Page 64 of Just Friends

“Activities.”

“Ah, yes. Rest up for a few days. You can shower and eat and live normally, but avoid going to the gym or driving or working until you’re better.”

“Sounds good,” Hazel says, her eyes once again closed and her head leaning back against the pillows propped against the elevated back of the hospital bed.

“Any other questions?” the doctor asks, his tone carrying a hint of wariness.

“No,” Hazel responds before I can think of anything else.

When the doctor disappears around the curtain, I say, “I had more questions.”

The smile Hazel gives me is slow, almost drugged, but it fills me with relief, nonetheless. “I know. I didn’t think the poor doctor needed to be heckled any more.”

“I wasn’t heckling,” I say, pushing a trembling hand through my hair.

She grabs the hand I dropped from her folded knee when I started typing my notes and gives it a squeeze. “You were heckling, but it was sweet.”

Something calms inside me at her touch, the firmness of it. It’s no longer as weak as it was before. I want to collapse under the relief.

“Hey,” she says, tugging on my hand, her fingers locking with mine. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I say on an exhale. “I was just worried.”

“You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“I’m glad you say that,” I say, and her eyebrows lift in question.

“Why?”

“Because I’m staying with you until you’re better.”

Alexwasn’tkiddingaboutstaying with me. After we left the hospital, he took me home, got me settled in bed, and then went back out to pack a bag. Which is how I’ve ended up lying in my bed, darkness creeping in around me, with only the sound of the fan billowing through the room, since I’m supposed to stay off screens for the time being.

And here in the darkness, I can only see one thing—the look of pure terror on Alex’s face earlier when I woke up on the riverbank with his large, warm body hovering over mine. I can see perfectly the twin creases between his brows as the nurses took my vitals, feel the imprint of his hands on my thighs as he carried me down the cracked asphalt street.

These thoughts, these feelings, have been swirling through my brain for weeks, and I’ve shut them down every single time. Because Alex is my best friend, and thinking about him that way makes my skin itch and my heart race. It feels like honey pooling in my stomach and dizziness fogging my head. It makes menervousbecause I don’t know what to do with it, and those illicit thoughts are like standing on a precipice on a windy day, hoping to God you don’t get caught up in the breeze.

But right now, I have a brain injury, and so I let myself feel it all. I don’t stop my mind from wandering to the way his shoulders stretch the fabric of his shirt so taut it looks ready to rip. I don’t make myself think of something else when I imagine the pillowy texture of his lips or how they would feel on my skin. I don’t tamp down the heat gathering behind my belly button or the flush rising to my cheeks.

Because hopefully I won’t remember this tomorrow. If I’m lucky, when the first rays of sunrise creep through my curtains in the morning, I’ll forget all about all the ways I felt about Alexander Malcolm Bates today.

The sound of my door opening snaps me out of my thoughts, and I lock them away, deep in my chest, and make myself a promise to never pull them back out again. Maybe when I inevitably break my own rule, they’ll smell like mothballs and dust, mere scraps of memory that no longer hold any consequences.

Alex’s footsteps are light as he makes his way through my apartment in the relative dark with only the light over the stove to guide him. When I tried to turn on my lamps earlier, he swatted my hands away, saying he didn’t want them to make my headache worse. Which I guess was for the best, because my head was swimming, and walking without leaning on him made my vision cloud at the edges.

My bedroom door creaks open, the old hinges groaning, and a sliver of pale light races through the crack before Alex shuts it quickly but softly behind him. There’s a thump, and I have to press my lips together to stifle a laugh as he curses viciously under his breath.

“You okay?” I ask, hoping he can’t hear the smile in my voice.

“You’re supposed to be sleeping.” He sounds grumpy, his tone scolding, and it makes my grin stretch wider.

“I am.”

The bed dips beneath his weight, and his usual clean, starched scent is replaced by sunshine, sweat, and river water. It would be bad on most people, and I’m sure I’m foul, but it smells good on him. He’s usually so buttoned up—hair slicked back and rebelling against his pomade, stubble clipped close to his face—but he feels different now, like someone else entirely. It makes my guard slip a little.

“How’s your head?” His voice rumbles through the darkness.

“Smashed.”

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