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“I know. Celibacy isn’t your thing.”
Holden raises an eyebrow; the only indication my response startled him. Usually, these late-night encounters begin and end with basic pleasantries.
I’m unsure what’s loosening my lips tonight. Maybe I’m just sick of the predictability our interactions have become. That’s mostly what my life seems to consist of.
Maybe I regret not pushing back at him years ago.
I step forward and take the brown bottle from him. Holden’s eyes land andburnas he watches me take a drink from the bottle he was just sipping from.
I try not to think about the fact we’re sharing spit. Not because I’m a germaphobe—although who knows where his mouth has been—but because it sends a secret thrill throughme. The malty taste of hops coat my tongue and fizzes in my stomach.
Something shifts between us as I hold the bottle back out to him.
Something shifts on Holden’s face as he takes it from me.
Our fingers brush, a warm contrast to the cold glass. He tilts his head, studying me more closely than he was before. “Asking for forgiveness instead of permission?”
“Neither.” I say the word with more confidence than I feel.
His phone buzzes on the counter, and we both glance at it. Notifications cover the screen, most of them from Grace Harper.
I swallow the scoff that wants to release in response. Saying anything will give the impression I care. And even if Idocare, that’s not something I want Holden to know.
We haven’t had that sort of friendship in years. The kind where you comment on each other’s lives and have any right to do so. The sort where caring about each other’s lives is expected, not something to hide.
I move away from him toward the sink. Refill my glass with water from the tap and drain it, trying to wash away the taste of beer since I’m too lazy to brush my teeth again before going back to bed.
I’m not even sure why I stole a sip. I wanted to do something different, I guess, not just say something unexpected.
Rather than spending Friday night in my pajamas, having a sleepover with my best friend, and then cleaning her kitchen, I wanted to be the girl who surprises the most popular guy in school.
I’m not sure it counts, though, considering that guy is Holden Adams. Once upon a time, it felt like he knew me better than I knew myself. I’m not sure if youcansurprise someone you once knew like that.
Not sure of anything, honestly, when it comes to him. I used to be in love with him. Spent subsequent months hating him. Now remnants of those two extremes are stuck inside of me, swirling around with a mess of other complicated emotions.
Hurt and self-loathing.
Annoyance and appreciation.
Since I started the dishwasher earlier, I handwash the glass and stick it in the drain rack. After drying my hands on a clean dishtowel and looping it over the oven handle, I turn back around. “I’m going to bed.”
Holden has blue eyes. Every time I look in them, especially when we’re alone, I feel like I’m drowning in their depths. Fathomless and potentially devastating, just like the sea or the sky.
He picks at the orange label on his bottle of beer as he studies me. “You ever going to tell Sydney you don’t sleep when you’re over here?”
“You ever going to stop getting drunk and playing ball in the middle of the night?”
Holden’s lips quirk. The small movement is not quite a smile or a scowl. Just a response—a reaction. An acknowledgement I spoke, and he listened. From most people, it would be meaningless. From him, it feels meaningful. “Good night, flower.”
I brush past him and hurry out of the kitchen as quickly as I can without appearing to run away. Even if that’s exactly what I’m doing.
I hate how, despite never speaking to me most days, he knows my insomnia is worst when I’m sleeping somewhere different than my own bed. It doesn’t seem to matter that it’s a familiar place—Sydney and I have been having sleepovers since our parents decided we were old enough to in third grade.They’ve been a regular occurrence ever since, considering we live just across the street from one another.
The stairs creak as I creep up them, but I’m not worried about waking anyone up. Unlike me, Sydney sleeps soundly no matter what. Holden and Sydney’s father, Joe, is gone for work, like usual. And Holden is downstairs and awake, doing…I have no idea what.
Maybe he’s texting Grace.
Hopefully he’s icing his face.
