Page 55 of Forgotten Romance

“Unless he asks you outright or whatever.”

Not able to help it, I glance back over at where Davey is standing, and we catch eyes again. This time, he polishes off his drink and heads for the bathrooms behind the bar. I track every movement of his familiar gait, missing it more than ever.

“I want to actually go on a date,” I say, feeling half-sick and half-relieved.

“You what now?”

“Like I said, you’re a great guy. I’d be dumb to shut myself off to everything else on the slim hope that Davey will decide we’re worth it. So let’s try. Just the once. An actual date.”

“An actual date.”

“Will … will that be okay?”

Luke shrugs. “I know the deal, and you haven’t lied to me about where your head is at, so let’s go for it. If it doesn’t work, we’ll be back on my plan. Friends.”

That bubbly, light, drunkish feeling creeps in again. I throw my arm around Luke’s shoulders.

“Now that’s out of the way, let’s go make you some friends!”

17

Davey

Mack is sleeping not gracefully. The snoring is a deep rumble, he’s got beer-morning breath, and where his arm is slung over my midsection is getting sweaty. I don’t shift a single goddamn muscle.

By the time we got home last night, he was a stumbling mess, and I had to help him up to his room. The problem with that was being caught totally off guard by how much I miss when this room used to be ours, and he took that second of ouch to pass out onto me.

Platonic snuggles is something that I’ve been very careful not to let myself have, but with him curled into my side, clinging to me like a fucking Care Bear, I’m not moving in a hurry.

My hand finds his hair, stroking the short strands between my fingers as I ignore that serious tug in my chest.

I hardly got to see him last night. All his adorable drunkenness was given to Luke, and the two of them looked like they were having fun. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Mack laugh so much, and I was too much of a chicken shit to go anywhere near them.

The tension between me and my friends got so thick Art started spouting his “butterflies need to emerge” analogies that almost made me knock him over the head.

Mack stirs, rubbing his head into my hand like a puppy. Then, he lets out a loud groan that starts in his gut and goes on for way longer than it needs to.

“You good?” I ask as he turns his head and fake-sobs into my side. He’s halfway down the bed, so it’s easy enough to set my hand on his back and rub it for support.

“Sore. So sore.”

“You did drink a lot.”

“Why didn’t you stop me?”

“Ah, let’s think,” I say. “Maybe because you’re a grown man who knows how much he can handle and should be able to control himself.”

“It’s like you don’t know me at all.”

I chuckle but don’t reply. We stay there in silence for a while, him not letting me go, and me indulging in the feel of his back muscles. I want to ask him about Luke and push to see what details I can get out, but firstly, he’s hungover, and secondly, I really, really don’t.

It’s a twisted curiosity I know better than to think about but can’t stop myself from thinking about.

“Want me to cook you something super greasy for breakfast?”

He moans, burying his face deeper. “Soon. Don’t want to move yet. Too bright.”

“You weren’t that drunk.”

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