I block his way any farther into the house with my body, allowing him to step into the foyer and for the door to shutbehind him, but I need some reassurances before I can agree to anything beyond that.
“No funny business?” I trust that he doesn’t need me to expound on this point.No trying to play footsie with me, and no fucking with my heart.Hopefully he can read the subtext there.
“Just like old times, Gem.” He gives me a half smile, somehow managing to make it self-deprecating, apologetic in a single look, and I’m ready to let him back in my place, my heart.
Call me a sucker, but his confession yesterday got to me.
Ihavemissed him, of course I have. We all have our issues, and our off days, so to speak. He and I have always overcome his demons together, I’m more familiar with his darkness than anyone else probably ever will be. I’ve been with him through itall. While Friday night was a new kind of low—safe to say he’s never lost his damn mind like that before—I will always have a soft spot for this kid. Helping him through the tough times is what I do. And if he’s going to act like a mature adult and move past the other night, I’ll try to, too.
Aaron sidles by me in the narrow entryway and makes his way to the modest dining room table to set down the bags in his hands. It’s weird to have him here. Period. But especially for a Sunday night ritual. We’ve always done them at his house. I mean, he’s the one with the big paycheck. He’s the one with the multi-million dollar house with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Blue Ridge mountains, with six bedrooms and a theater room.
We’re gonna be awful cozy in my tiny excuse for a townhouse. I’m not even a thousand square feet all in, and this living space only holds a loveseat, a coffee table, a small dining table and my little desk in the far corner. A couple barstools at the small kitchen counter are where most meals are consumed, plus the single bedroom and bathroom complete the floor plan.
I never worried about getting a huge house; I was only ever here to sleep, and even then, back in those days, that was usually just a few nights a week. It seems a lot cozier when all my time outside of work is suddenly being spent inside these four walls. Spencer doesn’t mind it though, and I do get to spend a lot of my time at his place, too, which is a little comfier than mine.
Aaron’s bags cover pretty much the entire breakfast table, his back to me while he rummages through them. After locking the door, I mosey on over to explore what he brought. Cheetos only do so much to nourish me, after all. Maybe he brought ice cream?
“Did you go grocery shopping?” I ask in surprise. He hasn’t set foot in a supermarket in probably six years. Since the first time a girl straight upscreamedin his face when he was trying to get some cereal, some Advil for his hangover, and a pack of condoms. Needless to say, his headache didn’t improve with the encounter. After that, he sent his assistants to do his shopping for him.
He turns around, a sheepish half smile on his face admitting everything I needed to know. “I used one of those apps,” he confesses.
“Mmm, so domestic of you,” I tease him, peeking around his much larger frame to see what he’s decided is going to sustain us tonight.
His hands each wrap around one of my upper arms, pulling me back in front of him, where I can’t see shit, except this man. My brows furrow in indignation. Now that I know we have snacks, I’m hungry.
“No peeking,” he says with the cutest look on his face, like he’s planning something.
No, Gemma! Bad Gemma! He is notcute, he is your best friend. Your platonic, bro of a friend, who you havespent approximately three hundred similar Sunday nights with before. This is no different.
“Go sit down,” he says gently, pointing with one finger toward the couch.
I narrow my eyes at him, like I’m suspicious, not letting onto the fact that I’m fucking thrilled he’s letting things get back to normal, and being sweet about it, too. As long as he doesn’t try to feel me up tonight, I’ve got high hopes. “Do we need plates or paper towels or anything?”
“Oh shit, yeah, please Gem. God, that woulda sucked.” He chuckles as the sounds of paper bags crinkling fill the small space, and I make my way to the kitchen cabinet to pull out a couple of plates and bowls, as well as some silverware and a roll of paper towels. Typical Aaron. Excited to get on with what he’s focused on, without thinking about the details. Whether it’s a contract for a new role he’s negotiating, a property he’s buying, or dinner, I can predict what this man is going to do in almost any situation. I guess that’s why we worked so well together for so long.
Setting everything down on the coffee table, I make myself comfy on the loveseat, backing into a corner, pulling my legs up and crossing them over one another until I’m in a little cozy pretzel, covered in a fluffy beige blanket and ready for a night of normalcy.
“Close your eyes,” he calls out to me from the makeshift dining nook, and I humor him, placing my hands over my eyes, but I’m definitely peeking through a slit between my fingers.
“You’d better not be peeking, Jellybean!”
Called out. Dammit. Guess I’m not the only one of us who is predictable to the other.
God, that nickname is so embarrassing.He hasn’t used it on me in forever. My parents used to call me that as a kid, and he thought it was hilarious when he heard them call me by it oneof the first times he was over and we were playing Mario Kart together. He doesn’t whip it out on me that often, though. He must mean business.
My tongue pokes out of my mouth, making a rude face at him despite my handicapped vision. I close my eyes for real, pressing my hands tightly over them so he feels reassured, and the mystery is eating at me as I not only hear all sorts of noises as he sets things out on the table in front of me, but I can smell delicious things, too.
“Is that chicken teriyaki?” My nose sniffs the air dramatically, like I’m some sort of bloodhound or something. He doesn’t give me anything in response, just keeps working on his little surprise.
Eventually, I feel his presence in front of me, and he pulls on my forearms until my hands come away from my eyes. The contact of his almost rough fingers against my skin shouldn’t feel so good, but I don’t miss the tingles that run up my arms at the sensation. It’s not technically the first time he’s touched me since the footsie fiasco, but it’s still a bit soon, my system is still highly sensitive to him atm, after the shell shock of Friday night, and I pull back away from him on instinct, leaning farther into the couch.
He looks down at the point of contact before clearing his throat and then waving his right arm out behind him, toward the absolutepileof snacks and food on display. It looks like he brought every single food we’ve ever shared together (on his cheat days, at least), and I don’t even know what to take in first. There’s containers from at least three different takeout places, bags of every imaginable snack available in North America, and what looks like two different flavors of the wine mixers that are my go-to at industry events he drags me to.
“Damn, kid,” I breathe out, stomach rumbling at the smells and sights in front of me. “You did good.”
He grins down at me, then grabs a plate and starts loading it up with chicken teriyaki, shrimp Alfredo, and this incredible roasted pepper hummus and pita combo from my favorite Mediterranean restaurant near his place. It’s a weird mix, I’ll admit it, but definitely not complaining. We’ve spent years of cheat days trying takeout from every highly rated place on Yelp within five miles of his house, and found the best dishes from each. I expect him to plop down next to me, lean back and start inhaling his food, but he hands the plate to me almost shyly, along with a fork and drink.
I take the plate and thank him, and he piles up an even larger one for himself before settling in on the other end of the couch, which might be a whopping nine or ten inches from where I’m nestled in. We aremuchcloser than how these nights usually go at his place, with his couch that is practically wider than my entire damn townhouse is. I can feel his body heat radiating off of him from here, and trepidation hits me at the nearness, the proximity, the prospect of spending a night cuddled up next to him. The last time we did our ritual, the next morning is what set everything in motion that ruined us. Destroyed the friendship of a lifetime.
