He ignores me.
"When you transferred here, I thought you were going to be a problem."
I gasp. "A problem?"
"You were."
"Wow."
"You still are."
I shove his shoulder, but he barely reacts.
"You came in so loud. Argued with me constantly. Couldn't follow directions to save your life."
"I was charming."
"You were exhausting."
Then he adds quietly:
"But the first day you weren't at practice, I noticed."
My heart stops and the grin slips.
"What?"
He shrugs. "You got sick. Missed one practice."
I stare at him. "That was like three months ago."
"I know."
"How do you even remember that?"
Jamie looks away, like he already regrets saying it. "I don't know. It just feels different when you’re not there."
I know exactly why he remembers.
Because he notices me.
The same way I notice him.
The same way I always have.
And suddenly all I can think is that maybe this has been happening to both of us for longer than either of us wants to admit.
And for a while it feels easy.
Like we've somehow stumbled into a version of us that never had to hurt first.
At some point the food is gone and the TV gets quieter and the room gets darker and neither of us moves to turn a light on.
I lie back first.
He follows my lead and lies back too.
And we're close in the way we've been all day—everything touching—except now it's about to be night and neither of us is pretending we have anywhere else to go.
