Darwin:Looks terrible.
Moby:Did you deflower little George Saint James yet?
I roll my eyes. Moby is merciless in teasing George and me.
Mom:Moby. Don’t be rude.
Darwin:George is like six-three.
Moby:You’re so literal.
Me:Do I need to tattoo “We’re just friends” on my forehead?
Moby:No.
Moby:But you do have his name tattooed on your side, so I think my question stands.
Dad:I’m turning my phone off.
I startle at the sound of George’s footsteps and turn to find him stepping out onto the deck, eating an apple and dressed in only a pair of low-slung pale blue cotton pajama pants. It’s an effort not to let my jaw fall open. George has always been lean—fit but wiry. Take off the designer glasses and put a cigarette between his lips and a guitar case in his hand, and you’ve got a disheveled indie rocker type. But George is kind ofripped.
“What is all ofthat?” I ask, too shocked to bother hiding it.
“All of what?” he says, rubbing his hair dry.
It’s not like he’s covered in huge slabs of muscle, but everythingis bigger, more defined. There are shadows in the ridges of his stomach, and his shoulders have bulked up. My eyes fall to my name tattooed on his rib cage, and my heart beats a little faster.
“Don’t play coy with me. You’re lifting and crunching,” I tease. “I bet you’re monitoring your protein intake, too.”
“Shut up.”
“You’ve definitely been doing squats.”
George’s brows rise.
“Don’t deny it,” I say, skipping past the obvious fact that I’ve been checking out his butt.
“I’ve been working out for a few years now. I guess we’ve both changed. You learned to chew with your mouth shut, and I—”
“Got abs!” I say brightly.
“Are you making fun of me?”
“A little. But they’re good abs, George. I’m trying to be nice.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Screw you,” I say, laughing. “I can be nice.”
“Can I let you in on a secret?” he asks, crunching into the apple.
He holds out the fruit to me, and I take it from him. The skin snaps beneath my teeth with a burst of acidic sweetness.
“I prefer it when you’re not trying to be nice,” he says, sitting in the chair beside me.
“Excuse me?”
“I’d rather you be your regular mouthy self than the way you were at that dinner party. I don’t want you to be docile. Whatever you need to get out, I can take it. You don’t need to play nice with me.”
