Page 15 of Can We Just Be Happy Now?

Fresh out of the shower, I pull a pair of black athletic shorts from my dresser and tug my maroon hoodie over my head. I probably didn’t need a shower, but I’m stalling. This trip next door feels different than the others. Every walk before had Sophie looking forward to seeing me at the other end. Tonight I’m walking into a house not knowing how she feels about me after my confession yesterday.

On my way out the back sliding glass door, I slip on my house slippers before taking the twenty-ish steps to get next door, our back porch lights and muscle memory guiding my way. There used to be a fence between our two yards, but when it got worn enough to need replacing, our parents left the dividing one down.

It would have made more sense if I was better friends with Sophie’s brother, Dean. He’s only one grade above me and we played football together all through high school, but he has his own group of friends. Carter and I never went through any phases of life together. At first, I’m sure Sophie and I spending so much time together was a way for our parents to keep us occupied. But it evolved into a conscious choice. At school, I’m usually with my other friends, but I make time for Sophie every day. We skate to the park. She studies next to me while I play video games on my couch. She’ll read while I do homework at her kitchen table, helping me if I need it. She’ll make us cheese and crackers for a snack break at our spot.

We’ve been pretty inseparable just like our parents have been since they met. They have weekly poker nights, attend mine and Dean’s football games together and have been going on an adult-only cruise every year since we were old enough to stay home alone. We spend holidays together and host a dozen barbeques each summer, alternating between backyards.

Despite feeling at home at Sophie’s house, I knock on the sliding back door. Diane glances up from where she’s fixing herself a cup of tea in the kitchen, and her smile welcomes me inside.

“Hey, Mrs. Porter,” I say as I slide the door open. “How are you?”

“Hi, honey. I’m lovely. Just heading to bed.” She knows why I’m here at 9 p.m. on a Thursday–not like she ever has a problem with me showing up. “I think Sophie is in her room. There are still a few cupcakes left in the fridge too.”

Guilt washes over me thinking about things I’ve recently fantasized about doing with her daughter, but I hide it with a grin. “You know I can’t resist your baking.”

“Please, eat them all. And you’ll set the alarm when you leave?”

“Yup.”

With my confirmation, she thanks me and heads up the stairs, passing her daughter on her way to her room. When Sophie sees me standing here, she hesitates on the step, her fingers immediately picking at a thread on the hem of her pink flowered pajama shorts. She’s wearing an oversized white T-shirt and her dirty blonde hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun. God, she’s cute. It’s like once I admittedly saw the potential with her as more than a friend, I can’t unsee it. Now that I know she doesn’t feel the same, I need to figure out how to stop obsessing.

When she realizes her hesitation, she makes her way toward the fridge, pulling out two cans of Squirt–regular for me, and Ruby Red for her. I reach to the cupboard next to me, grabbing two glasses. As I make my way to the fridge to fill them with ice, Sophie’s eyes follow me.

“Hi, Soph.” I chuckle at how nervous she is. I’ve never been responsible for creating that feeling for her, so it’s amusing. She stares back. I set our glasses on the kitchen island counter. “Come here. You need a love hug.” A couple of years ago, Sophie learned in one of her science classes that when people hug for at least twenty seconds, oxytocin is released–the same hormone released during sex. It decreases stress. Ever since she learned that she forces long hugs on me, or love hugs as she likes to call them. It’s not all the time–mostly when I’ve had a bad game. Really, it’s more when she needs one for whatever reason, oftentimes ones I don’t quite understand. Girls. Either way, they seem to make her happy, and they always pull me out of whatever mood I’m in.

She doesn’t make a move. I grab the soda cans from her hands and set them next to the glasses. I take the step that closes the distance between us, wrapping my arms around her neck, crossing them and pulling her to my chest. She’s stiff for a moment, but then relaxes into me, her head nuzzling into my neck and her arms wrapping around my waist. Her flowery body spray is hardly noticeable now that it’s faded from the day, but it’s comforting. She is comforting–like when I get into clean sheets after a tough practice and a shower.

I listen for the numbers. She usually counts to twenty out loud so I can’t pull away early, but I don’t feel her soft words against my neck. “Soph?” I start to pull back.

She doesn’t let me go. Her grip on my sweatshirt tightens in her fists. I give her another moment, but I think this stupid oxytocin hug is making me feel way more about it than I should. I need to get out before I do something stupid again. I pull away. This time she lets me, stepping back and looking at me with her beautiful brown eyes. “You good?” I ask, reaching for our glasses again to avoid brushing a stray curl from her face.

She nods. “Yeah.”

“Alright, let’s do this.” She keeps her attention on the glasses as I pour our sodas, the fizz of the Squirt flowing through the ice the only sound in the room. She follows me to the living room. Taking her place on the left side of the couch, as always, she curls her feet underneath her and reaches for the remote. I sit on the right and kick my feet up on the ottoman then tug the fuzzy blue blanket off the back of the couch, draping it over my legs and leaning back into the cushion.

She flips to the CW as the black and green logo appears on the screen. We watch the first half in silence, sipping on our sodas. When the next commercial comes on, Sophie fidgeting with her fingers distracts me. I’m so damn irritated with myself for making this awkward. Our friendship being easy is one of the best parts, and I fucked it up. I should apologize again. I go to speak only to be cut off by Sophie’s whisper.

“Can I have some of your blanket?”

“You can have whatever you want.” I chuckle, and lift the side of the soft navy throw, waiting for her to join my side of the couch. Her gaze catches mine as she scoots closer. She curls her feet under her again, her thighs an inch from mine. I drop the blanket over her and direct my attention back to the TV in an attempt to ignore the warmth coming from her body.

I’m sucked into the scene on TV when her voice pulls me away. “Coop?”

“Mhmm?” I hesitate before glancing over at her.

“Whatever I want?” she whispers.

“What?”

“You said I can have whatever I want.”

“I did . . .” Not sure where she’s going with this.

Her gaze shifts away from my eyes and falls to the blanket. She pulls her hand out from under it. Before I can react, she reaches for my hand, threading our fingers together. I know it’s not possible for your heart to actually skip a beat, but mine definitely did some weird flutter thing.

When I look back at her, her eyes are still on our hands, but a moment later she looks up to me as if she’s waiting for reassurance. God, she’s so fucking cute right now–so innocent and nervous. Am I nervous too? My palms are clammy all of a sudden. I debate pulling away from her to wipe them on the blanket but think better of it. Instead, I squeeze her hand lightly and smile at her. She smiles back nervously, then leans her head on my shoulder.

I can’t take my eyes off her. I continue to stare, watching her watch the TV, and I don’t realize I’ve missed an entire section of the show until the elevated volume level of the next commercial segment startles me.

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