He’s so close.Tooclose. And I’m stuck with my arm stretched across the back of the sofa. Basically around his shoulders.
This is bad.
Really bad.
Cade tucks his legs in, situates the blanket over himself and snatches his stuffed toy from my lap to prop behind his head like a pillow. Declan grabs the remote while Mom hogs the popcorn, completely oblivious to the awkwardness oozing from our end of the couch. Or maybe it’s justmyawkwardness, because Cade doesn’t seem to notice as he checks his phone under the blanket.
“We used to have movie nights all the time,” Declan grins, tipping his glass at us. “Cadelovedthe horror ones, especially the hauntings.”
“Oh, really?” Mom grimaces.
Cade fists the edge of the blanket, eyes unfocused. My heart rate spikes. I’ve seen that look before in the blue refrigerator light. It’s grave. Fearful. Lost in the depths of his mind.
My finger brushes his shoulder.
He blinks a few times, his gaze going cold and guarded. “Used to.”
Declan’s smile falters. He sips his wine and points the remote at the TV, starting the movie— another superhero remake. But I’m still hung up on those quiet words.Used to.
Pins and needles begin prickling up my arm, the cotton of Cade’s shirt imprinted on the tip of my finger— the one still hovering centimeters above. It’s like magnets live beneath his skin, repelling and drawing me closer. It’s fucking aggravating.
I glue my eyes to the TV until they burn.
Excruciating minutes pass.
Mom and Declan are immersed in the predictable plot.
My arm goes fully numb.
Cade slouches further into the cushion, thumbs flying over his phone screen. Subtly, I adjust, straining to catch a name or a message, but the blanket is in the way.
I glance at our parents again. Completely absorbed. Then lean over a little further…
“It’s rude to read someone else's texts,” Cade hisses.
“What's so important that you have to respond right now?”
“None of your business.”
Now it’s one-thousand percent my business.
“Who is it?”
“Why does it matter? You text Andrea all the time and I don’t say shit.”
Because I’m interested in her, I almost snap. But that means…
“You’retalkingto someone?” It’s more of a growl than a whisper.
“Texting is a form of conversation, yes.”
I'm going to head-butt him.
“You know what I mean.”
“And if I am?”
Something in the movie explodes. Sirens and car alarms and screams blare through the speakers. My hand rolls into a fist to prevent me from ripping the phone from his hand and throwing it out the window. After finding out who the hell he’s texting, of course.
