We started.
My base dropped in followed by his. Tiny squads started moving around, collecting resources. It was simple at first, and then it got intense.
I began building defenses.
He noticed. “You’re such a control freak.”
“I like winning.”
“Winning’s boring if nobody feels it,” he shot back, and it was half a joke, half just who he was.
Glass clattered into the outside trash can next door, and I glanced at him, noticing his hands clenched around the controller.
“You want to talk?” I asked again because sometimes he needed to talk. Other times, he just wanted to forget about what was happening at his house.
“I already told you no.”
“All right,” I responded. “Then build your supply pad, because you’re about to get destroyed.”
He let out a small laugh. “You’re not destroying anything.”
“Just you watch.”
He pushed harder.
I held.
That was us.
Rowan Cross, the kid who was raised to keep everything in order, the athlete who competed in wrestling, played football and baseball, and still showed up to train in jiu-jitsu because I enjoyed having control over my own body.
Keaton Stafford, the outcast in black hoodies, nail polish, eyeliner, and bruised knuckles, who carried himself like someone always waiting for things to go sideways.
My phone buzzed on the bed and we both checked the screen.
“You gonna answer that?” he asked.
I grabbed it, saw it was Veronica, then put it back down. “No.”
He kept his attention on the TV. “Why not?”
“Not interested.”
He paused the game. “Since when?”
I shrugged. “Since always.”
His eyes shifted to me. “That’s not true.”
“It is,” I retorted, and I hated how defensive it sounded.
His jaw clenched, like he wanted to drop it but couldn’t. “I’ve never seen you kiss a girl.”
“Why are you keeping track of that?”
“Because I know you. Because you’re my best friend.”
I stared at him, and the word ‘best friend’ felt strange to hear out loud. Not because it wasn’t true, but because it was true in a way nobody else would understand if we tried to explain it.
