ChaosQueen
You don’t ever have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but if you do, you can talk to me. Maybe it’s easier to talk to a stranger on the internet about it than anyone in your real life.
I smile at the way her thoughts mirrored mine. Is it weird to be grateful for someone you’ve never met? Because right now that’s what I’m feeling for this stranger.
RenegadeRush
I think you might be right about that.
ChaosQueen
I’m always right. I have to go now—time to drag myself out of bed and turn into a human so I can get shit done today.
Above my head I hear a thud and a mutteredfuck, and I grin at Sophie’s habitual morning grumpiness, knowing I have about five minutes until she walks in here requiring an infusion of caffeine to turn her into a human, too. What are the chances there are now two women in my life who face mornings like the rising sun has wronged them somehow?
RenegadeRush
Good luck with the humaning.
Tomorrow?
ChaosQueen
Same time, same place.
Setting my phone down on the island, I feel a million times lighter than I did when I woke up. Anticipating Sophie, I stand and flick on the coffee machine I set up earlier this morning and grab the pancake batter I made from the fridge.
The coffee is just starting to drip when Sophie makes her appearance, and I lean against the island to watch her. She’s wearing the pants from the green pajama set I washed for her, and her pink fuzzy knee socks pulled all the way up, one leg of her pajamas tucked haphazardly into the top of the sock. She must have gotten hot in the middle of the night because she exchanged the pajama shirt for one of my old high school football T-shirts with my name and number on the back. Her dark brown hair is pulled up on top of her head in a messy bun, strands of pink tinsel weaved into her curls shining under the kitchen lights. A bunch of the curls have escaped, like they object to being contained, and they tumble wildly around her face and down her back.
Her eyes are half closed, but if they were open, I know they would be a little bleary, still half asleep as if they, too, are protesting the fact that her body is awake right now.
Sophie has never been a morning person. Even when we were little kids having sleepovers, I would be awake for hours playing video games with her brothers before she finally made it out of bed. And she crashes here at least a couple times a month, stumbling into the kitchen wearing one of my T-shirts, pajama pants, and knee socks, with a bleary-eyed scowl.
The point is, I have seen Sophie Sullivan like this a million times in my life, so there should be no reason for my heart to kick up, for something strange and unknown to curl in my stomach. I shouldn’t feel like my eyes are glued to her. Like I’ll die alittle if I look away. I shouldn’t wish she would turn those bleary browns on me so I could see what’s lurking in their depths. And I definitely shouldn’t feel like I want to wrap my arms around her and cuddle her against my chest, to learn in an entirely unfriendly way what her body feels like against mine.
What the fuck is happening right now?
It has to be some of the residual embarrassment and anxiety from last night. The result of my conversation with my chaos girl and divulging a secret I’ve kept my entire life, even if it was just to a stranger on the internet. That’s the only explanation. Because if I thought any more about it, I would consider the fact that I suddenly feel an overwhelming urge to bury my face in Sophie’s neck to see what she smells like in the morning, and I don’t even know what to think about that.
I need to switch my brain out of this gear.
Immediately.
Channeling obnoxious best friend, I give her a grin and a wink.
“Looking fab, Soph. I particularly like theLaundry Dayemblazoned over your ass.”
Sophie literally whips her head around and looks down, as if to make sure I can’t actually see her underwear, and when I chuckle, she turns back to me, her eyes shooting daggers. “Fuck all the way off, Tyler. It’s too early for your shit.”
Moment of pure insanity mercifully in the past and relieved we seem to be exactly ourselves this morning despite last night’s ass/cock contact situation, I push off the counter and drop a kiss on her cheek, flicking her bracelets as I guide her to a stool. “Sit, Sal. You always feel better after coffee.”
She collapses into a stool and drops her head onto her folded arms with a groan. Smiling, I grab her favorite mug from my cabinet—a giant hot pink situation withThe Best Man for the Job is Usually a Womanwritten in purple script—and fill it with coffee. I add milk and the butter pecan syrup I know is her favorite, then set the mug down in front of her.
As soon as she hears the clink of ceramic on the granite countertop, she lifts her head, cradling the mug in both hands and drinking the coffee like it’s a life-giving serum. With each sip, I watch her eyes clear, fascinated, as always, by the way I can practically see her brain engage as the caffeine does its thing.
“Thank god,” she mutters, taking another sip. “I fucking hate mornings. There better be pancakes.”
Leaning my elbows on the counter opposite her, I scoff. “It’s like you think I don’t even know you. Of course there are pancakes.”
