Page 51 of Steam

“Yeah but… fuck that,” Reese says.

“Fuck that?” Cash asks, hitching an eyebrow.

“Yeah, you’re being too logical about it,” Reese says through a mouth full of burrito. “Like. You can’t treat this like it makes any sense. It’s not gonna make any fucking sense.”

“Fucking therapist Reese over here,” Cash says.

“And then you’re getting pissed off at Owen because he’s not being logical,” Reese says, ignoring Cash.

“But Owen is Mister fucking Logic,” Trey says.

Reese just shakes his head and looks down at his plate of food, not stopping as he tears through the meal at breakneck speed.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Reese says. “You can’t get mad at him about how he feels.”

“You’re so wise, Reese,” Cash says, a little sarcasm slipping in.

“Well, why don’t you fucking talk to him,” Trey says.

“No problem,” Reese says. “I’ll do it when we get home.”

* * *

Owen isat the small desk in his room when Reese barges in.

Reese doesn’t knock—doesn’t say anything—just pushes the door open, shuts it behind him, and flops down onto Owen’s bed.

“Owen, we should talk,” he says, kicking off his shoes and staring at the ceiling. Owen suppresses a sigh and swivels in his chair.

“What is it?” Owen asks.

“The thing with Trey a few hours ago,” Reese says. “You know what I’m talking about.”

Owen stops suppressing the sigh. Reese wants to read him the riot act too? So be it. He takes off his glasses to massage the bridge of his nose.

“Right,” Owen says. “You’ve got some sage advice for me, too?”

Reese snorts, still not looking at Owen.

“Not really,” he admits. “I mean, you know what you’re doing and you know it makes zero sense—right?”

“Pretty much,” Owen agrees. He puts the glasses back on.

Reese flips to his stomach on the bed, peering at Owen.

“Owen. You deserve to eat. If you want to do something different with your body—fine,” Reese says, keeping the statements light, somehow managing to make the whole thing sound casual. “But you can’t do something different with your body while you actively hate yourself.”

“And if I don’t know how not to hate myself?”

Reese rolls his eyes—an expression that somehow takes on more significance with Reese, who seems to be half eyeballs sometimes.

“Owen. Come here.”

“I’m not in the mood for this,” Owen says, letting irritation slip into his voice.

Reese’s voice goes sing-song in response as he posts up with one hand and waves Owen over with the other.

“I’m not gonna suck your dick Owen—just come sit with me for a second. Please?”

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