Page 176 of The Long Way Home

Don’t know how. She’s always holed up in her bedroom with either the sexy policeman or Julian’s giant dog — and quite frankly, both strike me as a bit off-putting so I’ve kept my distance, but we’ll get there.

She’ll like me in the end, I swear it.

Anyway, I’m lying in Julian’s bed, staring up at the ceiling.

It’s coming up to nearly a week of this. I haven’t really left his house since the night I texted him. He’s funny, kind of a blackhole. There’s a huge gravity about him that pulls you in and you lose time.

That night was an interesting combination of spectacular and heartbreaking, and about as alcohol fuelled as you can imagine. But that is my whole existence right now: especially alcohol fuelled.

I get out of Julian’s bed and go into his bathroom, mostly because I’m not so good at being alone, not even for tiny moments. I’ve been filling all of them with him, but I suspect we’ll wind up soon. Julian doesn’t date girls, he doesn’t have houseguests for days on end either, Henry told me. There’s a tiny part of me that’s nervous he’s going to turn around one day and just tell me to leave — that would be very like him. Part of me can appreciate how forthcoming he is, but also part of me would just die if he ever did say that to me, so I brush my teeth even though I already did it while he was sleeping in bed because I didn’t want him to think I have disgusting morning breath.

“What are you doing today?” Julian asks as he walks out of the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist.

I glance over at him through the mirror. “It’s the Fuck Off Brunch.”

He blinks at me twice. “The what?”

I sniff a smile. “It’s this thing we do every year. It’s actually The Fuck Off New Year’s Brunch.” I nod at him. “Jonah’s invention. New Year’s Day brunch, everyone’s hungover and gross and nowhere good is open to eat anyway, and you sort of need the second to recover from how terrible the first day of the year is, but by January third everything’s open, no one’s hung, everyone’s fresh.”

“That’s cute.” He nods, smirking. “Annual brunch…”

I nod at him, ignore him baiting me, and look back at my reflection who is pursing her lips.

He watches me for a second. “Nervous?”

My face flickers. “No.”

Yes.

“Why would I be nervous?” I frown at him.

He comes and stands behind me. “Because he might bring her.”

I say nothing.

“Even if he does, you’ll be the hottest one there,” he tells me, tugging on the tapered logo-print cotton-blend jersey sweatpants from Vetements.

“Yes.” I nod once, staring at myself. As though that matters, as though looking how I look has done anything for me in the ways of making BJ love me more or want me more or cheat on me less. “And then what?” I give him a shrug.

He stares at me through the mirror, rests his chin on top of my head, and wraps his arms around me. It catches me off guard, these random acts of tenderness.

“Want me to come?” he asks, tightening his grip around me.

I barely shake my head. “No.”

He peers down at me, mouth rosier than you’d think. “No?”

“I know we’re not—” I shrug. “I know you’re not like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like, the kind of boy you bring to brunch.”

“Not a boy—” He gives me a curt smile. “And I’m not, you’re right.”

I nod. “It’s fine. I can go by myself. I’ll just drink a lot, it’ll be fine.”

“I’ll come,” he tells me.