Page 39 of Home Ice

“You always did have a big head.”

I give him a minute, but he doesn’t reply, which isn’t surprising based on how late it is. I leave the old box next to my bed, wanting time to actually go through it properly, and I’m determined to finish my room before I crash.

Hours drip by, and by the time I’m done, I can barely keep my eyes open. The keep pile is back in place, and even with the two others sitting by the door, my room looks bare.

I still need to vacuum and clean all the places I haven’t been able to get to for an embarrassing amount of time, but it feels like a huge weight has eased incrementally from my chest.

I strip out of my clothes, needing a shower but not wanting to wake Dad, and collapse on my bed.

It’s been a really long fucking day.

And I loved every minute of it.

My message notification wakes me. I curse myself for not putting it on silent, but when I glimpse the name on the screen, I worry I’m hallucinating for a second.

Then yesterday floods back in, and I scramble upright, squeezing my eyes open and closed until my vision isn’t foggy with sleep. I’d been planning to sleep in, but with a single message, I’m wide-awake like I didn’t crash four hours ago.

Hawke:

You know what they say: big head, big …

Playing along, I type out my reply.

Me:

Ego?

Hawke:

Not the word I was thinking of.

Me:

Responsibility?

Hawke:

This isn’t a Spiderman situation.

Me:

Ah. Feet. Right. But from memory, mine are definitely bigger.

Hawke:

I dunno, I got a good look at your “feet” yesterday, and I’d say it’s too close to call.

Of course, the one thing I promised myself that I wouldn’t think of is what he brings up first. The lust that flooded his face was an expression I’ve never seen him wear before, and … I liked it.

There’s a special sort of pride that comes from turning a guy like Hawke on.

Me:

Well, you did take a pretty good look, so I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.

I’m hoping for more flirting, but he changes the subject.

Hawke: