Page 2 of Level Up for Love

Days could have passed like this. But when I open my eyes again and find Wesley disappearing down my hallway, I immediately grow suspicious. I take a step backward, and Owen lifts his head from where he’s nuzzled it against my shoulder. “Where are you going?”

“I need to check something.”

I weave through the press of bodies, past the people huddled around my tiny TV playing Super Smash Bros. and the group giggling at one another in the wide mirror of the bathroom Nali and I share. I look down either end of the hallway. Nali’s door remains shut, but mine is gently cracked.

I shove it open.

Wesley doesn’t even look up.

My tiny desk lamp fills the room with a weak yellow glow, barely enough to see by, and he leans in to examine my bookshelf. It hardly lives up to the name, given that it’s more cluttered with figurines, trinkets, gaming reference guides, and board games than books. Wesley’s thumb idly strokes down the spine of my Dungeons & Dragons Dungeon Master’s Guide, and my hands curl into fists at my sides.

Finally, he looks over his shoulder and grins at me. “This makes a lot of sense, you know.” He flicks the guide. “I bet you’re a great Dungeon Master.”

I ignore him. “What are you doing in here?”

“I was looking for the bathroom,” he says mildly. He doesn’t even try to sound convincing.

“Wrong turn, Wesley.”

But he’s already moved on to strum his fingers along my collection of tabletop roleplaying games. Pathfinder, Vampire: The Masquerade, Cyberpunk…“Is this where it started for you, Reagan?”

“Where what started?”

“You know,” he says. His lazy tone turns brisk, impatient. Keep up, it demands. “Gaming. Did your love for it start with board games?”

Those aren’t technically board games, I scoff internally, but I’m suddenly too distracted to pick the fight. A fond old memory swims behind my eyes: my sticky kid fingers gripping hard at a d20 die, my dad’s rolling laugh at my sister’s in-game antics filling the kitchen. “Not entirely,” I say. “I’ve always loved both.”

“Is that right? Let’s see.” He spins on his heel and moves to turn on my PlayStation where it’s nestled against the wall opposite my bookshelf. Somehow, though, his audacity stretches only so far: he squats in front of my TV rather than sinking into my beanbag chair. The screen paints his face blue, highlighting where his blond hair is still slick and wet.

He murmurs to himself as he picks up a controller and begins to scroll through my library of games. As my collection fills the screen, one corner of his lips remains tugged up. Briefly, the alcohol seems to wash over me in a warm wave, and I’m tempted to fall into the beanbag chair and watch him. Does he have the same titles? Is my collection more extensive than his? But it’s the slight narrowing of his eyes and the arc of his slow, sardonic gaze that reminds me who exactly has invaded my space. He’s already opening his mouth to criticize something.

But I won’t be picked apart like this—not by him. Not in class, and definitely not in my own fucking house.

“Get out of my room, Wesley,” I snap.

“But I’ve only just—”

“Out.”

He settles a tiny frown on me like I’m the world’s greatest killjoy. Like we were playing a game, and I’m ruining it. His eyes shift to the door, still open; pulsing red lights streak the hallway walls. The furrow in his brow deepens, and his jawline tenses.

“Just one, Reagan,” he says, and there’s almost a pleading note in his tone. Some of his air of casual laziness has slipped away, and I notice for the first time a hint of discomfort.

“One what?” I ask.

“One game. If I win, you let me stay. Just for a while.”

But why? And then I see the way his nose scrunches as he looks back toward the party. “Who are you hiding from?” I ask.

“People,” he says vaguely. “I just need a breather, okay?”

Even though I can sympathize, I let out an exasperated scoff. “You came to my party,” I remind him. “Why come if you didn’t want to socialize?”

Wesley says nothing—just gives me a long, drawn-out stare. I can’t read his face, can’t imagine the thoughts simmering behind his dark eyes.

I huff. “You could leave,” I suggest cheerfully.

He breaks out of whatever trance he was in and waves a hand. “You don’t scare me, Reagan.”