The end of his sentence stalls out, like there was a question to it he couldn’t quite finish. His hand feels heavy on my back now. Heavy but protective. Just like I wanted.
He’ll let me lean on him again, won’t he? If I turn around now, he’ll hold me. He’ll hug me. He’ll let me cry against his chest. He’ll listen if I tell him who was really over at my mom’s house last night. He’ll make up a bed on the floor again, and maybe this time, he’ll even let me sleep there instead of insisting I take his bed.
Fuck. What Ireallywant is for him to hold me while I sleep.
But I know that’s not going to happen.
His hand rubs back and forth along my shoulders, and with a shudder, I let out a long, slow breath, my chin dropping down to my chest.
“Stay,” Alex says, his voice soft now, like he knows I’m seriously considering it. “I’ve got pajamas you can borrow, and you can take the bed again. My mom doesn’t mind you being here, really. And tomorrow’s Sunday. She makes blueberry pancakes on Sundays.”
I know this already. He knows I know. So I laugh and shake my head. “Bribing me with food? You really want me to stay that much?”
His hand settles, no longer moving, and he says quietly, “I just want you to be comfortable. You, uh, slept so well last night. I want whatever’s best for you.”
“And you think it’s not best for me to go home?” I hear the edge in my own voice, as though I’m daring him to argue. I can’t help it.
He doesn’t back off, though. If anything, his hand presses into me just a little more, and it chases away some of the hurt rising up in me.
“I don’t really know,” he admits slowly. And how could he? I didn’t tell him the truth. He takes a deep breath and continues. “But I got the impression you didn’t want to go home. You’re more than welcome to stay here. Anytime.”
The tightness in my chest loosens, and even though I don’t know what to say or do, that’s suddenly okay. I let myself lean back a tiny bit, and he’s there, his hand strong and solid, supporting me.
He moves closer.
Anyone else, and I’d be in a panic right now. Anyone other than him, I’d be shaking, dizzy,out of here. Anyone else.
But he’s so close now that I can feel the warmth of his breath when he sighs. And I want him even closer. I lean back a tiny bit more, and I close my eyes.
“You take the bed tonight and I’ll stay.” My suggestion—mynegotiation—seems weak, but it’s the best I can do. It’s true that I absolutely do not want to go home right now, and I really shouldtell him exactly why. Maybe I will. Later.
His hand drops away from my back, sending a chill through me, but then there’s a soft huff, like he’s laughing. “Deal,” he says, amusement in his voice.
I love the sound.
Then he’s moving, gathering up the popcorn bowl from the coffee table and our half-empty glasses of watery orange juice, the ice having melted long ago.
“Come on,” he says, tilting his head toward the kitchen. “Help me with the dishes, then we’ll head upstairs. My mom’ll be happy if she doesn’t have to clean up the kitchen when she’s done painting for the night.”
“Yeah, sure.”
He gives me a smile, and his eyes linger on mine. His gaze is warm, as it always is, and I wonder what the hell I’ve done to deserve him as my best friend. He puts up with so much from me.
And now he’s putting up with this, too—me staying here, uninvited. He seems to want me here. Like he’s happy to have me.
I look away first and clear my throat, and he laughs lightly, though it almost sounds forced. He starts toward the kitchen, and I follow.
It’s not until we’re at the sink, starting to wash the dishes, that he finally breaks the silence with another laugh. Then he starts talking. “Bro, so, listen to this. I meant to tell you last week, and then with graduation and everything, I just spaced out. The painting my mom’s doing right now, you won’t believe it, it’s for this client she has in California. He’s some famous baseball player or something. Anyway, he’s paying her, I dunno, thousands of dollars or something to paint a leaf!”
“A . . . leaf?”
“Yeah. Maybe we can peek in there later so you can see. Seriously, though, it’s just a leaf! I mean, it’s a freaking neat leaf with allthis insane amount of detail, but still...”
He washes, I dry and put away, and all the while, he talks, describing this painting his mom is doing. And when he’s exhausted that topic, he talks about something else for a while. It’s comfortable, and it feels good.
And I’m so grateful for him that I might not even argue if he tries to make me take the bed after all when we finally go up to his room for the night.
Chapter Eight
