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It reminds me so much of the first time he ever came over to my house just to hang out. It was right after his pops made him come by to apologize to me for what he said to me in a bathroom after a Little League game. That following weekend, Ryan came over and we played video games all afternoon, and every time I said I was thirsty, like clockwork Ryan was on his feet and eagerly asking me what I wanted. It was like he was still apologizing to me with every glass of juice, water, or sugary lemonade he brought me from my own kitchen.
My chest tightens at the memory. Or maybe that’s the bruise smarting where the supposed wildebeest mauled me last night.
I should definitely take him up on that shower offer. But as soon as I’m sober, I’m out of here.
04
RYAN
Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic.
Yeah, don’t panic. You just have your high school best friend and crush in your house, showering in your bathroom, and getting all wet and sudsy.
No reason to freak out.
Or spring spontaneous boners in your pants.
Shit, I’m still in my clothes from last night.
I’m literally staring at the coffeemaker and debating whether making toast and eggs would be excessive. What if he’s hungry? I’ve never really been hung over before, so I don’t know what the protocol is. Would food make him nauseated or grateful? Maybe it’s just loud sounds and bright lights that bother him.
Ten minutes later, I’ve made eggs, toast, pulled out croissants, poured two glasses of orange juice, set out a bowl of chopped-up honeydew melon and cantaloupe, three bananas of various levels of ripeness, and a plate of grapes. And I’m considering cooking up the sausage patties I have in the freezer, too.
Oh, and let’s not forget the two empty coffee mugs.
I bite my lip and stare at the ridiculously overdone breakfast table for two I’ve set.
For two what? Two glutinous kings? Am I kidding myself?
“Nice spread,” comes Stefan’s voice from the kitchen counter where he appears.
I spin to face him.
Dear God.
He’s standing there with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist—wrapped low around his waist.
And he’s tatted down half his shoulder and chest. He got inked. When did that happen?
He struts right up to the table and helps himself, popping a wet chunk of fruit past his luscious lips, then demonstratively chews with his eyes shut. “Fuck yeah,” he moans openmouthed where I can see all his chewed-up cantaloupe.
It’s grotesque and obscene, like the intro to a porno I haven’t seen yet: Stefan Baker in a low-hanging towel, sporting the V-shaped cut of muscle at either side of his hips, approximately three trillion abdominal muscles, and two round wet pecs that still gleam with droplets of shower water.
His hair is wet, spiky, and still dripping. And his face is flushed red from the shower steam as he sucks down bite after bite of the melon I set out. Stefan’s practically chewing in slow motion.
I could come right here just watching him.
I literally haven’t blinked since he came into the kitchen.
With a complete mouthful of melon, he says, “Fucking good. Best damned cantaloupe I ever tasted.”
I smile. “Grew them myself.”
He stops chewing, stares at me, then swallows. “Really? You got a garden out back or something?”
Apparently my humor didn’t come across. “Uh, no. I’m … I was just fucking with you. They’re store-bought.”
He stares at me for a second, unamused, then looks off. “Well, I better head off. I’ll call an Uber or something.”
My stomach falls through the floor. “Already?”
“Yeah. Better head out. Where’d you put my clothes?”
Why is he already wanting to go? We just now reconnected. “You … You don’t have to head out so fast, man. I made breakfast. Lots of it. Stay and eat, at least.”
He eyes the plate of eggs at the table. “That’s … a lot of eggs.”
“Spicy scramble,” I point out.
His gaze lifts to meet mine. There’s a sharp glint of surprise in them. “I used to eat that all the time, huh?”
“With a pinch of sriracha sauce mixed in, just the way you like it.” I give him a tiny smile. “Yeah, I remember.”
He appraises me for a brief moment. He doesn’t smile, but he gives me a short nod. “You do.”
I take a breath, then nod at the table. “How about we … kick back for a bit, eat some breakfast, and do a little catch-up?”
He glances at the chair, back at me, then gestures at himself. “I’ve apparently become a drunk piece of shit who gets into fights at bars. Consider us all caught up.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, and I’m a boring single dude in a house who finds himself—at twenty-five—still attending high school.”
Stefan chuckles dryly, even though he still refuses to smile. I can’t tell if that’s him being a hard-ass, or if the hang over is still doing a number to his brain. I feel a burst of relief at hearing his tiny chuckle anyway, like everything is going to be okay again.
