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“What? I’m always hungry. I’m a growing boy.”
He sure is. And the food he consumes isn’t only going to gaining height but to the muscles in his arms and shoulders, and…
God, focus, Sydney.
I lick my dry lips. “Promise you’ll talk to Nate? At the very least, we need to convince him to tell us when he gets a migraine, so we can take care of him.”
“I’ll talk to him. Now dig in.” He pushes a plate with a grilled cheese sandwich in front of me. “You’re as skinny as Nate.”
I scowl. “Not true.”
“Your mom not feeding you? Maybe I should have a talk with you, too. Or her.”
“Mom’s fine,” I mumble, and bite into the sandwich so I don’t have to talk.
Guess Nate isn’t the only one who avoids the family topic. My palms are sweating when I think I’ll eventually have to fess up to the guys. Pressure builds in my chest whenever I think about it.
I wonder if throwing soup bowls at the wall helps. Maybe Nate is onto something there. Maybe I should try it at home.
By the time I’m done with my sandwich, Weston has finished his and is shoveling cereal into his mouth like he hasn’t eaten in days.
“Hey, West?”
“Mm.” He swallows a huge mouthful. “What?”
I look down at myself. “You meant what you said? I’m too skinny?”
“You’re pretty,” he says, shovels another huge spoonful into his mouth. Then he looks down into his bowl and becomes so engrossed in his cereal that I doubt he finds time to breathe, he’s eating so fast.
Huh.
I glance down at myself again. West thinks I’m pretty?
Pretty in a little sister sort of way, I bet. I mean, he did say I was skinny first. He was probably trying to soothe my ego.
This is so confusing…
After breakfast, after wiping the kitchen down until every surface is gleaming, West proposes we play videogames in his room.
Despite being dead on my feet after the night we’ve had, and despite West looking as tired as I feel, I say yes. Don’t want to pass up on the opportunity to spend time with him and get back to normal. It means so much to me, it’s frigging scary.
And it feels good, to be back in West’s tidy room with its perfectly made bed and the lack of clothes piles on the floor, the Skyrim figures he’s been collecting standing in a perfect line on his shelf and his Elder Scrolls posters placed with military precision over his bed, one right next to the other, without a millimeter of deviation.
I remember how he looked when he opened the door two days ago, how he fell to his knees, his hand burned with bleach, his skin cold and clammy. How the apartment had sparkled, so shiny clean it had hurt my eyes. How his heart had raced as I’d held him.
But he doesn’t mind getting all down and dirty in the game, and he kicks my ass yet again. One day I will beat him. I swear he knows all the tricks and how to get all the weapons and spells and skills. He’s so focused. He’s always so focused on everything he does, and I’m distracted by his narrowed blue eyes, the vein ticking in his neck, the hunch of his big shoulders as his avatar runs and dodges spells and runs around all badass.
West is badass. He makes my heart hurt.
I wonder if he’s so focused when he does other things, like kissing and touching, or when he’s kissed and touched. If he can stay in control or if he’ll lose it, break apart, trust me to keep him together, and show him how much…
How much I care.
And that reminds me of Kash and what he told me on the balcony, about leaving. About being a bad person. About the way my heart felt then, like a jagged stone in my chest.
Jesus, Sydney. Stop.
“Yeah, baby!” West crows, distracting me. He leans back in his chair, and I turn my attention back to the screen to find my avatar is dead—while his has won so many points it’s ridiculous.
