Page 7 of Taking Care of You
“We can watch another movie.”
Maybe the more we hang out, the louder I’ll speak, because right now, my voice is small and full of nerves.
Ethan doesn’t seem to mind. He just picks up the remote and chooses another movie, an action movie this time. I hold back a smile and settle more into the soft couch, hugging my water bottle to my chest.
3
It wasn’t my intention to fall asleep. It also wasn’t my intention to fall asleep on Ethan. Like literallyonEthan.
When I open my eyes, the first thing I notice is the sunlight streaming through the windows. The second thing I notice is how warm I am. I lift my head, looking around at my unfamiliar surroundings. The natural light dances around the room, dust motes floating in front of my face.
Belatedly, I realize I’m warm because Ethan has his arm slung around me, my body flush against his. When I look up at him, I meet his sleepy gaze and lazy smile.
Panicking, I drag myself away from him, body flushed with embarrassment. What the fuck? How did I manage to fall asleep on him like that? I don’t remember the movie ending, nor moving to damn near drape my body over his. I put my head in my hands and scrub my face. When I look at him, he looks amused.
Sighing, I say, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to crowd you like that.”
A smile twitches his lips and he sits up to stretch. “You didn’t, creep.”
That’s all he says. No mention of how weird it was to wake up with me practically on his lap or anything. I guess I’ll follow his lead.
He stretches as well, yawning widely. I have to force my eyes not to drop to his chest, instead glancing away from him.
“You sleep good?” he asks, squinting his eyes since the sunlight from the window is streaming directly in his face.
Before I can answer, a short, beautiful woman with light brown skin walks out of the hallway on the left. That must be his parents' wing of the house. She stops in the living room and smiles. “Good morning, son. Who’s your friend?”
I’ve never seen his mother in person before. There are plenty of pictures in papers and magazines of her, especially for her charity work. She and her husband, Mr. Franklin King, are big philanthropists and she does a lot of outreach work for underprivileged expectant mothers. She’s basically a superhero to our community.
Ethan stands and does a kind of jog over to her and gives her a quick hug and kiss before he turns back to me. “Mom, this is Jakoby. Creep, this is my mother, Grace.”
I walk over and shake her hand. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
She smiles warmly at me. “You don’t have to call me ma’am. Grace is fine.” She reaches up and taps Ethan on the chest lightly. “Don’t call him names, son. That’s rude.”
“Mom, thatishis name,” he says, feigning exasperation. “Right, creep?” He looks at me with a serious expression and I nod. I am such a fucking weirdo. I like when he calls me ‘creep’, so I don’t know. Maybe it is my name now.
Whenhesays it anyway.
“Don’t let my son bully you, Jakoby. I raised him to be a nice young man, but sometimes he forgets his manners.”
I smile at her and then look up at him, not knowing what else to say. I’m not great at conversations, especially with adults.I mean, technically, I am an adult. I can vote and shit, but she’s an adultier adult. I’m nowhere near her level to have a conversation.
He seems to pick up on that because he says, “He knows I’m teasing him, Ma. Anyway, we’re gonna get going in a little while. I have to take him home. Mind if I take the Jeep?”
“Take your own car. You’re not going to use all my gas.”
She turns to walk into the kitchen and he pouts. I chuckle quietly at the expression and he turns to look at me, eyes gleaming. “You have a nice laugh, creep. Last night was the first time I heard it since we were, like, nine.”
Is that a thing you can say to your friend? They have a nice laugh? I mean, sure you can, but my brain and heart are getting two separate messages. I have to repeat to myselfwe’re just friends, we’re just friends, we’re just friends, to make sure both my brain and heart are on the same page.
An even more pressing question: how the hell did he even remember me when we were nine? I didn’t think he paid any attention to me, even when we were young.
“Thank you, I guess.”
Chuckling, he pulls on my sleeve to lead me down the hall. “Come on, I’ll give you a toothbrush and a face cloth for you to wash up before I take you home.”
I follow him down the hallway, into the stupidly-sized bathroom. There’s so much space. More space than necessary, really. There’s a jacuzzi tub, a standing shower, two sinks with more counter space than a bathroom needs, and the toilet has a bidet. Who in this century uses a bidet?
