“I didn’t,” I say immediately, too fast.
His eyebrow twitches. “Patrick—”
“There’s no shirt,” I repeat, with more confidence, like that will make it true. I keep my gaze strictly away from where the incriminating shirt sits in the corner behind the chair.
There’s a beat where he just looks at me, like he’s deciding if this is a battle worth fighting at eight in the morning. I can actually see the moment he gives up.
It’s subtle—just a small exhale, a shift in his shoulders—but I know Colten, and I know when he’s choosing peace.
Haha, I won!
…I’m so glad he’s still here.
“I was coming up to tell you there’s breakfast,” he says instead of pushing it. He glances back, watching me for a moment before adding, “If you’re hungry.”
“Of course I’m hungry,” I say, which is not even a lie. I grab his arm and start pushing him back out into the hallway. “Let’s go together.”
“Patrick—” He plants his feet, trying to resist, but I have, like, nine inches and at least fifty pounds on him. This is not a fair fight.
“I can’t eat alone, you know that,” I say, steering him down the hall like he’s a shopping cart with a bad wheel. Sure, I eat breakfast alone all the time, but what’s a little lie if it keeps him in my sight?
“You’d clean out all the food in the apartment if I leave you alone for too long,” he argues, but finally gives in to my very gentle nudging with a heavy sigh.
He twists his head to look back, awkwardly hesitating before saying, “You’re being weird.”
“I’m always weird,” I counter, which I think is a solid argument.
He narrows his eyes at me, but lets it go.
We make it to the kitchen, where there’s a spread. Not like a fancy brunch situation, but enough to make my heart do a little flip.
Eggs, sausages, toast, and—
“Is that a breakfast burrito?” I ask, already moving toward it.
Colten glances at the counter. “Yeah. I had some time.”
I pick it up like it’s sacred, my mouth watering. “You know you’re my favorite best friend, right?”
He lets out something that might be a laugh as he grabs a plate for himself. “I’m youronlybest friend.”
“Exactly,” I say, humming happily as I take a massive bite. No one can make a breakfast burrito as good as Colten.
I groan. It’s amazing as always, rich with flavor and just spicy enough to give it a good kick, perfect to wake you up. Colten has perfected this recipe over the years, and I take full advantage.
But by the time I’m almost done with my first burrito, I notice how quiet Colten is.
He's never been as much of a blabbermouth as me, but this is different. He's stirring his eggs without eating them, his shoulders hunched over, and his face is set in the same constipated expression he has when he’s thinking hard about something.
I've seen it this intense only a few times—once after his parents announced the divorce, once before a particularly brutal away game, and…now.
I can’t tell if he’s angry at me or himself.
Was it because of last night? I wish I could crack open his head and see what thoughts are spinning around that big brain of his. Maybe I could even take them out and help the hamster wheels slow down a little.
Well, I haven’t been his best friend of three years for nothing.
"What does your mom do again?" I ask as I grab a piece of toast and slather it in butter. They have it in a fancy pig-shaped butter container, already soft and ready to use.
