Page 88 of We Can't Be Friends

“At least I’m not afraid to admit it.”

I take a deep breath, trying to stay collected, not letting Cal know that he affects me.

Because he doesn’t. . . Cal does nothing to me.

Except for raising my blood pressure, heating my entire body until my core is nothing but begging to have him between my legs. Cal makes me feel entirely and utterly perfect being me. His appearance barely scratches the surface, it’s everything else that does it. Tiny gestures. Listening. Patience and kindness. Who he is at his core is the most attractive part of him.

But no, Cal does nothing to me.

Turning, he heads to the other side of the first floor.

“Did you start the kettle?” he asks me over his shoulder.

“I did.”

I expect him to respond with some sort of comeback, but he doesn’t. “Thank you.”

“Don’t get used to it. My generosity in the kitchen doesn’t stretch past that.” I ruin the moment, but can’t rip my focus from his glacier eyes.

“Would never.”

He pours the boiling water into the mug I left beside the stove, a bag already in it. Cal drinks Chamomile in the morning, an Earl Grey or chai in the afternoon—usually decaf—and peppermint at night.

Why do I know this?

Cal sits on the couch next to me, brushing against where I am.

Does he need to sit so close?

“What are your plans for Thanksgiving?” I ask him. The holiday is a few days away, and I realized earlier that I didn’t know if he was planning on staying here or not.

“Thanksgiving isn’t a British national holiday.”

“Oh.” I feel stupid. My shoulders slump, and I chew on the inside of my mouth.

Cal notices and adds, “Sometimes my family, or our friends, will go out to a nice dinner. It’s common for those with American family to still celebrate the tradition and share what they are thankful for.” He does this sometimes. If his response pulls an uncertain reaction from me, he corrects himself. Elaborates or rephrases his words to make me more satisfied with an answer.

“That’s nice. It used to be my favorite holiday,” I tell him.

“Used to be?” he asks curiously.

I nod. “Aren’t holidays better as kids?” He nods his head left and right, deliberating my comment. “School parties and an excuse to have as much sugar as possible. I always thought holidays were magical as a kid. Now, not really.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Plus now there is a national day for everything. I bet if you googled what today's national day is, it would tell you that it’s national black bear day or national hug the person who made you tea or—” A single laugh escapes him. “What?” I ask with a smile, his laugh contagious.

Cal also makes me smile.

It’s unintentional and severely annoying.

“Do you want a hug, Dais?” he asks.

“No?” I ask, confused. “Oh.” It dawns on me, and I swat at him. Cal catches my wrist. “I didn’t think about what I was saying.”

“Uh-huh, sure. I think you want a hug.”

Cal tugs on my wrist, bringing me closer to him, and swings an arm around my shoulders.

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