Zara #2
“Yeah.” The answer comes automatically. Then he sighs, like the word tastes bad in his mouth. “Don’t worry about it.”
He tosses the phone onto the bed like he couldn’t care less if it existed or not.
Guilt pricks at me like it always does when this happens. I lean my hip against the wall, suddenly very interested in the color of the room as I rub my finger over the ancient paint.
Am I petting a wall right now?
Get a grip, Zae.
“You could’ve gone, you know,” I say lightly, trying to be a good person but wishing I didn’t have to be. “To brunch.”
He looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Yeah, and let you break your neck on the stairs alone? No thanks.”
“I had your mom,” I argue.
“What was she gonna do? Watch you tumble while she screams?” He shakes his head. “No.”
I let out a long breath, feeling as though we have had this conversation a few too many times. “I’m just saying, Stacey’s allowed to be annoyed. If my boyfriend skipped something important for another girl, I’d be pissed too.”
The words are out before I can shove them back down, hanging in the air like smoke. I stare at the floor, heat creeping up my neck.
“Zae.” His voice is flat as he says my name.
I shrug like it’s no big deal. Like my gut didn’t twist when I said “my boyfriend” and immediately pictured him.
“I’m just trying to be fair. She doesn’t know me. She just sees you and some girl attached at the hip and assumes the worst.”
“Yeah, well, that’s my problem,” he mutters, protective as always. “Not yours.”
But isn’t it? I’m the one he’s attached to.
I chew the inside of my cheek and force a smile.
“Unpack your shit and stop feeling guilty,” he orders, frustration bubbling in him.
There’s his anger, surfacing, because he hates when I feel like this.
Guilty for existing.
It’s quiet as we unpack, and it unnerves me to no end.
“Okay. No.” I stop mid-box, this one full of my gaming computer and all its accessories. “I cannot work with this silence.”
“No surprise there.” He turns to face me, a challenge in his eyes. “You can’t last more than two minutes without some kind of noise.”
I don’t take the bait.
This is one-hundred percent true, and I’m not denying it.
“Damn straight. Silence is overrated.”
“Alright then. Play your music.” He shrugs, rifling through the boxes more than unpacking them at this point. “But it better be good.”
“Like you’ve ever complained before?”
I fish my phone out of my pocket and scroll through my music, finding just the right song.
This one.
I smile as Are You Bored Yet? by Wallows starts playing through the portable Bluetooth speaker I found in my gaming box. Cass won’t admit it—because he likes to pretend he’s so hardcore—but he likes this song.
I see it in the way his movements change as the song plays and we work. I’m dancing, spinning instead of just turning, tapping my foot to the rhythm when I’m facing something. Music always has a way of carrying me through life.
A little short of an hour later, everything is in its rightful place as I rest my skateboard next to the hole in the wall I refuse to call a closet.
“Grab it,” he orders, his voice nearer than expected as he comes up behind me. “I want to show you the local spot. We’ll get something from the food truck court nearby.”
“Fuck yes!” I buzz, excitement coursing back through my tired body.
“First, my dorm. I’ve gotta get my wallet.”
“Oh? You buying?”
“Don’t get used to it,” he grumbles, because again, he thinks he can’t be too nice. It would show his feelings too much, and he can’t have that. “This is my way of welcoming you to campus life.”
“Yeah, ’cause helping me move boxes and unpack was not enough.” I snort. “But, hey. I won’t complain. Lead the way! I’m curious about your new shoebox of a dorm, too.”
He leads the way to his dorm across the courtyard from mine, in a slightly older building than mine.
We trek back down the stairs and out into the late August sunshine.
Campus is buzzing with people dragging suitcases and crying parents saying goodbye.
It’s loud and chaotic and a little overwhelming.
In all my times coming here last year, I never brought my board. I was too focused on games and food to think about the next day. One night up here with Cass every other weekend or so had my mind wonky.
Cass walks close enough that his arm keeps brushing mine, like he’s subconsciously blocking anyone from getting too close. It’s stupidly comforting and also not helping my whole don’t-fall-for-your-best-friend situation.
I’ve already been here maybe a thousand times since he moved in last fall, but it feels different today. My skateboard in hand instead of an overnight bag. My heart’s beating too fast for reasons I don’t want to unpack.
We reach his building and he holds the door open, bracing it with one broad forearm. I catch myself staring at his bicep for a second too long.
Bad. Stop it.
“After you,” he says.
“Aw, such a gentleman.” I pat his cheek condescendingly as I pass him by.
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.” I shake my finger at him.
“Fuck you,” he grumbles, then mutters, barely audible, “No. I don’t.”
He leads the way down the hall toward his room, shouldering his door open and stepping inside. I follow.
His room looks… lived in. Gaming laptop on the desk.
Skateboard leaning against the wall. Posters haphazardly taped up—bands, a skate brand logo, some cosmic-looking art his cousin did.
The bed on the left is his: dark-gray sheets, half-made.
The one on the right is neatly made with matching navy bedding and a stack of textbooks on the pillow.
“Roommate still a ghost?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “He texted he’s not coming back ’til classes actually start Monday. So I’ve got a couple more days to walk around in peace.”
Naked, my brain supplies unhelpfully.
I ignore it.
I walk over to his desk and immediately pick up the picture frame sitting in the corner.
It’s of us, sitting on his couch back home, enthralled in our game.
My lip is caged between my teeth in concentration, my grip firm on my controller.
Cass is leaned so far forward we almost look to be the same height, sitting.
“Wow,” I say. “You really wake up and choose me every day, huh?”
He shrugs like he doesn’t notice the picture every morning. “It’s motivation.”
“Motivation for what?”
“To play better.”
I laugh. “Yeah, ’cause I always kick your ass.” I punch the air, pretending to be one of the characters in our fighting game. “I’ve heard ‘finish him!’ so many times that now my mind randomly replays it when someone pisses me off.”
“Promise me you won’t actually punch someone. Yeah?” He seems legitimately worried that I actually would. “I’d have to be the one to actually ‘finish’ them.” He air-quotes the word.
“Yeah, yeah. No punching. Got it.” I roll my eyes, waving it off. “But you said nothing about kicking.”
“You’re impossible,” he complains, shoving his wallet into his pocket. “Let’s go.”
I beam at him, because cute smiles are his kryptonite. He just shakes his head, exasperated as he grabs his board on the way out.
As we exit his dorm, back out into the bright sun, it hits me all at once. How much more I’m going to see him. How many nights it’ll be just us and some shitty takeout and whatever game we’re obsessed with. How easy it would be to just… slip.
My chest squeezes.
He must see something on my face, because his hand comes up, fingers brushing lightly across the back of my neck before sliding down between my shoulder blades. His palm settles there, warm and solid, his touch lingering a second too long to be just casual.
“Hey,” he says again, softer this time. “You good?”
I force myself to breathe.
“Yeah.” I try for a smile. “All good. Lead the way to food and fun.”
He does.
Now I just have to make sure I don’t accidentally do something stupid with the best friend I won’t ever admit I’m attracted to.