Fox’s voice.
“I mean, I’m guessing you are,” he goes on. “But, uh…”
“Yeah,” I say, grateful that my voice is froggy from sleep. “I mean, no. Hang on.”
I sit up further, pushing my blankets down. My room’s absolutely nothing special: dark sheets, dark blinds, trashpicked bedframe and mattress. Nothing even unique. I came here with nothing. I have nothing I want to put in here. Just all of Tink’s clothes and…
…and my binder, which is under the bed, and which I need to have on to answer the door. I whip off my shirt. Whip off my sports bra. Squeeze into the binder. Not that my boobs haveever been anything to write home about—you’ve got the tits of a fat thirteen-year-old boy, or so I’ve been told—but it’s still not comfortable. Then I grab the T-shirt from the floor, yank on a pair of pants, finger-comb my hair, and wipe the crud out of my eyes—morning routine down to thirty whole seconds—and slip out into the hall.
“What’s…”
The hall is empty.
“…up?” I finish, to no one.
Slowly, the adrenaline of my wakeup and the headrush of being up and awake ebbs away. I hear something faintly at the other end of the loft, down by the kitchenette.Click click click. Little doggy toenails. Faint voices, including one lighter and higher than the rest. And then all at once, the events of last night come surging back.
Wendy. Right.
A wave ofsomethingfloods me—anger, frustration, disappointment, I don’t know. I rub my forehead. I don’t not like Wendy, and I know it’s not her fault she’s here.
But also…it’s Saturday. My Saturdays—all our Saturdays—are for doing nothing. Sleeping late—although that ship has sailed, I guess—hanging around, recovering from Friday. Maybe going for a ride, maybe just rotting my brain playing video games, which I suck at but can hold my own if Fox is hungover enough. Eating tacos, drinking beer.
IlikeSaturdays. Saturdays are the best part of being a Lost Boy.
With a little girl here…who knows?
But I guess now I’m up. I sigh and crane my neck around the corner; the spare room door’s open, so I take a few steps and peer all the way in, but it’s empty—no Wendy or Nana. Just the rumpled fleece blanket and an already visible layer of dog hair on the dark futon cover. If I ever get around to making that chorechart, I’m giving that one to Pan. Least he can do for getting all of us into this mess.
I turn back down the hallway, with a pit stop in the bathroom to pee and scrub a toothbrush over my teeth, and follow the click-click sound and jingling of dog tags to the loft to where Wendy must be hanging out.
And it is…not the scene I expected to see.
Wendy, in her brand new Valu-Mart T-shirt and jean shorts, is sitting cross-legged on the couch, her hair pulled back from her face by a thick pink headband with a floppy bow on top and a sheet mask plastered over her face. On the TV, there’s a bright-eyed, clear-skinned YouTuber paused mid-syllable, her big eyelashes awkwardly frozen at half-mast and her glossy lips bunched unflatteringly.
And listening, intently, is Fox. Also on the couch, wearing black sweatpants so old and faded they’re practically gray, eating dry cereal out of the box with one hand. Shirtless.
Ihaveto look away. Not just because I know actual guys are around other shirtless guys all the time and wouldn’t look twice. But because…
Because…
Because I think I’mblushing?
What the hell is wrong with you, Tink?
I want to smack myself in the face. This is literally nothing new, I’ve obviously been around Fox enough to notice—it’s impossiblenotto notice how big and broad he is, especially up close; he could practically cause a solar eclipse just by standing in the right place. And it’s not like I haven’t seen him shirtless before, either. Honestly, the mornings heiswearing a shirt are the exception.
But today,thismorning, something feels like it’s sending the heat of a thousand sunburns right to my face.
Maybe it’s just because I spent time holding onto him on the bike yesterday, not to mention watching him single-handedly break into a burning building. Maybe it’s because the dog has her narrow little head in his lap, eyes closed, totally blissed out. Maybe it’s those fuckingsweatpants—Christ, they leavenothingto the imagination. But now it’s all I can see. How his shoulders are carved, how his arms each as thick as both of mine combined, how the tanned muscles of his abs ripple a little as he laughs at Wendy. How a faintly reddish sheen of hair glints across his jaw, grows denser across his chest and forearms. How the lines of his hips narrow taut and lean into the soft band of his sweatpants.
How he could pick me up and snap me in half.
Fox is aman.And I don’t know why it’s never hit that way before.
“See, it all depends.” Wendy’s got her arms crossed, studying the screen, and nods at Fox. “Like, do you know your skin type?”
Fox glances down at himself. “I dunno. Regular?” Seeing me, he lifts his chin and sits up a little. “Hey, Tink.”
