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He pauses. “I’m sorry about my handwriting. I’ve been using my left hand, and I think it looks like hieroglyphics.”
Me too. I've been writing with my less dominant hand without thinking.
Hieroglyphics sound way nicer than chicken scratch.
Something bubbles up in my throat. I shove him back quickly and sit up, one hand flying to cover my mouth.
Do not get sick.
Do not.
That’s a level of embarrassment I can’t handle right now.
But no matter how I try to swallow it back—
One giggle rolls out. Then another. More and more until the tears don’t matter because my whole body hurts from laughing so hard.
“What kind of names are those?” I gasp out. “What—what the fuck, Beckett?”
His low belly-laugh just makes it ten times worse.
“I didn’t know what to call you! You mimed shit the entire time!”
“I… I didn’t talk because you—” I wheeze, clutching my stomach. “—you scared the hell out of me!”
“Why did you grab my dick, man?”
“I thought it was your pocket!”
“Through my pants?”
“You were happy to see me anyway!” I shriek, and then we’re both howling. Ugly, gross laughter that hurts my ribs and makes my eyes water worse than crying. He’s got the biggest grin I’ve ever seen on anyone.
This would’ve been so nice to know, like…
Three months ago.
It’s four in the morning, and I’m the farthest thing from tired. Excitement zaps through my body every few seconds, hotter than electricity. I can’t remember the last time I’ve laughed or talked this much.
No clue where the towel is, though. I’m sure it’s buried underneath the comforter with me.
Outside our door, people are slowly coming back in. I can hear dude-with-smiley-face-keychain and dj-dude arguing in their room next door before their TV ramps up to twenty and video game music rumbles our conjoined wall.
The microwave dings, and Beckett hands me my second cup ramen in two hours, then goes back to his spot at the foot of my bed. He peels the lid off his own, mixes it around, then licks the plastic fork.
“How do you choose your house?” he asks around a mouthful of noodles.
“Luck of the draw, baby. Not everyone can win the lottery.”
“Nothing else?”
I snort-laugh, blowing on the seafood-flavored steam that’s determined to burn off my nose hairs. “I like the neighborhoods where the grass isn’t too short, and the houses aren’t too big. Rich people make me want to egg their house.”
“I look at quieter, mid-range housing too. Single men like living somewhere where it’s nice enough to show, but not big enough for a family.”
“Oh my God.” I set the ramen between my knees under the comforter and wait for it to cool down more. “You’re into the psychological shit. You have too much time on your hands. Live a little. Having fun isn’t a crime.”
His eyebrows raise, and he shoots me a look over the styrofoam cup.
