Taking Brody’s hand and pulling him toward my bedroom, I made small talk so his appearance would seem casual. “Did you get all your homework done?”
“Not quite,” he said. “I still have maybe eight calculus problems left.” He stepped into my room and closed the door behind him.
I hugged him.
He wrapped his arms around me and squeezed me gently.
I’d only meant to thank him. But now that I was in his arms, I didn’t want to leave. I settled my ear against his chest and listened to his heartbeat: slow, steady.
Finally I let him out of my death grip and stepped back. “Thank you so much,” I whispered.
“No problem,” he said solemnly.
“I’m sorry about the boyfriend thing,” I said. “I was trying to make it seem normal that you’d pop in.” Belatedly I was realizing that Kennedy did not pop in. Not once had he crossed my mind when I was considering which friend to call.
“Can you stay for a few minutes?” I meant until my dad left. I swept my hand around the small room, offering him a beanbag chair or my desk chair or . . . the bed seemed a little forward.
“Sure.” He kicked off his flip-flops and scooted back on the bed until he sat propped up against my pillows. He seemed comfortable.
I crawled onto the bed and settled beside him. Our arms touched from our shoulders to our elbows. I racked my brain for something to say to the guy I’d fallen for, who was someone else’s boyfriend but was pretending to be mine. I glanced at him and was shocked all over again at how green his eyes were.
He watched me intently and opened his mouth to say something. Then he grimaced, shifted on the bed, knocked me with his elbow, and pulled my phone out from under him.
“Sorry,” I said. “Remember you asked me how I could just take a deep breath and relax? I was listening to a relaxation program. It’s a directed meditation.”
“On a recording? I can think of a better way to relax.”
“If you can think of a better way, why don’t you do it before games, instead of worrying?” Then it hit me. “Oh, you’re making a sex joke.”
He gaped at me.
“A blow-job joke?” I suggested meekly.
“Harper Davis!” he exclaimed. “Would I make a joke like that while I’m sitting on your bed? I had no idea your mind was so dirty.”
“Uh.” In my mind I backpedaled through what he’d said, trying to remember what had sent my thoughts in that direction. “Sorry, I—”
“It was a hand-job joke,” he said. “I mean, my gosh, a blow-job joke? You have a boyfriend.”
I burst into laughter—because what he’d said was funny, and because he excited me to the point of giddiness. I swallowed the last remnants of my giggle and said, “You’re so different from the guys I usually hang out with. I can’t tell when you’re kidding.”
“I’m always kidding,” he said. “And it’s always dirty.”
“Ha ha, okay,” I said.
“Harper!” he said, astonished all over again. “You didn’t believe that, did you? I was not making a hand-job joke. It might have been a kissing joke.” He was blushing.
I took one of the deep, calming breaths I was famous for. “Sorry. I feel kind of”—I was talking with my hands, but my hands were not forming any shape that was remotely related to what I was trying to say—“deprived sometimes. I haven’t done a lot of kissing or . . . anything. And then I talk about it and go overboard, sounding like I’m starving to death.”
“You don’t,” he said firmly, turning on my phone and thumbing through the list of recordings.
“You could download some of these programs and listen to them in the locker room before a game,” I suggested. “Or is that not allowed?”
“It’s allowed,” he said, “but only kickers do superstitious shit like that.”
“Well, if you’re still feeling anxious, maybe you should start hedging your bets like a kicker.” I put my head close to his, peering at the phone, and cued up one of the programs. “Want to try?”
He gave a shrug, meaning he would try anything once. He put the earbuds in. I started the recording.
He laughed. The meditation lady had a British accent. I smiled at him.
He sank down on one forearm on the bed, watching me. I remembered that the program’s first instruction was to lie down. I patted my thigh.
He rolled over with his head in my lap. His hair was a lot softer than I’d imagined. Half the time I saw him, his locks hung in clumps, wet from sweat or a shower or the ocean. His hair was clean and dry now, and baby fine, only a whisper against my skin.
Brody Larson’s head was in my lap.
Something told me we were not just friends anymore.
But even as I thought this and felt my face flush hot, Brody seemed oblivious. Relaxed, even. He crossed his ankles—the meditation lady was telling him to make sure all parts of his body were comfortable. He rotated his throwing shoulder—the lady said he should work out kinks in any joint that hurt.
I lowered my hand to his shoulder and circled my fingers on his shirt, rubbing gently. This was not part of the relaxation technique, having his not-just-friend-anymore rub his kink. I was probably unrelaxing him.
Maybe I didn’t care.
He lifted his opposite hand and put it over mine, as if to tell me he approved.
His breathing deepened. He’d moved on to the part of the program in which he inhaled slowly and visualized his body growing heavy and sinking into the mattress. So I wouldn’t distract him, I stopped rubbing his shoulder. He kept his hand on mine.