Page 5 of Make Me Mean It

CHAPTER TWO

CONNOR

Theo drops another box in the centre of my living room, the dull thud echoing slightly through the otherwise quiet space, leaving it directly in the middle of the floor like there isn’t already a clearly organised stack waiting for it in the corner.

His fingers curl into the hem of his battered t-shirt before I can tell him it doesn’t go there, dragging the fabric up to wipe across his face, and the words die somewhere in my throat as toned, tan skin appears beneath it. His stomach tenses with the movement, muscle shifting beneath smooth skin, and it takes me a second too long to realise I’m still looking.

I tear my eyes away, irritation flaring hot beneath my skin. There was absolutely no reason he needed to use his shirt.

“Problem?”

The question pulls my attention back to him. He’s dropped his shirt again, leaning against the doorframe with one ankle crossed behind the other, apparently completely unconcerned by the box he’s abandoned in the middle of my living room.

“Several.” I bend to retrieve the box, lifting it back into my arms. “Starting with this.”

He’s been here less than an hour and somehow already managed to wear my patience thin, wandering around my flat looking half-dead and dropping boxes wherever he feels like it despite the labels stuck across the front.

A poorly concealed laugh comes from somewhere behind me, and I glance over to find Marcus watching us, his lips pressed together like that’s going to hide how entertained he is. He’s spent enough years watching me straighten crooked pictures and move things back to exactly where I left them to know how much Theo dropping boxes wherever he feels like it is getting under my skin, and apparently he finds the whole thing hilarious.

“It doesn’t go there,” I bite out, ignoring both of them as I carry the box across the room and place it carefully with the others in the far corner.

I carry the box across the room, placing it carefully with the others in the far corner. I’ve already sorted them by room, each one lined up neatly beside the next with the labels facing out so I know exactly where everything is without having to search for it later. There’s something comforting about seeing them like that, everything accounted for, nothing out of place, the mess of moving contained into neat little sections that make sense.

I nudge the box until its edge lines up with the one beside it, the irritation beneath my skin settling slightly now that it’s back where it belongs.

When I straighten, Theo isn’t looking at me anymore. His attention has shifted to the boxes behind me, moving slowly over the labels facing outward and the careful way I’ve lined everything up, before drifting across the rest of the room, and my stomach sinks as I realise what he’s noticing.

I know what it looks like. Most people wouldn’t care if one box was sitting in the middle of the floor for a few minutes, or if the labels weren’t facing the same way, or if the edges didn’t quite line up. Marcus has teased me about it for years, never cruelly, but enough that I know it’s noticeable. Enough that I know other people don’t need things to be quite so exact.

Theo’s attention comes back to me, and I have the ridiculous urge to shift in front of the boxes, hiding them from view even though it’s far too late for that now.

“Jesus Christ.” Theo lets out a low whistle, his eyes flicking briefly towards Marcus before settling back on me.

I know that reaction. The disbelief that something so insignificant could possibly matter this much, usually followed by questions I don’t know how to answer without sounding ridiculous. Defensiveness rises before Theo even opens his mouth again.

“What?”

Theo rolls his lips together, humming quietly under his breath, his eyes lingering on me for another second. I wait for the comment, already preparing myself to brush it off, but it never comes.

“Nothing at all,” he says instead, turning away, apparently finished with the conversation.

I’m left standing there with all that defensiveness still wound tight inside me and nowhere for it to go, confusion beginning to creep in around the edges of my irritation while Theo simply reaches for another box.

I’m still watching when Theo reaches for another box, trying to work out what the hell that was supposed to mean. The muscles in his arms tense beneath the weight, shifting the ink covering his skin, and somewhere along the way I lose track of what I was trying to figure out.

My attention drops to the loose thread hanging from the hem of his shirt instead, frayed and uneven against the faded fabric. I find myself wanting to reach over and pull it free, the thought irritating enough to finally make me look away.

Theo moves towards the neat stack of boxes, and I catch sight of the label stretched across the front a second before he bends to put it down.

“Not there,” I rush out.

Theo pauses, looking from me to the box in his hands, his brow lifting.

“Excuse me?”

I turn away, busying myself with the picture hanging on the wall beside me, nudging it a fraction to the left before moving it back again.

It’s a mess of glitter, tissue paper and badly cut shapes, a monstrosity Marcus made for me in kindergarten that has somehow survived every clear-out I’ve ever attempted.