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I grabbed my shoes, balancing myself on the edge of the table, and tugged them on.

“Meet you downstairs in forty?” I asked, closing the distance between us to kiss him goodbye—morning breath be damned—before heading toward the door.

“Mikey,” he called out just as my hand closed around the doorknob.

I turned back around. He looked exhausted, his skin pale, dark smudges shadowing his eyes.

I wasn’t sure I’d ever found him more attractive.

“Yeah, Cal?”

He swallowed hard. “I love you.”

I smiled, feeling my expression go soft and sappy. “I love you too, Cal.”

Then I pulled the door open, stuck my head out to look both ways, and stepped out of his room, shutting the door quietly behind me.

TWENTY-EIGHT

CALLY

Mikey flopped onto the couch, swinging his legs toward the far end, and settled his head on my lap. I scraped my fingers through his hair, soft drags of my nails against his scalp. I hadn’t said anything, but I missed his curls.

“How long do you usually go between haircuts?” I asked.

He tilted his chin back to look up at me. “Don’t really have a set schedule. Not like you, anyway.”

Not many people did, but not for the reason Mikey assumed. Which was another one of those truths I needed to share with him.

I cleared my throat. “Speaking of … you know how I have a guy in Boston I go to every few weeks?”

He rolled his eyes. “Long fucking way to go for a haircut, Cal.”

I continued dragging my nails against his scalp. He liked the way it felt, but I got just as much enjoyment out of doing it. Some people had golden retrievers to pet; I had Mikey.

“It’s not just a haircut,” I admitted. “I get it dyed, too.”

He flipped over, popping up onto his knees and leaned forward, planting his hands on either side of my head and yanking it toward him.

“Hey!” I yelped.

“I knew it!” he crowed, twisting my head this way and that. He dropped his hands away, and tugged on the piece at the front of my head. It hadn’t faded too much yet, but if the light hit it just right, you could see the silver shining through. “Right here,” he said, his voice laced with triumph. “It always looks different.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, flattening my palm against his chest and pushing him away.

He fell backward, laughing.

“I can’t believe you dye your hair,” he said, smiling up at me.

“You would too if you started going gray at eighteen.”

“Eighteen?” He pushed himself back up, scooting to the opposite end of the couch. I took hold of his feet, dragging them into my lap.

“Runs in the family,” I said with a shrug. “My mom’s dad was completely gray by the time he was thirty.”

“No shit,” he mused.

“Yup.”