My voice is small and hesitant. “Have you thought about it at all since? You know…meeting them…?” Nothing he’s said indicates he even remembers the details of that conversation, but I know David well enough to read him, and he’s gone from teasing to sober in a heartbeat.
But David acts like he doesn’t even hear me, let alone know what I’m talking about. He changes the subject to the egg rolls, and I take the hint, and let it go.
I consider telling him about the strange conversation on the student chatline this evening, but the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced I’m just being paranoid, and the last thing I need is to give David yet another reason to be overprotective.
I catch sight of a sliver of tanned, perfectly carved abs peeking out from beneath the hem of his T-shirt as he rolls his shoulders like he’s trying to loosen them up. He’s been doing that all week—since the second day I was here. I’ve asked him if it’s because of the couch, and he swore he just overdid it at the gym. But I’ve been here over a week now and it doesn’t seem to be easing up.
I come up behind him and rub his shoulders, digging in my thumbs to feel his traps.
He’s caught off guard and he winces. “Shit,” he barks.
“This isn’t from lifting weights. Your back is all knotted up!”
He turns and shrugs me off, but I reach around to feel the back of his neck. This time he holds in his reaction, but the stiffness doesn’t lie. I retract my hand. “It’s the couch—”
“It’s not the fucking couch!” He cuts me off.
I glare at him. “Fine. If the couch is so comfortable, then I’ll sleep on it tonight. You take the bed.” I grab another piece of broccoli with my chopsticks and pop it into my mouth.
David watches me carefully. “Not happening.”
I shrug. “But it’s so comfy. And I’m the guest. I want to experience this incredible, comfy couch.” I dig into the veggie lo mein, unperturbed by his resistance.
“I didn’t say it was more comfortable than the bed. And I never fucking used the word ‘comfy,’ for the record,” he adds.
“Which is why you should take the bed, at least until you recover from your weight-lifting injuries,” I snark.
David grinds his teeth, his jaw tight with frustration. “No.”
“Why—”
But he’s had enough of my snarky sarcasm and he blows up. “Because it’s the least comfortable fucking couch in the history of couches! Because its cushions are filled with fucking rocks and the bones of the men it’s killed before me!”
Finally. I keep my composure, casually invading the sweet and sour chicken carton he’s holding and grabbing a piece. “Then you shouldn’t be sleeping on it. I’ll be okay. We can take turns, or at least until you feel bet—”
“I’m not letting you sleep on that fucking sofa from hell.” He is adamant.
I lift my gaze to meet his. I know my next suggestion is stupid, but it’s also perfectly reasonable. I am like a sister to him, after all, right? “Your bed is big enough, David. We can share it.” I may be contending with a serious crush, but it’s not like I can’t sleep beside him without controlling myself.
David glares at me like I’m insane.
I shrug. “We’ve shared a bed before.” I remind him of the time our families went skiing and Sammy slept with Tucker and I shared with him.
“You were five.”
True. “So? It was a full. Now you have a king.”
“It’s not happening.”
But it is. And after we finish eating and doing our schoolwork in the comfortable quiet I’ve grown accustomed to over the past week, I let him make up the couch like usual. Only this time, when he’s in the bathroom washing up, I climb between the sheets and close my eyes. I twist and turn over and over again, trying to find a comfortable position, but David was right; it does seem to be impossible. There’s no way I can let him sleep here. Especially since there’s no telling how long I’ll be staying.
Brody hasn’t been in class and I haven’t seen him lurking around campus, but I also know he hasn’t been arrested as the investigation is still “ongoing.” Even Lani is still staying in Campus West. David might be willing to spend the foreseeable future wincing in pain, but I’m not willing to watch it, not when I can do something about it.
“’The fuck are you doing, Bea?”
“Sleeping.” I roll from my back to my side, trying to get comfortable.
“The fuck you are.”
