Page 91 of Star-Crossed
“And don’t you give me that bullshit cop stare,” Cy shouted at the glass as if continuing a conversation they’d never actually begun. “That shit doesn’t work on me.”
Again, Ethan said nothing. And weirdly, Cy felt himself inexplicably scuffing toward the front door.
Okay, so maybe the look wasn’t complete bullshit after all.
He sighed, steeling himself as he turned the lock and opened the door a crack. A crack that Ethan barreled through without so much as agood morning.
If it was still morning. Keeping track of the time of day was another of those things Cy had allowed to slide off his list of immediate concerns. Like answering the phone.
Ethan crossed the room in three strides, yanking back the curtains. Sunlight flooded in, making Cy want to hiss like a vampire.
Wrong RPG, coward.
“Smells like a distillery in here,” Ethan said, kicking the herd of cans that had accumulated next to Cy’s couch.
“Make yourself at home,” Cy muttered sarcastically as his friend brushed past him, his work boots echoing on the wood floor as he strode toward the kitchen.
Cy bristled, embarrassment heating his cheeks as he heard further invectives growled at what Ethan discovered in the kitchen. He returned with a beer in hand.
Ah. After six p.m. Had to be, if Ethan was joining Cy in a drink.
“So, I don’t mean to be dick,” Cy began, retrieving his own beer. “But do you mind telling me what the fuck you’re doing here?”
“A welfare check.” Ethan’s fingers tightened on the amber bottle. “Seeing as you won’t answer your phone.”
“I’ve been busy,” Cy said, avoiding his friend’s gaze as he closed the door and sagged onto the couch.
“Doing what?” Ethan said, looking around the disheveled living space with raised eyebrows. “Freebasing beer, wallowing in self-pity, and jerking off your joystick?”
“One, it hurts that you still haven’t acknowledged that I’m a PC gamer,” Cy said in a pathetic bid to mask his embarrassment with humor. “And two, I’m wallowing in regret, not self-pity.”
Cy wasn’t sure if it was just the light, or if the wall of Ethan’s flannel-clad shoulders actually softened slightly.
“I get it,” Ethan said, running a hand through his hair. “You and Lyra had a thing, and now she’s leaving for Denver.”
So, shehadtaken the job.
Good.
“That blows,” Ethan continued. “But you can’t just marinate in your own self-pity like an ogre in some goddamn swamp.”
Had Ethan Townsend actually just compared him toShrek? Since when had he even been aware of the existence of something as frivolous as CGI animation?
“You rehearse that on the way over?” Cy asked, relishing the acid bite of his anger.
Ethan’s jaw twitched. His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed above his flannel collar. “Lashing out at people who give a shit about you isn’t going to change what happened.”
No, but it might make it so Cy could brood about it in peace. Or at least isolation.
“Thanks for the psychological analysis,” he said, his frustration bubbling like a rank brew. “But I can handle my own shit.”
“Really?” Ethan scoffed. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re just marinating in it.”
That his friend was exactly right did nothing to improve Cy’s mood. “What’s it to you?”
“Because you’re my friend, and I fucking hate seeing you like this.” The sudden thunder of Ethan’s voice on the stale air only made Cy feel more scooped out and hollow.
He kept his stinging eyes trained on the array of remote controls on his coffee table.
