"Blake weighs nothing."
"A hundred and seventy five," Blake says, distantly. "CrossFit, baby."
"Nobody asked."
"You lost to someone nobody asked about. Interesting morning for you."
I get up off the couch with as much dignity as I can recover, which is not a lot, and I look at Jamie and drag him with me. "My room," I say, in a huff.
I close the door behind us. My room is mine in every way Jamie's isn't. Books stacked however they fit. Record player in the corner I got at a market and will keep until I die. Clothes on the chair. Hockey stuff everywhere. The particular chaos of a person who lives loudly even in private.
Jamie stands in the middle of it and looks around.
I watch him look around, touching things here and there, pulling books out and examining them.
"Go ahead," I say.
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to."
"I was going to say it suits you." He looks at me with a small smile. "That's all. I like it. It’s very you."
I drop onto the bed and ignore the rapid thudding in my chest. I suddenly feel very vulnerable that he’s here in my space.
"Pick a record."
He goes to the shelf. Looks at it with his arms crossed, head slightly tilted, reading spines the way he reads a play — methodically, like there's a right answer. He pulls one out and looks at the cover for a bit. Puts it back. Pulls another and brings it to me to inspect. I look at it and smile wide. One of my favorites. The most played one on the shelf. The vinyl has its own history at this point.
"Good choice," I compliment.
"I picked the most worn one." He hands it to me. His fingers brush mine and he doesn't move them away. "Figured that meant it was important." The needle drops. The room fills with it — halting and a little scratchy the way records always are at first — and I sit back on the bed and watch him listen. The slight shift in his expression. The way he tips his head just barely, closes his eyes. Then he looks at me.
"Good," he says.
"Wow, high praise."
"It is from me." He comes and sits beside me. Our backs against the headboard, shoulders touching, legs stretched out in front of us, my leg over his.
He eyes me, suspiciously.
"What?" I say, poking him in the side.
"Nothing."
"Jamie, come on."
"I like watching you smile," he says. "You look different. When you’re listening to music. Like you forgot anyone could see you."
I'm smiling at the ceiling. I can feel it coming, but I let him have just one win where I don’t tease him.
“Tell me something," I say, instead. "Real. Something I don't know."
"Like what?"
"Anything. You're so—" I gesture at him. "Closed off."
He thinks about it. "I learned to skate before I could ride a bike."
