“Sup?” I drawl, reaching for the remote to mute the movie—The Greatest Showman.
“Whatcha doing, Sunshine?”
“Oh, you know, drowning in self-pity,” I say, stretching out on my couch.
He snorts. “You want some company to go with that?”
“Depends. Will you stroke my hair?”
“No.”
“Hold my hand?”
“You know I won’t.”
“Wow, just say you hate me.”
“I do. But I can play FIFA with you?”
I sigh loudly, making sure he can hear it.
He chuckles. “Want me to bring some candy? Or food? You want a sub?”
“I want you to stroke my hair and feel sorry for me—”
“’Cause you’re hungover? Fat chance,” he deadpans.
“Asshole!”
“Pot, meet kettle.”
“Uno reverse!” I snap.
He scoffs. “You can’t Uno reverse that.”
I mumble something incoherently.
“What?”
“Fine,” I exhale. “Bring me food. Please.”
“’kay. Thirty minutes.”
This is a loophole. I’ve found some over the years I’ve known Kaden and I use them to cloak my inner desires as harmless jokes. He’d never suspect I actually mean it. Flirting with him, asking him to hold my hand, stroke my hair…
It’d be laughable if it wasn’t such a travesty.
I go to change my clothes, hanging the silk-pajamas in my closet, and put on a pair of sweats and a hoodie. I put away the wine bottles in the recycling bin under my sink and do a sweep over my apartment. After making sure I didn’t miss anything, I shuffle back to the couch and put the fashion magazines in a box under the couch.
I turn the TV off when I hear Kaden coming up the stairs.
“You have to lock your door, Seth!” he calls from the hallway. I roll my eyes before he emerges in the doorway.
“You have to lock your door,” he repeats.
“But then I’d have to get up and unlock it when you come around.”
“I could’ve been anyone. Do you really want a psychopath waltzing in here?” He frowns.
