“Yeah. We’re not … boyfriends.” The word is foreign on my tongue.
“Okay.”
I force a chuckle. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Forget it.”
“It’s fine, Noah,” she says. “What is …” she hesitates. “What is the deal between you and Henry?”
My eyes fall, seeing my worn-out running shoes, the cracks in the pavement. “We’re friends. Friends with benefits, I suppose.” I scrunch my face.
“What’s wrong with that?” Eve asks.
“Nothing,” I say. “It sounds like a cliche. Well, not a cliche. I don’t know the right terminology. But it sounds … cheap.” I glance at Eve, but she nods like she understands.
“Do you wish you were more?”
I attempt to smile. “He would never.”
“Why not?”
I raise a brow at her, but she’s dead serious. Brows drawn together, the corners of her mouth tugged down.
“Why not?” she repeats. “You’re friends, which means you get along. You have your benefits. And, Noah, you seem … okay.”
I half-scoff, half-laugh.
Eve nudges me to get my attention. “Listen to my outside, impartial opinion,” she says. “You seem friendly, you’re athletic and popular and personable, you’re conventionally attractive — don’t give me that look, you know you are. And Henry’s obviously not straight. So what’s the problem?”
“You don’t reckon Henry’s straight?”
She stares at me like the time I misspeltnecessaryin English class. “Okay, granted, I don’t know the technicalities of human sexuality. But I know my dictionary definitions, and I’m pretty sure that to be heterosexual means to be attracted to the opposite sex. If Henry’s kissing you and … you know, whatever else it is you guys do—” I duck my head, “—then he’s attracted to you, unless he’s a sociopath. You’re not the opposite sex. Ergo, not heterosexual. Ergo, not straight. What?” she says in response to my expression.
“You freak me out with all yourergotalk.”
“Ha,” she says. “But tell me. Why would he never date you?”
“What does ‘ergo’ mean, anyway?”
“It’s a Latin word that means ‘therefore,’” she answers. “Answer my question.”
“Because,” I say, sighing. “Just because.”
Eve doesn’t push me. Maybe she’s nicer than I thought, or her cleverness includes mind-reading powers. “Do you think you should date someone else?” she asks instead. “It means you wouldn’t have to sneak around in sports sheds. By the way —the sports shed?”
“Don’t judge me. It’s better there than the boys’ bathrooms.”
“What’s wrong with the bathrooms?”
“Germs.”
“That shed is dark and filled with spiders! How do you even get in there?”
“It’s always unlocked,” I answer. “What were you saying about dating someone else?”
“If you dropped Henry for someone else, it would make him regret not being with you properly when he had the chance.”
“I … I don’t want to. I …” my voice lowers. “I like Henry.” My cheeks warm at the juvenile language, but I feel lighter admitting it. “Besides, I doubt I could ever make him regret anything.”
Eve has a point, though. Henry gets jealous. But I like it, the way he holds me down like I’m his. Or when we got dinner one time, and a waiter winked at me, and he put a hand on my leg under the table. It was there for a second because we were in public. But still.
