Page 11

11

Henri

Max is uncomfortable. He is fidgeting, fingers twisting together in his lap and lip caught between his teeth. He has not said a single word beyond thanking me for the ride. Pulling up to a stoplight, I keep my eyes on the light and try to reach him.

“It is nice for Coach Mackenzie and Coach Lawson to invite us over, yes?”

“Yeah,” Max murmurs.

“Are you wishing you could have invited Luke?” I glance over at him before focusing back on the road. His face is turned toward me, and he’s chewing his bottom lip so hard I worry he’ll break the skin. “I am sure Coach Mackenzie would not have minded.”

“A little bit, yeah. I uhm…actually, Vas, could you pull over for a second?”

Surprised, I sit forward and peer through the windshield. There is a gas station coming up. Putting my blinker on, I pull into the lot and put the car in park. Reaching for my wallet, I pull out some cash.

“Are you not feeling well? I will go inside and get you some water.”

“No, that’s okay. I’m fine. I just wanted to talk to you for a second?” He sounds so unsure, a tilt to each word as though he’s questioning everything that comes out of his mouth.

“Of course, Max.” Turning to face him, I settle my features into blandness and just wait. Silence, I have found, is the best way to get people to talk. Americans are very uncomfortable with silence, and will rush to fill it. Max closes his eyes and takes a deliberate, deep inhale.

“I’ve been seeing a therapist since the start of the year, and one thing Dr. K wants me to do is open up to my friends. He says I have trust issues and that the way to conquer those fears is by…well, by trusting people. And I trust you. I trust you more than anyone else other than Luke and Coach Mackenzie. You’re a really good friend to me.”

I stare at him, nervous now as to the nature of this conversation. Max looks pained, like each word is a fishhook in his throat.

“You do not have to tell me anything you do not wish to share, Max,” I tell him quietly, hating to see him so upset.

“Thanks. I want to, though. It’s important.” Another deep breath, his chest expanding dramatically under his thin T-shirt. “I wasn’t going to go to this today. I have trouble with big groups—parties—like this. Even though it’ll just be the team there, I still don’t…I just really don’t like being around a lot of people. My first year here—that October—I went to a party with my roommate and…”

He trails off, turning away to look at the gas station through the windshield. I give him a few moments before softly prompting, “And what, Max?”

“And someone put a roofie in my drink, and, well...”

My arm, which had been resting on the steering wheel, slips and the horn gives a quick report. I don’t know all the street names that are used for drugs in this country, but I know that one. I know what it does and I know what it is primarily used for. I don’t need for him to continue in order to guess what might have happened.

“Oh, no, Max. I am very sorry about this.” Desperately, I try to think of anything I could say or do. I wish I could be like Zeke—he always knows the right thing.

“It’s okay,” he says quickly. “I’m not…I just wanted to explain why I don’t hang out with the team very often. I wasn’t going to go to this barbecue, but Dr. K said I should. It’s my homework.”

“We shall stick together. You and I will be together today, and everything will be well,” I promise, feeling miserable and a little ill.

Max smiles and flattens his hands on his thighs, rubbing them back and forth as though he’s drying his palms.

“Actually, that would be great. If you don’t mind,” he adds quietly.

“I do not mind!” I say a little desperately. “But I am thinking Coach Mackenzie would not want you to stress yourself. We can go home if you wish. I will tell Coach it is because of me that we did not go.”

“You’re right. Coach told me not to come if I wasn’t comfortable. But I can’t keep hiding, and it’s just a backyard barbecue with friends. It’ll be fine.” He sounds like he’s not stating a fact so much as trying to convince himself of the truth .

“Yes, it will be fine. And we shall stay together, you and I. I will be your Luke for the evening, except perhaps with less jokes and kissing.”

Max chuckles and I relax into my seat a little bit. I want to reach back in time and smack myself for not being a better person; for not trying to talk to him when I had noticed something was off. I feel awful. I’m a terrible friend.

“I am very sorry,” I repeat. This time it isn’t English failing me, but words in general. I don’t understand how this could happen. How someone could hurt Max, who is sweet and quiet and never makes any trouble.

“Vas, please don’t feel bad. I just wanted to explain, that’s all.”

“It is very hard not to feel badly when your friend tells you something like this.” Max smiles a little and I try my best to return it. I almost wish he had asked me to turn around and drive us back to his apartment. Suddenly, I am not feeling much like socialization myself.

“I wouldn’t have told you what happened back then, even if you’d asked,” he says quietly, eyes intent on my face. “So don’t go feeling guilty. You and Carter being my friends was help enough. I don’t know what I would have done if you guys hadn’t done that. I would have been alone on the team and felt a hell of a lot worse than I already did.”

“That is kind. Thank you for telling me, Max. I promise I will not abuse your confidence, and I promise I will stay with you at Coach’s barbecue.”

“Thanks. We’d better get going so we aren’t late.”

The car is silent once more as I drive, but it’s a more comfortable silence. I did not grow up with a particularly affectionate family, and I have mostly used that model of behavior in my adult life. But now I am wishing I had given Max a few more hugs, and Carter as well. Perhaps there are a lot of people in my life who might benefit from a little show of affection, and I have been letting them down. I think of Atlas, as I so often seem to do these days, and add him to the list of people who probably need a few extra hugs. When we pull up to Coach Mackenzie’s house, and park behind someone’s truck, I turn to Max.

“I think I might hug you, if that is all right.”

He smiles. “That’s all right.”

Nate pulls up right as I’m letting Max go. He walks up grinning, and slings an arm over each of our shoulders, squeezing us to his sides in a single-armed hug.

“Hey, guys.”

“Hello, Nate.” I smile at him. He is an easy guy to be around, and one of my favorites on the team. He is always in the thick of things, making the rounds in the locker room and talking to everyone. At one practice, he somehow convinced Micky to lend him his pads and stick so he could try being a goalie. He might give Coach Mackenzie an aneurism, but he’ll have the rest of us laughing in the process.

“I am so fucking hungry. Haven’t eaten all day in preparation,” he says, dropping his arms and rubbing a hand over his stomach.

Coach Mackenzie instructed us to come straight to the back and not bother knocking, so we skirt around the edge of the house. As nonchalantly as I can, I step behind Nate and put myself on Max’s right side, so there is no longer a body between us. I am going to stick to him like glue today.

Judging by the amount of people milling around, we are some of the last to arrive. Smoke is rising from a massive grill over on a large deck, and there are tables set up and already strewn with food. Nate groans dramatically, making Max chuckle.

“How many servings do you think I can eat before it’s considered rude to fill my plate again?” he asks.

“I think you can have as much as you want,” Max answers, with a small, knowing smile.

Nate sets off toward the food, and I look around the backyard. Even though the grill is smoking, there doesn’t seem to be anyone maintaining it right now, nor can I see Coach Mackenzie. Micky and a few of the defensemen are to the side, setting up some sort of game with a wooden board and hand bags. I squint at them, trying to see better.

“Cornhole,” Max says quietly.

“Pardon me?”

“The game.” He gestures to Micky, who tosses one of the bags and hits the board with an audible thunk . “It’s called cornhole.”

“Oh. Perhaps because there is corn inside of the bags? Or do you eat corn when you play? What are the circles representing—different points?”

Laughing, Max turns to gaze around the yard. “I’ll teach you how to play later. Want to try and find Coach?”

We find Anthony Lawson first, or rather, he finds us. With a smile, he gives Max a long hug that I approve of, before moving to me and hugging me as well. Surprised, it takes me a moment to return it.

“Hello, Coach Lawson, how are we doing today?” I ask, feeling the vibration of his laughter against my chest. He steps back and claps a hand on my shoulder.

“Vas, buddy, you can drop the ‘coach.’ That was three years ago. I’m not your coach anymore, I’m just your friend.”

I try not to look too pleased at that, and fear that I fail. I’m saved from having to formulate a response by the appearance of Coach Mackenzie, who walks up next to Max and puts a gentle hand on his shoulder. Lawson beams at the sight of him, as though he hasn’t seen him in days.

“Max. Vasel. Glad to see you could make it. Have you eaten yet?”

“Not yet, sir. We just got here. Sorry, we were a little late,” Max replies, glancing at me. “My fault.”

“We’re just happy you came.” Lawson waves the apology away easily. “Go get something to eat, and come find me if you need anything.”

Max and I grab plates and find an open spot on the deck to settle. It’s a beautiful day, warm and sunny; perfect for a backyard barbecue. Suddenly inspired, I pull out my cellphone and take a picture of my teammates scattered around—some playing games, others sitting on the grass or chairs, eating. I text it to Atlas, who responds almost immediately with a single word: gross.

Smiling, I put my phone away. Across from where Max and I are seated, Nate is chatting to Lawson with a pleased, excited look on his face. Beside me, Max sighs and leans back on his hands.

“Time for bed,” he mutters after we finish eating, making me chuckle. I glance over at the food table, which is still relatively full even after being attacked by a hockey team.

“Coach Mackenzie is going to be eating leftovers for a long time, I think.”

Max snorts, eyes closed and face tipped upward into the sun. I’m just opening my mouth to ask him how he’s feeling when a soft, small voice interrupts me.

“Who are you?”

Max and I turn around to find a small child standing behind us. He’s got a head of unruly curls and glasses held in place by a strap around the back of his head. He looks between Max and me, squinting suspiciously.

“Goodness,” I say, glancing at Max. Does one of our teammates have a kid? “Where did you come from?”

“Hi, I’m Max.” Max smiles and points at me. “And this is my friend Henri.”

“I’m Caleb. You guys are being loud.”

At the cornhole game, someone chooses this moment to let out a scream of frustration that is closely followed by laughter from the team that apparently just won. I nod solemnly.

“Yes,” I agree with Caleb. “My apologies.”

He thinks about this for a second, quietly chewing on his lip and looking between us. Apparently coming to a decision, he turns to Max. “Do you like to color?”

“I do,” Max replies. “How about you, Vas—Henri?”

“I think I should like to color, yes.”

“All right,” Caleb holds out a hand to Max, waiting for us to climb to our feet before leading us inside. Before we can step through the back door, he turns and regards us seriously. I have never met a child so stern. “You can’t make a mess. If you make a mess, Uncle Nico might get hurt.”

“We will not make a mess. I promise.” I glance over at Max, unsure what to think of this warning, but he doesn’t meet my eye.

Content with this vow, Caleb brings us inside and leads us to the dining room table. It’s littered with markers and crayons; an entire stack of finished coloring pages next to a sloppier pile of blank ones. Caleb crawls back up into his chair, adjusts his glasses, and waits for us to sit down. He turns to Max, whom he seems to like best .

“What do you want to color?”

“How about you choose something for us?” Max gestures to me, and Caleb’s eyes light up as he reaches for the stack of papers.

He pokes his tongue out as he shuffles through. Eventually, he finds what he’s looking for. Max is given what appears to be a dragon, while I am handed a cranky-looking owl holding a coffee mug in its talons. Max huffs a soft laugh and holds his coloring sheet out for me to see. It is in fact a dragon—a dragon holding a baseball bat and wearing an ill-fitting uniform top.

“Fitting,” Max notes.

“You can give it to Luke!” I tell him happily.

Caleb carefully rolls all the markers and crayons into the center of the table, within easy reach of everyone. I wait for him to choose a color before I pluck up one of my own. We work in silence for a bit, nothing but the scratch of markers over paper and the occasional sigh from Caleb. I focus on my owl, carefully remaining inside the lines. When I start coloring the face, I smile to myself. The expression reminds me of Atlas.

“You’re doing a good job,” Caleb tells me, leaning over the table and peering at my paper.

“Thank you. You are as well. Are you making that for yourself?”

“No, this is for Uncle Win. He likes it when I make him pictures. I can write his name now, without help,” he tells me proudly. “If you show me what order to do your letters in, I bet I could do your name, too.”

“Oh, certainly.” I carefully write my name in big, block letters, before adding Max’s below that. “Here is mine, and here is Max. ”

“Cool,” Caleb says, grabbing the paper, but getting distracted by the opening of the back door. His eyes widen behind his glasses and he scrambles off his chair to waylay Nate. “Don’t make a mess!” he shouts desperately.

“Nate, Caleb would like everyone entering the house to know that it must remain clean and you are not to make a mess,” I explain, biting back a laugh at the look on Nate’s face. I leave out the part about Coach Mackenzie hurting himself if a mess is made. I’ll have to think on that one later.

“Sure thing, little man,” Nate says easily, ruffling his hair. “I’m just here to use the bathroom.”

“Okay. It’s over there.” Caleb points down the hallway and climbs back up into his seat. “But don’t make a mess.”

Max bites his lip to keep from laughing and bends his head over his baseball-playing dragon. Nate strolls off down the hallway, apparently taking in stride the fact that we are sitting inside coloring with a kid instead of engaging in the party. When the back door opens again, Caleb’s head snaps up so fast it’s a miracle he doesn’t hurt his neck. He practically levitates off of his chair and runs for the door.

“Uncle Nico!”

Max and I turn to find Coach Mackenzie regarding us through squinted eyes, mouth pulled up in a small smile. Caleb throws his arms around Coach’s leg, peering up at him as Coach rests a gentle hand atop his curls.

“How are things going in here, Caleb?” he asks.

“Good. Nobody is making a mess, I promise. I told them.”

Coach Mackenzie sighs and addresses Max and me.

“Anthony might have been a little too exuberant in explaining why things have to be put back in their place.”

“No worries,” Max replies, smiling softly. I don’t say anything, because I haven’t quite puzzled out what they’re talking about. Caleb pulls Coach’s attention back down to him, tripping over his words as he excitedly talks. Coach Mackenzie threads his fingers through the boy’s hair, listening intently as he speaks and smiling tenderly as Caleb tells him all about Max coloring with him.

When Caleb’s talked himself out, he makes his way back over to the table, trailed by Coach Mackenzie. He peeks over my shoulder.

“Solid work, Vas,” he compliments me, nodding down at my owl and making Max laugh. “Are you two okay in here? You don’t have to feel obligated to babysit.”

“I’m pretty big,” Caleb puts in, head bent over his paper once more. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Oh, we are okay, sir.” I glance over at Max to verify this is true. “It is not every day we get to color with our good friend Caleb.”

“All right. Caleb here is staying with us for a few weeks. He’s Anthony’s nephew.”

“I figured,” Max says, pointing to Caleb’s curly hair, which is a near perfect replica of Anthony Lawson’s. As though summoned, the back door opens once more and Lawson steps through. Caleb shouts gleefully and Lawson returns it, lifting him up and tossing him into the air.

“Anthony, your shoulder,” Coach Mackenzie says in exasperation. “Are you trying to reinjure yourself?”

“He loves me,” Lawson says conspiratorially to Max and me.

Coach Mackenzie mumbles, “I do. I really, really do,” under his breath in a resigned sort of way, walking away to the kitchen. Hefting a giggling Caleb under his arm, Lawson drops us a wink and follows him.

“I love them,” Max says, the moment they leave the room .

“Yes,” I agree. “You are good with kids, Max. Do you think someday you will have any?”

A slight flush colors his cheeks as he nods. “Yeah. I’d like kids, one day. I think…I think Luke would be a really good dad.”

“He would, and so would you.” He blushes a little deeper, but looks pleased.

I glance down at my half-colored owl, thinking about frowning faces and first kisses. Snapping a photo of it with my phone, I send it to Atlas without any context. Again, he replies with alacrity.

Atlas

what the fuck is that

Henri

It is a grumpy owl that looks a little like you.

Atlas

jesus fucking christ did you color that

Henri

Yes! I will bring it to class for you.

Atlas

I don’t want it

Henri

To Atlas, Love Henri

Atlas

please don’t

Laughing softly, I tuck my phone away in my pocket and carefully finish coloring the owl. When it’s time to leave, I fold it up and tuck it away safely to give to Atlas on Tuesday. Waiting until we’re settled in my car and Max is bucked in safely, I maneuver us out of Coach’s driveway and carefully bring up the subject that’s been sitting at the forefront of my mind all evening.

“Why do you think Coach Mackenzie might hurt himself if the house isn’t neat?” I ask Max, hoping this doesn’t come across as nosy. I don’t want to gossip about my coach, but I am wondering now if there might be something wrong. If there’s something wrong, there might be something I can do to help.

“Oh,” Max says carefully, pausing and glancing over at me. “Well, I think it’s because he is…he can’t see very well.”

“I thought that was it!” I tap the steering wheel, feeling vindicated. “I am always thinking Coach Mackenzie needs glasses, when he squints at me as though he cannot see me.”

“You know how Coach’s career ended, right? The accident? Well—and so, I don’t know all the details—but he told me he’s been legally blind since then. He can see, but he can’t see well . He can’t drive or anything, because of it.”

For the second time today, my heart feels like it’s being squeezed in someone’s fist. For nearly four years I’ve played hockey for SCU under Coach Mackenzie, and not once in that time have I had a conversation with him about his own career. I’ve never thought of myself as an incredibly selfish person before, but obviously, I am.

“Oh my.” I breathe out hard. “I am feeling terrible about this.”

“I only know because I had a panic attack at his house last year and he told me, Vas. He hasn’t told the team, because I don’t think he wants anyone to know. I wouldn’t…I wouldn’t say anything about it. Jesus, I probably shouldn’t have even told you—I didn’t even think.”

“I will not tell,” I promise quickly. “You can trust me. ”

“I know,” he agrees quietly. I shake out my hand, fingers aching from how tightly I was clenching the steering wheel. Anxiety sits heavy in my stomach. We do not behave at practice in a manner that is safe for someone with bad vision.

“Sometimes at practice, we are leaving pucks and things on the ice,” I say a tad desperately, mentally tallying all the ways I’ve endangered Coach Mackenzie’s life these past few years. “I have bumped into him before, Max, when I was not watching where I was going!”

“Vas!” Max turns in his seat so he’s facing me. “He wouldn’t be on the ice with us if he couldn’t handle it. I’m sure you’ve noticed that he’s not as hands-on as the other coaches—he mostly stays off to the side and watches? He’s not going to do anything that’s beyond his limitations. He knows himself better than we do.”

“Yes, true,” I concede, still not feeling great about this development. I’m going to start staying behind after every practice to help clean up. Something else Max said makes me pause. “You are having panic attacks?”

“Oh, well…not often, no. I had a couple last year, but none recently.”

“Goodness,” I mumble sadly. “You will tell me, yes? If there is something I can do? I want to help, but I do not know how.”

“Yeah, I’ll tell you if I need anything. Thank you.”

Max requests I drop him off at Luke’s house. I idle in the street, watching as he goes inside and wishing I could go inside for a little bit as well. Luke has an almost uncanny ability of making people feel good—like he’s the human embodiment of a hug. He’s so joyful and friendly, and I think I could use some of that right now. But if I go up and knock on the door, I’ll be interrupting Max and Luke. They wouldn’t mind, or ask me to leave, but I hate feeling like a burden and I don’t want to infringe on their time together.

Pulling away from the curb, I drive back to campus. Too soon, I’m parking in my usual spot at my dorm and looking forlornly up at the building. I am a mostly solitary creature; usually after a day like this, with so much time spent with others, I’d be ready to have some time alone. But not today. Today, lonesomeness and gloom settle over me like a shroud, and I feel like being alone is the exact opposite of what I need.

Instead of turning around and driving back to Luke’s house, or perhaps going in search of Zeke, I text Atlas as I walk into the building.

Henri

Hello, Atlas, what are you doing this evening?

Atlas

why

Henri

I am wondering if you might like to come over?

Atlas

why

Henri

I do not have a good answer to that question. Why not?

There is no response from Atlas as I walk through the halls and up the stairs to my floor. I doubt he will come over. We do not have an assignment that needs doing together, and we are not the kind of friends who spend time together outside of class. We could be, though, if he wasn’t quite so stubborn. Atlas remains a bit of a mystery to me. His frostiness has melted toward me after that drunken night when he called me for help, and has gotten even better recently after he kissed me, but he’s still holding back. I get the impression that he likes me, but he doesn’t want to like me.

He doesn’t smile, and rarely laughs. I will occasionally catch him staring at me, but these times are very few and very far between. He replies to my texts, but never initiates the contact, and he certainly never invites me places unless we have an assignment that needs to be done. I’m unexplainably drawn to him, skin buzzing and stomach awash with nervous energy whenever we’re together.

I’ve thought about the press of his lips against mine every day since it happened.

Emptying my pockets, I carefully unfold the owl drawing and rest it on my desk. Undressing, I step into the bathroom to take a quick shower that ends up being twice as long as planned. The hot water feels heavenly, though, and it’s been a surprisingly difficult day. I finish washing in two minutes, but stand under the water for an additional five, willing the muscles in my shoulders to unlock.

It’s not until I am drying my hair that I hear the knocking on my door. Surprised, I wrap the towel around my waist and go to answer it. I’m even more surprised when I open the door and find Atlas glowering mutinously at me.

“Atlas, hello.” I grasp the towel, and his eyes fall to my hand, before crawling slowly up my chest and back to my eyes.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, scowling. I step back to let him in, closing the door gently behind him. He’s wearing dark jeans and a dark long-sleeved T-shirt. It looks nice on him.

“You look nice,” I tell him, which makes him scowl with renewed vigor. “I was in the shower. I hope you were not standing out there knocking for too long. Give me just a moment, and I will get dressed.”

I grab what I need from my wardrobe, holding it to my stomach one-handed and keeping a firm grasp of the towel with the other. As I close the bathroom door behind me, I hear Atlas mutter, “Don’t get dressed on my account.”

I dress quickly and do my best with my wet hair. My face is still flushed from the heat of the shower, and my shirt is sticking to my damp skin. I don’t look put together at all, but it can’t be helped. Probably, Atlas will not care.

Leaving the bathroom, I walk back into my room to find him reclined on my mattress, legs stretched out in front of himself and hands resting on his abdomen. His shoes are off—thank God—but left next to the bed. I grab them and tuck them next to mine by the door. When I turn back around, Atlas is watching me.

“I am glad you are here,” I tell him, reaching for my desk chair and meaning to slide it closer.

“You can sit here,” Atlas says, patting a hand on my bed. I pause, looking at him. The last time he invited me to join him on a bed, he’d been drinking. Reading this from my expression, he rolls his eyes in a practiced motion and crosses his arms. “Dude, I’m sober. Just come over here and sit the fuck down.”

Carefully trying not to jostle him, I slide onto the mattress next to him. He hadn’t bothered scooting over, so I have to settle with his leg pressed against my own so that I do not fall off the edge and onto the floor. Both of us are wearing pants, but I’m convinced I can feel the heat of his skin through the layers. Or perhaps it is just warm in here. I’m wishing I hadn’t taken quite as hot of a shower as I did. The leftover warmth and Atlas’ presence is going to cause me to overheat.

“It is hot in here,” I comment.

“I’m fine,” Atlas retorts, and I sigh. “How was your team barbecue?”

I glance over at him, surprised. I don’t recall telling him about Coach Mackenzie’s barbecue. “It was good, thank you for asking. I did not realize I had mentioned it to you.”

“You didn’t. Nate said he had a team thing, and then you sent me that picture today.” He pauses, notes my confused expression and explains. “Nate Basset. He’s my roommate.”

“Is that so? How lovely. Nate is quite a lot of fun.”

“He’s fucking insane,” Atlas replies. Unsure of whether he means this as a good or bad thing, I don’t comment. He adjusts his leg, jostling mine. “So, what’s up? Why’d you want me to come over?”

“I do not know,” I admit, shrugging. My shoulder bumps his. We are very close together. “Why did you come?”

“Touché, Henri. Touché.” He moves his leg again, pressing more firmly against mine. I wonder if he’s doing it on purpose. I move my arm and our skin connects, sending a fresh round of jitters through my system. I’ll never be able to tell if his actions are flirtatious, or if they’re meant to indicate that he likes me.

“I wonder, Atlas, whether you might want to try more kissing,” I say, and startle a laugh out of him. The sound is so rare, I can’t help but smile at him. He uncrosses his arms to rub a hand over his face.

“Only you,” he mumbles under his breath. That doesn’t sound like a “no” to me, so I wait him out. “Did you seriously text me for a booty call?”

“Certainly not!” I protest, offended. “But you are sitting very close to me, and you make me feel…strange. I don’t want to pressure you, but I think I’d enjoy more kissing. With you,” I clarify, in case he’s confused. I really don’t want to kiss anyone else.

“What do you mean you feel strange?”

I think about this for a moment. It’s a hard thing to describe. If only he spoke German. I press a hand to my stomach.

“I feel…shaky? Like I am stepping off of a boat onto land. And also, a little bit like there are electrical currents in my skin, or bees in my chest.”

He hums softly, fingers picking at a loose seam on the pocket of his jeans. “It’s not a good idea to get involved with me. I don’t do relationships. Not ever.”

I ponder that. It’s not a surprise—Atlas is abrasive and rude, and I’ve never heard him speak about the same girl twice. But I think my curiosity toward him is actually attraction, and I just didn’t recognize it. I’ve never felt attracted to someone before, and I’m a little worried that I might never feel it again. It’s such a good feeling, that I don’t want to let it go just yet.

“I do not think we would need to be in a relationship,” I point out. His head whips around and he looks at me, startled.

“You can’t be serious,” he says, humor and surprise evident in his voice. “You? You want to be friends with benefits?”

“Well…no,” I admit. “I would enjoy being friends, and I enjoyed kissing you. I think it would be nice to have both.”

Truthfully, what I really want is intimacy without the expectation of sex, but I think intimacy might be a word that would send him hurtling for the door. Atlas slides down the bed until his head is on my pillow, crossing his ankles and drawing my attention to his feet. He’s wearing mismatched socks. I look away, because that will drive me crazy if I stare at them for too long. When I look down at his face, his dark eyes are already on mine.

“I don’t know. Still seems like a bad idea. I don’t want you to fall in love with me.”

“Goodness,” I murmur, earning another soft huff of laughter from Atlas. “I think the likelihood of this is very low. I…I am thinking I am not one who falls in love easily.”

“Mm,” he hums, but lifts a hand and places it gently on my thigh. I stare down at that hand—pale, narrow fingers and veins visible beneath his creamy skin. “So.”

“So,” I repeat.

“This is your booty call. You tell me.”