Only slightly hungover.
We won again in my dreams, though. Does that count?
A laugh punches out of me, sleepy and rough. Shifting to a sitting position, I text back.
Miguel
You’re dreaming about basketball now?
Tragic. I’ve lost you to the sport.
His reply comes almost immediately.
Caleb
Please
Like I’d ever leave you for squeaky shoes and a rubber ball.
The bus leaves in an hour.
I’ll text you when we’re back on campus.
Promise.
Miguel
Good
Drink water.
Eat actual food. No more “nachos are a food group” bullshit.
Caleb
Ugh, fine. Yes, Daddy.
Miguel
Say that again and I’ll show up in Reno and bend you over the nearest slot machine.
Caleb
Pretty sure that’s illegal.
Hot.
But illegal.
He sends a selfie: hood up, hair a mess, eyes still soft from sleep, my hoodie swallowing him whole. There’s a crease from the weighted blanket pressed into his cheek. His smile is small and a little sheepish.
He looks beautiful.
The hangover looks minor. The exhaustion doesn’t. I save the picture without even pretending I’m not going to.
Miguel
You look good, pretty boy.
