Page 87 of The One Month Boyfriend (Wildwood Society)

“Right,” he says. “That’s still fucked up, though.”

I swallow against saying that wasn’t even the worst.

“Like you never tortured nerds,” I tease.

“Not like that.”

“You never gave some glasses-wearing dork a swirly?” I go on, forcing myself to sound lighter than I feel. “You never, like, stuck some short kid on top of a really tall cabinet and then left him to get down on his own?”

“No,” he says, starting to sound defensive.

“I’m sure you were an angel.”

I don’t know why I’m pushing him like this, because it’s not like we went to high school together. It’s not even like the jocks at my high school were the ones who made my life awful—they mostly ignored me. It was the kids a few rungs down the social ladder, who just needed someone to step on, who did.

“I didn’t say that,” he says now, and he runs a hand through his hair like he’s a little embarrassed. “But I never did shit to anyone who didn’t deserve it. And especially not the dorks. Levi would’ve killed me, for one.”

“The same Levi with the crows?”

“The same.”

“I gotta meet this guy,” I say, offhandedly, because this conversation has gotten more personal than I meant for it to, and I’ve gotta say something.

Across the table, Silas shifts slightly, then cocks his head.

“You should,” he says, thoughtfully. “You’d like him.”

I drink more beer and don’t know what to say, so I look at a screen. Still sports, only now they’re running down the field, presumably with a ball. I wonder if an offer to meet the best friend—who’s apparently been the best friend for a very long time—is part of the fake relationship show, or whether Silas and I are also… friends?

Friends is fine. Actually, no: friends is great, given my opinion of him two weeks ago. Friends is a monumental change and a small miracle. I like friends.

Except it didn’t feel like friends when he kissed me on the Ferris wheel and that small discordant hitch in the pattern has been tickling at the back of my mind ever since, like an uncomfortable tag in a cashmere sweater. Ever since there’s been polite hand-holding and light standing-with-an-arm-around-my-waist and gentlemanly hand-on-the-back-while-I-go-through-a-door and perfunctory, quick, closed-mouth kisses and none of these things has stopped me from getting myself off every night this week imagining that my hand is Silas’s mouth.

I know it’s simple frustration. There hasn’t been anyone since Evan, a little over a year ago, because the idea of finding a person to have sexual contact with was off-putting at worst and exhausting at best, or at least it was until—

Nope.

Maybe I should do it anyway. Maybe when this weird pretend thing with Silas is done, I’ll drive a couple of towns over and find some country western bar and endure some funny looks while I do a line dance and pick up some redneck for sex purposes, because that totally sounds like something I could do without having a panic attack or three.

Or I’ll buy myself another fancy vibrator. One of those two things.

“You got any insider info for Saturday?” Silas asks.

I stare at him for a minute, trying to remember what we were talking about.

“Our TBD date?” he prompts, a slow smile crossing his face. “You said you’d gather intel if you could.”

About what Evan’s up to, he means, and about where he’ll be so we can piss him off.

“Oh! Right,” I say, pushing my glasses up. “Actually, he’s gonna be out of town, so if there’s somewhere that’s better for you to run into your coworkers, we could do that.”

“Where’s he going?” Silas asks, still smiling. “He’s not leaving yet, is he?”

“I wish,” I say, and push my glasses up again. It’s habit. “Olivia’s coming down and they’re going to some hotel for the weekend.”

Silas looks at me, perfectly still, relaxed against the back of the booth. He’s still got on the button-down shirt and slacks that he wore to work today, the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, the top button undone. I ignore the way his forearm flexes as he taps his beer glass with one finger.

“Which one?” he asks, and I shrug.