I don’t dare hope.
Bowen
Age 15
Brett is relentless. All day long, my phone has been going off with texts from him. It’s only noon, and I’ve already received two pictures of Kit, a picture of metakinga picture that really looks like I was aiming for Kit, but he just happened to be in frame. He’s sent obnoxious GIFs. Online quizzes to take to figure out what percentage gay one is, and a meme that said, ‘Boys who make you laugh are boyfriend material. Boys who make you laugh and wear spf are soulmates' with the caption:
Brett: kit wrote this about you
Brett himself made it. Obviously.
I don’t answer.Obviously.
I delete it. It's so stupid.
But first, I look at it again just to make sure the eyeroll it gets is aggressive enough.
Kit's in the kitchen when I come in. He’s got on the same hoodie from yesterday—mine that mysteriously went missing recently—and it hangs off one shoulder from being too big. He’s humming, off-key, while digging around in the cereal cabinet.
Up on the damn counter.
My chest tightens, and I have to grip the counter to stop myself from stalking over to him and holding his sides. Instead, I watch how his hand curls around one of the cereal boxes. I watch the way his legs are folded under him where he’s crouched.
I don’t let myself hover behind him like I used to, but I watch. Just in case he falls.
He looks over his shoulder, and I freeze.
Not being a creeper at all, dumbass.
“Want some?” he asks, holding up the Captain Crunch. “We’re all out of Pop-Tarts.” He pouts about this, and I smirk, nodding.
“I think Brett ate the last one. Something was crinkling from his bunk at two in the morning.”
Kit snorts and pours two bowls of cereal while I get the milk. We sit down across from each other at the table. It’s quiet, except for the clinking of the spoons and Brett cackling from the living room.
“What is he doing?” Kit asks.
“Probably watchingShrek. Again. Don’t acknowledge him. I’m not prepared to sit in there while he quotes the entire movie in Donkey’s voice.”
He smiles. It’s crooked and tired, and I hate that the burning in my chest hasn’t gone away. It just burns hotter every time I look at him.
Buzz.
Brett: you’re literally on a DATE
I glance up. Brett is across the room, holding his phone and grinning at me like a hyena over the back of the couch.
Kit looks too, and his smirk turns down at the ends. “Is he…”
“Demented? Weird as hell? Yeah,” I mutter. “Ignore him.”
Brett: tell him he has food on his lip. Then wipe it off with your tongue. Romance 101
I groan. Out loud. Kit looks back at me, alarmed.
“You good?”
“No,” I rasp. “Absolutely not. I hate your best friend.”
