“‘Course. It’s my house.”
“I don’t.”
“Why would you?” I prod him in the chest. “You’ve never been there.” I lick my lips. “Why are you here?”
He looks around. “No taxis.” Tears well in his eyes.
I grab his wrist and drag him along the street. “Don’t cry.” He’s far too pretty when he cries.
“I’m not.”
“Are.”
“Not.”
We weave and stagger down the street, bashing into each other more often than not, which must be worse for Flynn, because I’mtalland he’sshort.Well, notthatshort, butshorterthan me. Plus, I’m built like a barn, ‘cause I work out. But Flynn is just a city boy pretending to be a country boy. Yup. That’s what Billy said. Flynn will get bored playing farmer, you wait and see. But Flynn didn’t get bored, and now there’s no more Billy and Flynn, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-I-I— What comes next? Who fucking cares?
“Are you sure you know where you’re going? We’ve been walking forages.”
I stop and stare at the unfamiliar street we’re standing in. I can’t focus on the street name sign, and the doors of the houses keep getting bigger and smaller.
“Nope. We’re lost.”
“Huh?”
“This way.” I stomp the way we came, retracing our steps—I think—until I see something I do recognise. “This way!” I point triumphantly.
Eventually, we arrive at my front door. It’s painted bright yellow, like many of the other student housing buildings in this area. It takes me five tries to jab mykey in the lock and turn it. In my defence, my hands have swollen to five times their standard size. They look kinda normal, though, which is weird.
We totter into the lounge and collapse onto the sofa.
“Comfy,” Flynn says.
“Told ya.”
We grin at each other before scowling and looking away.
“We should drunk water,” I say.
“Drunk water? I didn’t drink water. That’s why I’m drunk.”
“Or more beer.” I haven’t hadanybeer tonight. Have I? Maybe. I lost track.
“Beer.”
I nod and use the walls to support and guide my way, returning not long later with two bottles of beer and a bottle opener. I can’t for the life of me figure out how to use it.
“That’s a fork,” Flynn says.
“A— Are yousure?”
“Yeah.” He pulls a packed keyring out of his pocket and shows me a bottle opener. “Use this.”
I pop the caps off the bottles and toss his keys aside. They land somewhere with a jangle. We half-sit, half-slump on the sofa, swigging the beer.
After a few gulps, Flynn stares at the brown bottle in his hand. “I don’t even like beer.” He downs the rest, the liquid glugging as he does so.
I stare at the curve of his mouth, wrapped aroundthe end of the bottle. Holy fuck, I wanna kiss him. I lick my lips. Nope. Don’t want to kiss him. I hate him.
