Page 65 of Just Friends

I expect a laugh, but when I peek open my eye, his face is illuminated by only a shimmer of twilight seeping through the curtains, but it’s clear his brow is creased with concern.

“I’m just kidding,” I tell him, keeping my hands tucked beneath the blankets so I don’t accidentally reach out and smooth my fingers over the crinkled skin.

His body sags against my headboard, and he looses a deep breath. “I was really worried today,” he says quietly, after a long pause.

My foolish hand doesn’t heed my mental warnings, slipping out from under the quilt to lock with his. Alex’s chin rests on his shoulder, deep brown eyes fixing on me. His thumb smooths over my knuckles, a steady pattern moving in time with my heartbeat.

I try not to focus on the movement, how holding his hand feels so different in the dark in my bed than it does when he’s helping me over a fallen branch on a hiking path or into the high passenger seat in his SUV. But my traitorous heart thumps wildly, and my skin prickles with every swipe of his finger.

“I know,” I tell him, and my voice comes out as nothing more than a murmur. “I’m glad you were there to take care of me.”

Alex’s throat bobs in a swallow, and his gaze darts across the room, fixing on a spot on one of the butterfly pictures hanging on my wall. “Parker would have done just fine if you’d been alone.”

“Maybe,” I say, squeezing his hand with gentle pressure. “But I’m glad it was you anyway.”

His eyes snag on mine once more, and I don’t know whether it’s the concussion or this unfamiliar tautness in the air between us, but my vision blurs at the edges, my focus fixing entirely on him. I want to remember how he looks at this exact moment, and I hope desperately that it doesn’t disappear into the hazy memories of today. I don’t want to forget the way his hair has become messy, rebelling against the pomade, or the dusting of freckles on his cheeks. I want to remember the pink sunburn on his nose and the look in his eyes, so deep and tender that it feels earth-shattering.

I don’t know who moves, or if we both do, but suddenly there’s no space between us, and we’re touching from shoulder to hip, our fingers still intertwined.

“I’m glad it was me too,” he says just above a whisper, his breath fanning against my cheek.

There’s an electric current, pulsing and alive. It’s like touching a live wire, and it shocks me just as easily. I wrench back, my head spinning at the sudden movement. Alex bolts upright, his hands moving to either side of my face, holding my head steady.

“Are you okay?” he asks, that distress back between his brows. I just know I’m contributing to his early wrinkles. Maybe I’ll get him Botox for his birthday.

Whatever tension that was thickening the air a moment ago has dissipated, replaced with concerned urgency. When I nod, his palms scrape against my cheeks, and his lungs finally seem to fill with oxygen again. The last bit of twilight extinguishes, bathing us in darkness, as he sits back, releasing my face.

“Are you hungry?” Alex asks, scrubbing a palm over the back of his neck.

I hadn’t noticed my hunger, but my stomach feels hollow as soon as he asks the question. “Yeah, actually.”

“Cam made soup for you. I picked it up on the way back over here.” Alex shifts off the bed, fumbling for something on the nightstand. The next moment, his phone flashlight turns on, diffused orange from his fingers covering the brightness.

“Mm,” I mumble, suddenly ravenous. “What kind?”

“Lemon chicken orzo. But if you don’t want soup, I can go get you something. I know it’s hot outside.” The rambling would give away his discomfort if the shifting from foot to foot didn’t.

My stomach feels hollow for an entirely different reason. This is exactly why I’ve avoided these thoughts for so long, burying them deep to rot away before they can be exposed. If I weren’t so equally hungry and tired, I’d let him order takeout just so he could get away from me for longer, like he so desperately wants to.

I wish I could tell if our reasoning is the same, if he’s scared like me, worried about ruining something precious, or if he just doesn’t feel the same. If I hadn’t taken a hard hit to the head today, I’d be able to trust the look I saw in his eyes earlier, add it to the running list of moments between us that I’ve been cataloging in my head over the past few weeks, waiting to see what they add up to. But Ididsustain a brain injury today, and so I can’t be sure of anything. For all I know, I could be asleep right now, waiting for Alex to return with his overnight bag.

“Soup is fine,” I finally say.

He practically bolts out the door, mumbling something I don’t quite hear. My shoulders sink against the pillows, my heart beating rapidly. I let my breath out between pursed lips. Everything feels fuzzy and out of focus, and I hate myself for getting wrapped up in a moment when I’m in no state to be making life-changing decisions.

Alex returns a moment later, hissing as he bumps into the bed and spills hot soup on his hand.

“Just turn on the light,” I say, sighing.

“No,” he says firmly, cursing again as more soup sloshes.

I lean over, flicking on the lamp and bathing the room in a warm golden glow. My head pounds at the sudden brightness, and I close my eyes against the nausea.

“Hazel Mae Lane,” Alex scolds quietly, setting the soup down on my nightstand before he turns the light back off. I hate to admit that the barely there glow of his phone flashlight feels much better, settling the pulse beating through my skull.

The bed dips beneath his weight as he settles next to me once more, this time on the sliver of space between me and the edge of the bed.

“Do you need help eating?” he asks. His voice is so smooth and calm, like a gentle purr that feels like a balm against the incessant throbbing in my head.

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