That makes Asher laugh. He tips his head back, and I watch the long line of his neck, the slight movement of his tattoo as his muscles shift. Two nights ago, I only felt it briefly under my fingertips. The skin was rough, like the scar I got when I partially flipped an ATV and dragged myself across gravel until Blake intervened.
“If Sav is okay with it, can I touch your neck?” My words come out in a rush, awkward and strange.
This time, Asher doesn’t laugh, just gives me a long look through his eyelashes. “And if I’m okay with it, right?”
“Are you?” The question feels bigger than those two words.
Asher lifts an eyebrow. “Text Sav and find out.”
The last message Sav sent me was from an hour ago, a picture of something pink she was drinking, decorated with a bright curlicue of lemon peel and three glistening cherries.Check out this fancy Shirley Temple.
I didn’t ask her to quit drinking, didn’t ask Asher to order a club soda when we were out at the restaurant. But they did and they didn’t make a big deal about it. Growing up, Blake sometimes did stuff like that: checked over my math homework, brought me food at practice when I forgot mine at home. No one but him has done that for a long time—possibly ever.
I type a message to Sav.
Me: Asher’s in bed resting
Sav: Good!!
I screw up my courage, send another text before I can think twice about it.
Me: I was gonna join him but wanted to check with you first.
Dots appear as Sav types and erases something.
Sav: resting or “resting” [wink emoji]
Me: the second one
Sav: I’ll be back soon. You two have fun!
I study the message for a minute, searching it for any hint of disapproval. Any hint of surprise, really. Maybe they both know more about me than I want to admit. Maybe I’m not as good at hiding things as I thought I was.
“Does Sav want us to wait for her?” Asher’s tone has his normal flat inflection, but with a hint of disappointment if Sav told us to wait.
I swallow around the strange nerves in my throat, the kind I spent the past few years trying to drown in dark liquor. Then slowly I shake my head.
Asher smiles and motions for me. I shake my head again, go and get the food containers. “You should eat something,” I tell him, then hand him the first container and sit next to him on the bed.
“You’re—” He smiles again as if that’s the end of the sentence.
For a while, we sit together while he eats. He starts with the chicken, moves to the vegetables, avoids the pasta laden in cream sauce.
“I didn’t know what you like so I got some of everything,” I say.
Asher takes another forkful. “I like everything.”
Which would go against his clubhouse reputation for liking stuff—music, art, books, whatever—the rest of the guys on the team either hate or haven’t heard of. “Not pasta though.”
“Pasta’s great. I just…” His mouth pulls a little to the side. “Dairy can go either way.”
“Vegan?”
“You just watched me eat chicken.”
“I wasn’t watching you—” I start then snap my mouth shut. Because I was watching him and there’s no point in denying it. “So not vegan.”
“After my dad…” Asher takes a long breath like he does when he’s using his meditation app. “We didn’t have a lot of money. My mom likes to say she cooks like a reporter—half the time when she was making dinner, she’d get a call, so I’d just take over. Doesn’t mean I can digest milk though.”
