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When I walk into the kitchen, Kyle's standing there, two Styrofoam cups in hand. We look at each other, the events of our horrible, heartbreaking fight flashing between us.
"I brought you hot chocolate," he offers, his dark hair messy and his eyes tired.
I don't move from my spot as I stare at him. I want to cry, scream, yell because I'm exhausted. Physically exhausted, and something so much more. Grandma used to say something along the lines of it's not always the body that's tired, sometimes it's the soul. I think that's what I'm going through right now.
"Jenny," Kyle's voice breaks.
My feet drag me forward as I reach him, wrap my arms around him. He smells like clean laundry and expensive cologne and home.
"For a long time," I start, my face nuzzled into the crook of his neck, "my mom's arms always felt like home. When I got hurt or upset, I always wanted to run to her." I lift my head, peer up at him. "But now, you're my home. I want your arms. I want you when everything is falling apart."
Kyle's arms find their way to my back, and he pulls me tighter against him, careful not to soak me with hot liquid from the cups he's still holding. "I'm sorry about last night."
"Me too," I tell him.
"I think I need to explain why I acted the way I did," he exhales heavily as he hands me a cup. I take it from him. Our fingers graze and my entire body yearns to be closer to his.
He grabs my hand and starts leading me through the living room, releasing my fingers to grab a soft white blanket off the back of the couch, tossing it over his shoulder, before opening the back door.
The Thompson's back porch view takes in the whole valley below, unlike ours, which is obstructed with forested trees.
It's breathtaking, as always, from the light snow that fell last night. The sky is peach and cranberry, the rolling hills dotted in clumps of evergreen and ivory, the peak covered in a brilliant shade of pearl, reflecting hints of blush and ruby off its sparkling surface. It's postcard perfect.
Kyle dusts snow off the bench seat for us, a light mist of white flits through the air with each swipe of his hand before disappearing into the cold breeze. He sits as I watch from a few feet away, taking a small sip of the hot chocolate, trying to calm my nerves.
End your friendship with him.
You go back in there and you tell him to not talk to you, touch you or seek you out ever again or we’re done.
I chew on my bottom lip, suddenly self-conscious. I don’t know if I should sit next to him or keep the distance between us? I don't know what he's going to say and the thought of losing him makes every bone in my body hurt.
"Come here," he says gently as he pats the wood beside him, the white blanket balled in his lap.
I’m grateful he makes the decision for me. As I slide into the bench seat, our thighs rub against each other, and it feels like the first time all over again. When we were at Sunny's apartment, we sat beside each other on the stairs. That was the first time his body was close enough to mine to feel the warmth radiating off him. He’s always so warm.
Kyle drapes the blanket over us, then takes a long sip of coffee before turning his upper half to look at me. He raises a hand, smooths down my hair, lets out a small laugh when the tendrils of wild blond bounce right back into their messy, frizzy, poufy place.
"I freaked out when you said it's awful being in Boulder," Kyle reveals. "All I heard was that being with me is awful,” he pauses, hesitantly sliding his arm over my shoulders. “I know that's not what you said, but it's what I heard. When we got to Bruce’s, I had to get a few drinks in me to keep from losing it, Jenny. I know I'm losing my mom. I don't want her to die. With everything she’s put me through over the last five years, including hurting you, I don’t want her to die. But last night, when you told Matt how you felt about Boulder, I was more terrified of losing you."
My eyes close tight as he says the words, feeling the shame and stupidity and senselessness heat my face and neck and chest.
“I don’t want to lose you,” Kyle whispers. “Tell me what I have to do so that doesn’t happen.”
Freshman year of high school, before Colleen insulted me in front of her posse, and I decided not to eat lunch in the cafeteria anymore, Matt and I used to eat at a table near Kyle’s. He always ignored us, pretended he was too good for us, but I never missed the few occasions his eyes wandered in our direction, making sure we were alright.
There was one point where I thought maybe Matt and I were becoming more than friends that year. Fallon was on vacation and Matt had been flirting with me all week. He was no longer sitting across from me at the table but had started sitting right next to me.
I can’t remember what we were talking about that day, but Matt had said something hilarious, and I threw my head back to laugh, laid my hand on his shoulder. He leaned in and whispered something in my ear. As I wiped the laughing tears from my eyes, I missed what he said because I caught Kyle watching us, his face stony, tense, unreadable. The glare he was sending us sent ice through my veins.
A few minutes later, Matt volunteered to take our trash to the bins. When he was coming back, Kyle stood, strode over to Matt and stopped him right in front of the jocks and cheerleaders and so-called popular upperclassmen. He said a few words to him before reaching down and pantsing him in front of their entire table.
Matt’s neck flushed red as he scrambled to pull his jeans back up his legs, his whitey tighties on full display.
Everyone laughed and tauntingly started calling him 'whitey tighties' as he ran out of the room, embarrassed, humiliated, mortified.
I grabbed our backpacks and chased after him, but not before passing Kyle and seeing the smug look on his face. He had his arms crossed over his chest and I shoved him as hard as I could with my free hand.
His dark eyes glinted with guilt for a moment as I shook my head at him.
