Page 4 of The Bro Date
“Thanks, Shane,” he murmurs, sinking into his seat and staring out the window.
Neither of us speaks on the short ride home, and when I put the truck in park and glance over, I see why. Toby is slumped in his seat, head hanging to the side uncomfortably.
“Wake up,” I whisper, gently shaking his arm. “We’re home.”
“Huhhh?” he groans, lifting his head and slowly blinking.
“Home,” I repeat in slow motion before getting out and walking around to help him down.
Toby is known to be a little clumsy, and that’s when he’s sober, so I’m not taking any chances. I’ve got half a foot on him, but it still takes some fumbling to get him out of my truck and into the house. With one arm around his shoulders, I guide him upstairs to his room and pull back the covers, helping him into bed and tucking him in.
Toby hums contentedly with a dopey smile on his face, snuggling the fluffy white comforter under his chin. “Can’t you stay a little while?” he asks, blinking big, sleepy, puppy-dog eyes up at me. He pats the spot next to him when I don’t answer right away. “Pretty please?”
I’m starving from skipping dinner, but I’m also so deadass tired from being on my feet all day, that even a short walk down the hall to my bedroom seems like a marathon.
I’ll just stay for an hour, then I’ll get up and make myself something to eat.
“Okay.” I sink into bed next to my best friend. We’ve had sleepovers since we were kids, and I guess we never really grew out of them.
Toby rolls over, allowing me to settle behind him as the big spoon. “Missed you, Shane,” he murmurs before his breathing evens out and a small snore escapes him.
“Missed you, too,” I whisper, drifting off into the best sleep I’ve had in a week.
CHAPTER TWO
TOBY
Bright, unfiltered light flows through the open curtains in my room, waking me from a groggy sleep with an unwelcome, early morning wake-up call.
“Fuuuck,” I groan, pulling the covers over my head because I’m too hungover to get out of bed and close the curtains. My head is pounding—flashes of hot frat boys, beer pong, and a hurt-looking Shane stomping loudly through my mind. I rub my throbbing temples, but it’s no help.
What the hell was I thinking?
Shane is my best friend, and last night I treated him like he wasn’t important. Like I wasn’t dying to see him after a week apart. Guilt scratches at my aching brain. For blowing him off. For worrying him. And for adding to the burden of his already full plate.
God, I’m a jerk. An absolute freaking jerk.
I should make it up to him somehow, like maybe I should drag my sorry butt out of bed and go get us some greasy, delicious breakfast food. My stomach rumbles happily at the idea, but my body won’t move.
Sighing in defeat, I close my eyes and drift.
If only we could hang out all day like we used to when we were younger. I wish Shane didn’t have to work so much, but he’s putting himself through collegeandpaying for housing, whereas my parents pay for everything despite our many disagreements. But Shane and I have always had vastly different home lives, especially as kids.
Homeschooled through third grade, I finally convinced my parents to let me go to an actual elementary school when we moved across the country to South Carolina from Utah. My dad’s prominent Salt Lake City real estate firm opened up a new East Coast office based out of Crescent Bay, a charming coastal town known for its breathtaking oceanfront properties, driftwood beaches, and quaint coffee shops and cafés.
My mom gave in to my request without much debate, easily abandoning the homeschooling lifestyle she grew up with back in Utah. I guess she finally realized she could sell houses, too, and make her own money. If she just sent me away for most of the day.
In the end, we both got what we wanted.
Turns out, I was way ahead of my peers because I had no life and no friends outside of church, so I skipped fourth grade and went straight to fifth. That’s where I met Shane—who was much bigger, much older, and luckily, much tougher than me. He was held back a year, repeating fifth grade forreasons, making him two years older than me. Neither of us fit in, so we gravitated toward each other and became best friends pretty quickly.
A light knock on my bedroom door startles me out of the warm, sleepy space I was floating in. I tug down the covers and take a deep breath of fresh air so I can finally wake my hungover ass up.
“Y-yeah?!” I croak, not moving from my cozy bed.
“I made breakfast,” a deep voice murmurs through the closed door. “Come down when you’re ready.”
Food. Thank God.
