Page 102 of Glitched Play

He seems to gauge the amount of room between my feet and the open spot like he might get burned if he sits down. Finally he lets out a sigh and sinks into the couch, not touching me.

"They're still arguing,” he says, almost like it’s a question.

"They're passionate."

"They're baking cupcakes." He considers that with complete sincerity.

“Passion isn’t confined to anything specific.”Another laugh escapes me. "I swear your brain works on a completely different operating system."

"It does."

Witt takes off his glasses, which he only wears at night, letting them dangle between his fingers. Something in the breath behind his words makes his brilliance sound less like a gift and more like something he sometimes wishes he could turn off. His mind doesn't work like everyone else's, and instead of letting the moment pass, every instinct in me wants to make him feel less alone.

“I love that about you.”

He doesn’t look at me, but I see the edge of his lips turn up into a smile.

twenty

. . .

Witt

Letter 222 Glitch

There should be a warning before your favorite player becomes your favorite person.

Startled awake by an overzealous business coach shouting on television, I find myself still on the couch—with Maci.

Her feet are in my lap.

My fingers moving back and forth over her ankle.

An alert notification dinging in my head.

Abort mission.

What mission? I’m not on a mission. I’m sitting on my couch. In my living room. Why didn’t I just got to bed?

I’ll tell you why, she was mumbling as she fell asleep something about being a contestant. Other than my nieces and nephews, I’ve never seen anyone so completely open and vulnerable. Well, maybe Parker.

That type of emotion makes me uncomfortable, but for some unknown reason, I’m comfortable with Maci.

She squirms, repositioning her hands, folding them under her cheek. There’s a faint smile on her face and a peacefulness stills inside me. And my body feels like it’s in the middle of being rewired. Electronic pulses shoot through my veins.

Everything in me wants to stay here with her instead of going to bed.

That conclusion is completely illogical. My mattress was selected after three weeks of research, two consultations, and one unnecessary argument with a salesman who kept insisting softness was subjective. The couch is too short. My neck will hurt tomorrow, and I have three meetings before ten.

None of that makes me move.

Maci’s foot shifts in my lap, toes painted a glittery blue, and my hand stills against the warm skin above her ankle. I should remove it. Touching someone while they’re asleep crosses an undefined boundary, and undefined boundaries are dangerous because they cannot be measured.

Yet she put her feet here.

Not intentionally, probably. She stretched out sometime while asleep and used me like an extension of the couch. Most people would take that as an insult.

I don’t.