them on the coffee table and sits beside me. “Why were you swearing at your phone?”
