Chapter 4

4

I know I messed up.

Rory and I have lived together for two years, and nothing like that has ever happened. We share a bathroom, too. And we're pretty easy with it—we brush our teeth together, trading the sink to spit, and he'll come in when I'm showering—although there's a heavily frosted glass door that's impossible to see through, not this open expanse that Rory probably did not expect when he came in here.

I sigh and finish washing myself then flip off the water and step out. I'm muttering, still annoyed with myself, as I dry off and then toss my towel onto the rack before I step into my lounge pants.

I pause at the door, my stomach tightening. I just keep going over what happened, again and again.

I just… have to figure out what to say. How to keep this from being awkward as hell. He was worried about the bed, and now there's this .

Okay, here goes. The longer I stand in here with the shower off, the more awkward it's going to be when I finally go out there.

I find Rory crouched over his suitcase, his back to me, wearing checkered boxers and a white tee. He looks cute dressed like that, the way those checkerboards pattern over his ass.

Stop, D. And whatever you do, don't grab your dick again.

I rock nervously onto my toes, super aware of my hands dangling at my sides, and then freeze when the floor creaks under my weight.

He stiffens, but he doesn't look at me. This is so awkward.

I'm such a dickhole. "Rory, I?—"

"I'm sorry," he says.

Wait… "Why are you sorry?"

No, no, no—this was my fault. There's no reason he should be sorry.

He keeps messing with his suitcase, although it's mostly empty now. "I knocked, and waited, but I shouldn't have gone in there without you saying it's okay. I just really needed to put my toiletry bag away. It bothers me not to unpack. But I shouldn't have done it. I shouldn't have looked. I shouldn't have—" He sucks in a breath.

I rub off a drop of water that's trickling down my chest. "No, dude. This one's on me. Completely. If we're talking shouldn'ts, I shouldn't have gone in there and…" Shit, what do I say? "…done that."

He twists to look at me. He's still crouched over his suitcase, a bottle of reef-safe sunblock in his hands.

He drags in a slow breath, the wheels in his brain turning in his eyes. "Yeah, well, masturbating is healthy. It reduces stress and improves mood. Helps with sleep. Lessens the risk of prostate cancer. There's even some research that suggests it improves cognitive functioning. I try to do it daily. Once before bed. Sometimes in the morning, too."

Ohhhh, fuck.

I swallow, ignoring the instant heat that floods through me. The immediate image . I've never seen Rory sans clothing—he's pretty private about that stuff—but that doesn't seem to stop my brain from supplying an onslaught of guesses. I mean, I've seen him shirtless. And in boxers. It's not really hard to guess.

"Yeah," I say roughly. "Super healthy. Like eating broccoli. And doing yoga. Maybe like a good energy cleanse? Those are always nice."

"Exactly." He nods resolutely. "It's just… It was kind of surprising…" His eyes move over my shoulder, toward the bathroom and then back to me. He fidgets with the bottle of sunblock. "I've never seen…"

He winces.

"You've never seen…?" Should I be asking? I can't seem to stop myself, though. He's crouched on the floor, looking up at me.

"It's nothing," he says. "I just… you're…" His eyes slide down to my crotch.

I still, my hands hanging at my sides. My face goes weirdly numb.

Is he… looking at my dick?

My pulse starts to beat thickly, resounding in my throat.

"It's fine. I'll…" He stands, still clutching the sunblock. "I'll go use the bathroom and when I come back, we can forget all about this."

"Rory," I start, but he's already hurrying off, nearly scurrying, the door closing behind him.

I stare after him.

Was he looking at me?

I don't know.

But he's in there for a while.

I don't stare at the door. Not the entire time, at least.

Maybe like seventy-five percent of the time.

The other twenty-five percent I'm resolutely not staring at the door.

It finally clicks open, and he steps out, his face fresh like he just washed it, reddened so that his freckles blend in.

Half the lights are on, and earlier I opened the sliding door to get fresh air, a soft breeze blowing in that smells of plumeria.

I rub at my neck. "Rory?—"

"Do you want to sleep?" He starts flipping off the lights.

Should I push him to talk? What would I even say? Was he looking at me?

I nod toward the couch-thing. "I can sleep on the donut hole. I don't mind at all. I don't need lumbar support."

"Everyone needs lumbar support," he says matter-of-factly. He folds the comforter down then glances up at me. "Look, it's fine. Sleep here."

"Are you sure?"

He nods.

I hesitate. What should I do?

He slides into bed, seeming sure, so I turn off the lamp on my bedside table, and then I get in too, keeping on my side of the bed. I settle on my back, adjusting my lounge pants so they aren't twisted.

I stare at the ceiling. I'm so aware of him. How his toes tent the covers, how he smells toothpasty and slightly floral. He tosses one of his two pillows to the floor before wiggling his ass deeper into the mattress.

Moonlight spills in silver across the floor, but it doesn't reach the bed.

I concentrate on my breathing. In and out. In and out. Breathing should be natural. I don't know why it feels like such a mind-fuck right now.

Just get back to being friends. Forget about docking. Forget about the shower. Forget wondering if he checked out your dick. You just need to reset things. Talk about normal friend stuff.

He's quiet.

I'm quiet.

My toes curl under the comforter. I should say something , right?

"Uhhh…" My voice sounds graveled in the dark. "How are you getting on with your plans for after graduation?"

Rory accepted an editing job for a textbook company in New York. It starts right after graduation. It's perfect for him. But it feels like a stepping-off point for him, too. I can't wait to see what he decides to do after that. He's talked about grad school.

He rolls onto his side, facing me. "I'm having a hard time finding a place to live."

His voice is quiet, so I inch closer. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust enough to see him, but when I can, my gaze swims around his face.

He's got such delicate features—a thinner nose, almond-shaped eyes, soft lips. Smooth skin, with those freckles I can't fully see right now, but I can picture them. All of them, really. I guess I've studied them a lot.

His eyelashes flutter tiredly. "I found a room to rent. But it's expensive. I'd have to share a bathroom."

"Did you sign a lease already?"

"A sublet, yeah." He nods, his cheek scraping against his pillow. "It was my only option. I need to move in three months, and it's not like I need anything big." He slides his hand between his cheek and the pillow. "Are you excited about going back home?"

"To California?" I stiffen. I don't know if he can see my reaction in the dark. I force my shoulders to relax.

My dads want me to take over the special events. Weddings and funerals and graduations and gender reveals, mostly.

I love the shop. I love stepping into the warm humidity cooler full of cut arrangements, the brightness of the blooms, colorful as hell and not afraid to show it. And I love being part of people's big life events. There's always something to do, always people around. I get lonely just creating arrangements in the back of the shop, but drop me at an event, and I'm happy all day.

I love being with my family, too. They're all fantastically cool, and we've always been close. It's such a good vibe. Bright and welcoming and open.

I think of all the things I should say about going home, about what I've planned, but when I open my mouth, something unexpected happens.

I say, "I don't know."

Do I mean that?

I swallow, a bit thickly, and then something comes out that I've never said before. "I don't want to let my dads down."

Rory stares across at me. "I've met them a few times, and it seems like they only want the best for you."

"I know." I hesitate, trying to sort out what I'm thinking. He's right. My family is awesome. But…

But?

But…

I don't know.

Just but .

Hanging there like this word that dead-ends a thought I've had for my entire life.

I want to go back after graduation, but…

"I can't picture it," I say.

His eyes move around my face although they're getting sleepy, his head dipping deeper onto his pillow. "You can't picture the shop?"

"No, I can picture the shop," I say. "But I'm not sure I picture myself working there."

When I try to, it's empty.

The image in my head is so lonely. No customers, no employees. Just the worktable full of yellow daisies to be arranged, with printouts of unfilled orders and a half-drunk mug of mint tea. But no people. Just this sad, quiet emptiness.

It's like everyone got up and walked out in the middle of the day.

"Do you want to know what I think, D?" Rory scoots closer.

"What?" I always want to hear what he thinks.

"You should do whatever you want. Your family will be proud of you." His eyelids slip closed. "And I will be, too."

Jesus, that hits me hard.

I don't even know how to respond. Rory always sees the best in me. He never sees the guy who struggles to put things in order. Who has to work his ass off for C's in school. Who has to find workarounds for things that seem to come so easily for others.

"Thank you," I whisper.

"No problem," he says with a smile, voice groggy.

"I'm excited to spend time with you," I say. "Before we graduate."

"Me too," he mumbles.

My heart thuds. And that tickle lights in my stomach. It's butterflies. And the weight of our friendship, of the time we've spent together over the past three and a half years. Studying and talking and being there for each other. How that's going away soon.

I'd thought it was the docking that woke me to all these possibilities, a kernel of hope that maybe he could return even an eighth of the feelings I have for him. But maybe it's not just that. Maybe it's also this countdown. It's losing something that I don't want to lose.

Our friendship. Even if there's never a possibility for anything else, I don't know if I want to be three thousand miles away from our friendship.

Rory sighs faintly, sweetly, sleepily. So prettily that it creates a pinch in my chest.

For better or worse, I open my mouth. "Do you remember, Rory? That night, I mean. When we were on my bed it felt like something happened between us. Was that something? Could it be?"

And if so, why has it taken three and a half years before we've gotten here? A few months before we're supposed to move? That doesn't seem fair.

But there's no answer. He's drifted off to sleep.