I scroll through the options, comparing numbers and doing the math in my head to see what I can afford, knowing I’ll have another car bill coming soon. Who knows how much that will end up being.
After scrolling the selections, I land on one at a local discount furniture store that is going out of business. It comes with a simple black frame, and they’re throwing in free delivery if I order today, which feels like a win.
If I go with this one, I can probably grab a decent comforter set next time I’m at the store.
“Whatever,” I mutter to myself.
I add it to my cart before I can change my mind and check out quickly, not giving myself time for buyer’s remorse to kick in.
When the confirmation email hits my inbox, I let out a slow breath. I feel accomplished after tackling that one task.
I could probably knock a few more things off my to-do list, or I could open Netflix, now that my internet seems to be working.
Then the thought of missing Cooper enters my mind again, and I wonder what he’s doing. I don’t know what urges me to do it, but I pull out the TV tray and set up my computer. After plugging it in, I grab my controller and power on my game.
The menu loads right away. My eyes skim through my friend list without thinking until it lands on him.
My stomach dips before I can recover.
Cooper and his gamer tag don’t feel like the same person to me, even though I know they are now.
One stood in my doorway just hours ago, looking at me like he was trying to make sense of something he won’t tell me yet. The other feels like someone I don’t really know.
Or maybe I never knew either of them.
The first time I landed in the lobby with him, his friends were loud and annoying when they realized they were playing with a girl. I chose my gamer tag for that reason. I got sick of dealing with jerks who couldn’t handle losing to a girl.
Most of the time, I mute my mic when I’m joining random matches. It’s easier that way, and I’m not usually up for chatting anyway.
I send him a quick challenge invite. It takes a few seconds, and then my screen switches, pulling me into his lobby.
“CerealKilla,” he says over the mic.
The sound of his voice sends a shiver through me.
How had I not realized it was him before that day in the student center?
I don’t answer. Instead, I type.
Hey.
There’s a small pause.
“I haven’t seen you in a while.”
My chest aches, but I type back.
Been busy.
“Yeah,” he says. “Same.”
The map loads. We drop in without much else being said. We play the same way we always do, covering each other’s angles without thinking, and I fall into step with him like it’s second nature.
We’re halfway through when his voice comes through again.
“You good?”
I glance at my headset and debate whether to talk to him before I type my message.
