Don’t tell me you’re jealous.
Ben blinks as if that’s only now occurring to him. “Oh. Right. Sorry, Ivy. I swear, it’s in the past. He stopped all that when he met Dani.”
My stomach clenches, the earlier giddiness gone. Kaden shakes his head, staring at his housemate in disbelief. “Wow, youreallyknow how to put your foot in your mouth.”
“But she was the worst!” Ben hurries to clarify. “It didn’t work out, obviously.”
“Obviously,” echoes Kaden.
Ben clears his throat. “Anyway, I’m going to stop talking now.”
“Probably smart.”
Before anyone can say anything further, Wes returns to the table. He looks between the three of us, eyes lingering on my face, and I do my best to keep it expressionless. “What’d I miss?”
“Oh, nothing,” says Kaden, taking a sip of his beer. “Just Ben proving why he can’t get a girlfriend.”
Wes’s look turns questioning, but I just shrug. Ben comes to my rescue. “Alright, let’s roll to see who goes first.”
Wes wins the game, of course, and in record time, according to Ben. Having only played Clue a handful of times, I stood no chance against a guy with a “foolproof system,” especially notwhen my mind kept wandering to Kaden and Ben’s comments about Wes’s past dating life.
Luckily, I become distracted when the guys realize they have no food in the house and have no way of ordering take-out given the icy state of the roads. I turn my attention to scouring cabinets, and together, we compile three kinds of pasta, a jar of marinara, and two containers of turkey meat.
“Spaghetti night it is,” says Ben, already filling a pot with water. While it heats to a boil, Ben takes ownership of the meatballs and assigns Wes to “sauce duty.”
“Come on. I can do more than stir a pot,” he argues, but Ben just rolls his eyes and continues shaping the meatball in his hand before laying it on the baking sheet. Kaden doesn’t even try to insert himself, staying seated at the table, and I do my best to stay out of the way as well. The kitchen is a bit overcrowded with the four of us lingering.
When dinner’s ready, the boys pile their plates sky high with pasta and meatballs. I glance down at my normal serving size and almost laugh. I don’t want to know how expensive their grocery bill must be each week.
The conversation is easy while we eat, and there’s no more talk of Wes’s revolving door of women or his “dead weight” ex. By the time we’re finished, it’s late, and the yard’s already covered in a few inches of snow. The neighborhood is dark and soundless, everyone cooped up given the storm.
“You gonna be okay on the couch again?” Wes asks, after we’ve cleaned up and Ben and Kaden disappear upstairs.
“Yup,” I tell him. “It wasn’t even uncomfortable.”
“Oh, good. I was worried you were doing some permanent damage to your back sleeping on this thing. Did you have fun tonight?”
“I had an amazing time. Thanks for letting me stay here again.”
“Any time, Ives. I mean it.” And before I know it, he’s pulling me into one of his amazing hugs. I melt against him, wondering what about Wes makes me suddenly a “hugger” when I was never one before. When he speaks, his mouth moves against my hair, his warm breath sending a shiver down my spine. “Text me if you need anything, okay? And ice your eye once more before bed.”
“I will,” I mumble against his solid chest, and I can’t control the way my arms tighten around his middle. “Thank you. For everything.”
Once he disappears up the stairs, I change into the clothes he leant me the night before and stare too long at my eye in the mirror. It doesn’t appear any better than yesterday, but Wes says days two through five will be the worst. I just hope it’s able to withstand my concealer on Monday. No way am I going to class without makeup.
Shutting off the bathroom light, I head back into the living room and get cozy on the couch. Today was a lot to process—this weekend in general was the most ongoing socialization I’ve had in a long time. Maybe ever. But being around Wes isn’t emotionally draining like being around other people. It’s comfortable. Easy. Hanging with his housemates isn’t hard, either. At least, when they’re not telling me how much of a player Wes used to be.
I can’t help myself. Lying in the dark, I try to picture Wes bringing home a constant stream of freshman girls. It just doesn’t seem like something he would do, and maybe that’s the true sign that he’s changed.
Or maybe you’re delusional.
Shoving those thoughts out of my head, I tuck the blanket up under my chin and shut my eyes. I force my mind blank, picturing the soundless snowfall outside the window, and will myself to sleep.
I have no idea what time it is when I jerk awake. All I know is the wind’s howling outside, big, violent gusts crashing up against the side of the house, it’s too dark, and I’m fuckingfreezing.
Wrapping the blanket tighter around me, I sit up and look toward the kitchen. The stove light, which Wes left on for my benefit, is out, and so is the clock on the microwave. I get to my feet and peek out the window at the pitch-black street.
Power outage.
