Page 9 of Fragile

“Okay, whatever you say, Grandpa. Let’s get you home, yeah?”

“Where we goin’?” he asks, as I hook his arm around my shoulders and lead him toward the exit, which thank god isn’t too far down the hall.

“Somewhere you can sober up.”

A few students pass us by. “Hey, Miles, great game last week. We’re looking strong,” one guy says, slapping his shoulder. Miles just grunts in response, which isn’t like him.

“That was rude. You should’ve thanked that guy. Do you know him?”

“No, maybe, who knows. It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m just a statistic for them, always a statistic,” he babbles, and something about his tone isn’t quite right.

“A statistic? What are you talking about?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry.”

But I do worry. However, I let it slide for now, because he’s drunk, and it’s unlikely I’ll get a coherent answer from him anyway.

Pushing open the door, we step outside into the cool night air, and I somehow manage to get him down the steps—which is more difficult than the flight of stairs he had no problem walking down—and aim him toward his dorm. Pausing at abench to catch my breath a second, I point to it and order, “Sit.” He plops down with a salute and a smirk before his head flops back. My breathing remains labored as I keep one hand on my hip, assessing how much farther I need to drag the giant football player who appears to be falling asleep in front of me.

Chewing my lip, lost in thought, I don’t register the soft graze of his fingers against the back of my hand until he links them together. My mouth dries as I look down at our joined hands, hating how right it feels for us to do this. At least to me. He stares up at me, his eyes wide, struggling to focus, but still, I see my favorite things shining in his drunken gaze. The streak of caramel through his left iris, glistening in the overhead streetlights. The twinkle of something that’s quintessentially Miles that I can’t deny. “You mad at me, Queenie?”

My fingers tense in his, wondering why he cares anyway. “Why would I be mad, Miles? Because you’re drunk off your ass, or because you were hanging out with Levi?”

Or because you had your tongue down another girl’s throat?But I can’t voice that out loud. His tongue can do whatever it likes.

He laughs, the sound bitter and unsteady. “Maybe because I kissed Madison tonight?” His retort catches me off guard, like he can see right through me, see my darkest secret. How does he know that bothered me? “Jealous, Queenie?”

My cheeks catch fire, and I feel a sharp pang in my chest, but I hide it behind a snarky retort. “Why would I be jealous?” I snap, yanking my hand from his. “You can kiss whoever you want, Miles.”

Leaning back, he spreads his arms out across the bench behind him, and I notice every single muscle flex with the movement. “Yeah, but you didn’t like it. I saw you watching me earlier, and I can tell by the way you look at her that you don’t like her.”

I scoff, trying desperately to play off his comment. Was I that obvious? Or does he just know me that well? Wait, he was watching me? I decide him being drunk isn’t the time to figure out any answers. I slump my body next to him with a sigh. “You know, you’re better than this, Miles. Better than getting wasted and hanging out with people like Levi. Better than making out with random girls at parties.”

He turns his head to look at me, his eyes a little clearer now that he’s out in the fresh air, but there’s a darkness lurking there. One he tries to hide, but I always see it. “You have too much faith in me. You always have.”

I shake my head as my chest aches for him, unsure why it sounds like he’s undeserving of it. I want to reach out, take his hand again, but with the smallest of touches he’s already given me, my heart won’t cope. Instead, I shove my hands between my knees, keeping them lodged there as I whisper, “Then let me have faith in you. One day, you might see what I see.”

We sit on the bench in silence, the cool night air wrapping around us like a blanket. The distant hum of the party fades into the background, replaced by the gentle rustling of leaves and the occasional chirp of a cricket. Miles closes his eyes, breathing deeply, as if trying to pull himself together. I watch him from the corner of my eye, my thoughts a jumbled mess. Maybe I said too much? Or not enough? I never know with him, because I don’t know where the line between us stops sometimes. It would be too easy for me to cross the line from friendship to girlfriend territory and not even realize it. I’m so clouded by my feelings toward him. But desperate is never a look I want Miles to see on me; he’s already too close to seeing too much anyway and he doesn’t even know it. I toe the line every day, but it’s worth it for moments with him, and that’s all I’ll let myself have.

I shift my weight, releasing my hands and flattening them on the bench, feeling the cool wood beneath my palms. Hishand instantly brushes against the side of mine again, and for a moment, everything else melts away. He opens his eyes and meets my gaze, holding it for a long, quiet moment. Then, with a tenderness that squeezes my poor, desperate heart, he links his pinky finger on top of mine.

“Quinn,” he says softly, breaking the silence. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For everything,” he mutters, his eyes still on mine, still a little glassy. “For being an idiot.”

I nudge my shoulder to his, feeling lighter. “Well, it’s a good thing you’re my best friend then, because I sort of love you, you big idiot.”

“Love you too, Queenie.”

I force a smile because if I don’t put my mask on, I might break down into tears. He might love me, but he doesn’t love me the way I love him.

Bumping his shoulder into mine, I offer up a slightly watery smile. Then he lifts his hand for the fist bump we’ve been doing since we were eight years old.

“First down.”

I gently tap my fist against his, biting the inside of my cheek to stop my eyes from filling. “All the way.”

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