Page 51
“Yeah, well. I don’t know what to tell you,” he said, heading toward the door. “Come on. There’s gotta be something terrible on TV we can watch.”
Back downstairs, he flopped onto the couch, put his sock-clad feet up on the coffee table, and scrolled through a few streaming service menus while I finished de-scaling the espresso machine.
Eventually, he settled on a show where the producers dropped naked contestants in the woods to film them steadily losing their minds. He watched, rapt, as a scraggly, bearded man explained the nutritional value of worms to the camera while a woman with limp, greasy hair was sobbing about a leech she’d found attached to a very unfortunate part of her body.
It was easily the stupidest shit I’d ever seen—and that was saying something since he’d already subjected me to that show about marrying someone sight unseen. Even so, I abandoned my spot in the kitchen and dropped down next to him on the couch, putting my feet up next to his.
“I can’t believe you’re watching this.”
His right foot nudged my left. “And now so are you.”
“Hmph.” I nudged him back.
“Think he’ll actually be able to build this shelter?” he asked as the man tied vines together in an attempt to create a rope.
“Not a chance.”
Three episodes later, I was proven right.
Not only was the shelter a bust, but the man and his companion were drenched by the downpour that’d left their campsite completely waterlogged and muddy. They had nowhere dry to sleep.
Before the fourth episode kicked off, Mikey stretched his arms over his head, yawning loudly. His sweatshirt and the t-shirt under it rode up to reveal a sandy trail of hair pointing south.
I caught myself staring and looked quickly away.
“I’m heading to bed,” he said, pushing to his feet and tossing me the remote. “Early skate tomorrow is gonna kill me.”
“Yeah, me too.” I clicked the TV off, tossed the remote onto the table, and stood—placing myself directly in Mikey’s path as he tried to thread his way between my knees and the table.
Our chests bumped, and he teetered backward. Instinctively, my hand shot out, clamping around his arm before he could crash into the table. When he was steady, I pulled my hand back and stepped left to clear a path. He shifted the same direction at the exact same second, and we collided again.
Mikey huffed out a laugh and clamped his hands on my shoulders. “Hold still.” He guided me through a slow pivot until we’d swapped places, then dropped his hands. “We’d make terrible dance partners.”
I scoffed, following him into the hall. “Speak for yourself. I’m an excellent dance partner.”
“Sure you are,” he snarked over his shoulder.
“I’m serious. I took lessons—foxtrot, waltz, the whole thing.”
He stopped and spun to face me. “Shut up.”
I shrugged. “Prep school shit, man. Do you know how many cotillions I’ve been to?”
Mikey stared at me like I’d just announced I was an alien who’d come to Earth to infiltrate the NHL before the biggest smile I’d ever seen spread across his face. “No fucking way. You’re telling me you can waltz?”
I nodded, rocking back on my heels. “And foxtrot. Tango, too, in a pinch.”
“Cal.” He shook his head, laughing, ruffling my hair as we reached his door. “You gotta stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Surprising me. Just when I think I’ve got you figured out.” His grin turned soft—almost dopey. “G’night man.”
“Night, Mikey,” I said, my voice dropping low.
He lingered in the doorway for a few beats, then rapped his knuckles once against the doorframe and stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
I stood there until I heard him moving around inside. Then I scrubbed a hand over my face and retreated to my own room, where I told myself, repeatedly, to stop thinking about his smile.
