Page 67 of Icing Hearts

Being under the covers feels too intimate, so I lean back against the pillows lining the headboard—on top of the comforter. He queues up the movie and tosses a throw blanket over my legs from the end of the bed. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Tory shift almost imperceptibly closer, crossing his arms over his broad chest. He’s wearing flannel pajama bottoms. Navy and hunter-green with some red and white. I want to reach out and squeeze his bicep, straining against his stone-colored , long-sleeved Henley.

He scoots closer again, and his left hand comes down to rest in the space between our bodies.

Would it be weird to hold his hand? Of course, I chide myself. What am I thinking? But they’re so tempting. Big and strong. Veiny. Just rough enough to give solid evidence of his prowess in the weight room. Smooth, olive skin. I let the intrusive thoughts win and reach out to trace one of his knuckles. It has a faint scar. A few of his knuckles do. Fighting.

He glances down at the point of connection but doesn’t move. “That’s quite…friendly.”

“Lots of friends hold hands all the time,” I say.

Before I think better of my behavior, I fan the blanket over our laps and erase the space between us. His left hand finds mine, and we interlace our fingers under the covers. His hand is warm and large and somehow feels like coming home.

We shouldn’t. But we do. If we can’t see it, then it doesn’t count, I tell myself. Friends hold hands all the time, after all.

Sometime during the movie, I fall asleep on Tory’s shoulder. Amid the trips to away games, it has become a bit of a habit. He never wakes me unless he has to, like when the bus pulls into the opposing school. When I awake, the movie is over and Tory’s reading a book in his lap.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

“For what?”

“I fall asleep on you all the time.”

“And?”

“Isn’t it annoying? I mean, you can’t really move or else I’ll wake up so then you’re stuck in an awkward position.”

“I like it. It means you’re comfortable..”

I sigh, long and loaded. I don’t tell him I fall asleep with him because I feel safe. Despite everything. Instead, I tell him, “Sometimes I think you’re too good to be true.”

“Too good to be true? I flirt with you in front of the guy you’re dating. I’ve insulted you countless times both behind your back and to your face. I haven’t ever shown proper appreciation for the care baskets.”

“You know?”

“I’ve known since last year .”

“MaybeI’mtoo good to be true.”

“Now that’s something we can agree upon.” He gives me a warm smile. A smile that makes me think he believes I’m special, even if I don’t.

“But you’ve also fed me countless times, got me the manager job and the tutoring gig, took care of me when I was inebriated, defended my honor on numerous occasions—including getting into a fight.”

“Twice.”

“The first was superfluous—doesn’t count. You gave me a phone.”

“All the better to stalk you with, my dear.” Tory wags his brows.

“And I have a sneaking suspicion you throw five bucks on my lunch account every so often.”

“A gentleman never tells.”

“All I’m saying is, the good far outweighs the bad.”

“Then I’m glad the scales are tipping in my favor. Remind me again why you aren’t my wife?”

“We’re seventeen.”

“Semantics.”

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