“Alone?” she laughs. “Are you crazy? This is my brother’s house. We can stay the night.”
“I can’t. I shouldn’t.” I don’t elaborate on why I just admitted that, but she doesn’t respond to that. She’s still stuck on the walking part.
“It’s a fifteen-minute walk,” she scoffs. “At midnight.”
“It’s not midnight yet,” I say to her.
“I’ll walk her.”
I turn. Benson is standing in the kitchen. Gianna looks at him. Looks at me. Looks at him.
“Benson. What did I tell you?” she seethes.
“Fine,” he replies. “She can take my bed.”
“What?” I scoff like he’s crazy. “No, that’s alright. Guys,” I say as they stare each other down. “I’ll be fine. No one has to walk me home. You know what? I will wait for you, G.”
Benson ignores me and says, “I’m walking her home, G. I’ll be right back.”
She holds his eyes for a second. Then she nods. “Okay. Text me when you’re inside, Lucy. And if I don’t come home, it’s because I’m crashing here.”
I nod, trying to remain cool as I stare at her. I’m trying to tell her that I’m scared for him to walk me home because he’s tall, cute, and her brother. But she doesn’t catch on. I say, “Okay.”
Benson is waiting for me. I leave with him, feeling my fingers tingle.
The streets are quiet in the way a college town is quiet at midnight on a Friday — not silent, not empty, but the noise has migrated indoors. Somebody two houses down is playing music on a back patio. A car turns the corner at the far end of the block. The streetlights are warm.
We walk. He puts his hands in the pocket of his hoodie. I put mine in the pockets of my jacket. The walk is slower than it needs to be, but I feel a little out of it. My head’s pulsating.
“You mentioned you have a brother?” Benson asks.
I nod. “Yeah.”
“How old is he?”
“Thirteen.”
“What’s his name?”
“Louis, but I call him Bear. He asked me to call him Bear when he was six becausebears are the strongest.” I chuckle at the memory.
He smiles at the sidewalk. “What’s he like?”
“He’s a good kid. He’s quieter than he used to be. He draws. He likes his video games. He’s better at math than he thinks he is.”
“Tutoring runs in the family.”
I shake my head. “He pretends he doesn’t get it, so that I have to keep helping him.”
“He’s thirteen,” Benson says.
“Yeah.”
A beat of just our footsteps. And then a barking dog two yards over at the sight of us.
“Gianna at eight,” he says, “decided she was going to be a hockey equipment manager when she grew up.”
“Eight?”
