Page 42 of Clinically Awkward

But I couldn’t say that because that would be crossing a line. A very clear, very important line.

We had been to baseball games. We had been hiking. We had been to the comedy club. We had dinner. Multiple dinners. But all of those had been public. Neutral territory.

Safe.

Inviting her to my apartment was different. My apartment, or technically my penthouse, was private. Personal. Intimate. My penthouse was where I lived. Where I kept my things. Where I walked around in sweatpants and threw tennis balls at the wall and ate cold pizza straight from the box.

Inviting her here was dangerous.

It was a boundary I hadn’t crossed with anyone in years.

Not since—I stopped that thought before it could finish.

I looked at my phone. At her text.

I need a beer.

I could have suggested a bar. I should have suggested a bar. That would have been the smart thing to do. The safe thing. The thing that didn’t involve her sitting on my couch, in my space, close enough to touch.

I started typing.

Me: I have beer.

I stared at what I had written. That wasn’t an invitation. That was just a statement of fact. I did, in fact, have beer. Lots of people had beer. It didn’t mean anything.

I kept typing.

Me: And cold pizza. And a couch. If you want to come over.

I read it.

Read it again, and then I hit send before I could talk myself out of it.

The phone left my hand like it was on fire. I dropped it on the couch next to me and stared at it.

What the hell had I just done?

I had invited her over. To my apartment. My private, personal, intimate apartment. The place where I lived. Where I kept my things. Where I was currently wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt that said “I’m not arguing; I’m just explaining why I’m right” that Gabriel had given me as a joke three Christmases ago.

I looked down at the shirt.

Oh God. I was wearing the shirt.

I should change. I should definitely change. But if I changed, that would mean I cared what I looked like. Which would mean I was treating this like a date.

Which it wasn’t.

It was just two friends. Hanging out. Having a beer. Eating cold pizza. On my couch. In my apartment. Alone.

Oh God.

My phone buzzed, and I grabbed it so fast I nearly threw it across the room.

Vivi: Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude.

I typed back immediately.

Me: You’re not intruding. I’m literally throwing a ball at the wall. You’d be doing me a favor.