“Good because you’re my best friend and it would suck if you thought I secretly hated you,” I say, unable to help a sarcastic tone.
I expect him to roll his eyes, but he just tilts his head.“I’m your best friend?”
I nod.
“I would have thought that’d be my sister, since you work together and lived together for like three years.”
“She’s the friend I’ve had for the longest, and I care for her deeply, but you understand me better than anyone I’ve ever met,” I explain.“It’s okay if I’m not yours, though.I know you have more friends than I do—ones you’ve known longer.”
“You know what?”he asks, and I shake my head.“I think you’re actually my best friend too.”
“Really?”I have a hopeful tone in my voice that I kind of hate.
But he grins, and I can’t find it in me to be that embarrassed by it.
“Yeah,” he says earnestly.“I tell you everything.We get along better than anyone else I know.You’re certainly the only person I’d want to spend all day cuddling in a blanket fort with.”
Until you get a girlfriend, then she’d be the one you want to cuddle in a fort with.
The thought stops me in my tracks.No.Nope.I can not be jealous.Finding him attractive is one thing, but jealousy?Jealousy means that I think he’s mine.He’s not.I don’t want him to be.Do I?
No.I don’t.It would ruin our friendship if I did, and I wouldn’t be able to handle that.
So I shove the stupid, jealous thought out of my mind, and lie down again.I rest my head back on his chest, and his fingers almost immediately find their way into my hair.
“You’re the only person I’d want to spend all day cuddling in a blanket fort with, too.”
Chapter 4
Parker
Song: Mess is Mine by Vance Joy
“Yourcoffeeisinthe kitchen,” I shout in greeting as the front door creaks open, not bothering to look up from my coursework.
It’s rained most of the day—and not the gentle kind that makes you want to curl up with a book (Reid) or play Minecraft (me).It was the miserable “sky opening up like the floodgates of heaven” kind.Whenever it rains like that, it’s basically guaranteed to overstimulate Reid, so I always have a pot of decaf ready for him if I’m home before he is and wait for him to initiate our evening routine once he’s regulated on his own.
On a normal day, I would at least pause what I’m doing long enough to say hi and talk about what we’ll be making for dinner together—a routine we fell into relatively soon after moving in together.But I know it will be a few minutes before Reid makes his way to the living room as he processes the transition from being out in the cold rain to the warm, dry indoors.
I’m kind of in a groove working, anyway.Today was the first day of classes after the winter break, so it’s not like I have any real homework or studying to do yet.I’m sure once I get farther along in my program, my professors will lecture on day one.But since I’m still in entry-level courses for the most part, the professors are taking the idea of “syllabus week” to heart.That doesn’t mean I’m not still taking things seriously, though–hence the calendar that’s so big it takes up half the wall above my desk, the pile of neatly-annotated syllabi, and the colorful array of pastel and neon highlighters I have spread across the coffee table.
I reach for my pink highlighter, the one I use to circle exam days, when I hear a frustrated grumble come from the entryway.Honestly, it’s more of a growl, which isn’t a sound I’ve ever heard come from Reid before.I push the cap back onto the highlighter, listening for the snap so I know it’s on and the ink won’t dry out, then peel myself off of the living room floor to see what’s wrong.
“Hey, is everything—” I start gently, not wanting to overwhelm him, but I stop short once I see him.“What happened?”
He’s soaked to the bone—his hair plastered to his forehead and clothes dripping onto the tile as he fights with the zipper on his coat.I know he had an umbrella with him when we both left this morning, but did he forget it at work?That wouldn’t be like him at all.I look down and see it’s collapsed, but it’s just lying on the floor instead of in the basket it belongs in.That’s also when I see the growing puddle of water pooling where he stands.A puddle of grayish-brown water that has me itching to grab a mop, or at least a towel.But I force myself to ignore it for now.Making sure Reid is alright is more important than my stupid contamination OCD.
“Car.Puddle,” he says, almost inaudible through his gritted teeth.
“A car drove through a puddle and sprayed you?”I clarify, reading between the lines.
He nods, and his hands are shaking so badly that he loses grip on his coat zipper again.I don’t know if it’s because of the cold or the anxiety I assume he’s feeling due to sensory overload.I’ve seen him when he’s overstimulated before, but never like this.
Stepping forward, I reach out to take over for him.“Here, let me—”
“Don’t,” he snaps, his voice cracking.
He jerks away from me, and I jerk back too on reflex.I hold my hands up placatingly as his eyes lift to find mine.His normally warm, comforting brown eyes are tinged with fear and a little glassy.They stay on me for only a second before darting around the entryway.
