“I’m going to shower. You want to set up the camera for opening those packs, or are you too tired to make content tonight?”
“Tired.” It wasn’t a total lie, but really, I wasn’t sure I could continue to act normal around him, act like nothing had changed. “Is it okay if I shower in the morning?”
“Sure.” Rummaging through his bag, he shrugged. Following Conrad’s shower, being in the same small, damp space where he’d been naked moments before, simply seemed unbearably intimate. When he headed to the bathroom, I changed quickly into flannel pants and a different T-shirt—a soft, faded one I’d slept in for years. This was the first time I’d given any thought to my bedtime attire, worrying that maybe the shirt was too old, the pants too thin, the—
Stop. I tried to force the anxiety back into place. Stupid worries. It was me that wasn’t ready, not my clothes. Disgusted with myself, I climbed under the covers and flipped out the light on my side of the bed. Now it was my turn to fake sleep.
I figured I was doing a pretty good job at that when Conrad tiptoed out of the bathroom a short while later and flipped off his own light even before he got in bed. The covers dragged across my torso as he settled. Weird. This sleeping-next-to-someone business was simply strange in so many ways, a type of social politics I’d never been very good at. For example, how much blanket was I entitled to? Was it rude to yank back my half that he just stole? Not to mention feet. His bumped mine several times as he shifted around, but I figured that pulling my feet back would make it obvious I was awake.
Further, I could tell he was still awake, possibly even more so than in the car, because his side of the bed seemed to practically vibrate with an energy I couldn’t name, his breathing shallow, legs restless. And that restlessness was contagious, making my chest feel like a can of soda about to fizz over, making sleep impossible, and making my brain race with a jumble of random thoughts. Finally, I couldn’t stand it a second longer.
“Are you still thinking about your family?” I whispered.
“Wha—” He startled, rolling toward our pillow barrier. “No.” He flopped back against his side of the bed. “Okay. Yeah. Maybe a little. What’s your excuse? Why aren’t you asleep?”
You. You’re my reason. But I didn’t want it to sound like I was blaming him for keeping me awake. Or worse, like a bad come-on that would make him laugh at me. So, instead, I lied. “I’m worried we’re too far behind schedule.”
He scoffed. “You said it yourself. We’ll make up time tomorrow. Get an early start. Make the Denver stop a quick one.”
“Yeah.” We both drifted back to silence, but I wouldn’t call it a comfortable one at all. As he shifted around again, his hand brushed my arm.
“Whoops. Sorry.” He pulled it back across the pillow.
“It’s okay.” I lacked the words and courage to tell him that I wouldn’t mind if he did it again. My arm tingled, but it was my brain that took longer to quiet, our earlier conversation weighing down on me. “Conrad?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry about your family.”
He was quiet a long minute before the bed moved, him rolling back toward the pillow. “Thanks.”
That should have been it, the note to head to sleep on, but another thought that had been prickling at me kept me talking. “Earlier…when you said you didn’t want me to get hurt picking the wrong person, was that because you got hurt?” My limbs got strangely warm, thinking of him caring like that. And there was also that weird flare of jealousy again. “With Angelo? Like, heartbroken hurt?”
“No.” He groaned. Relief surged through me, increasing at his resigned tone. “Not heartbroken. He was probably more into me than I was into him, and I feel guilty about that. I maybe encouraged him more than I should have. Ego trip. That’s probably part of why he tried to send the pictures. But I sure can pick them. Learn from me. Pick better.”
“It’s not your fault. I know you think it is. But it’s not. It’s not you that messed up.”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure it is.”
“No, it’s not.” I warmed to my topic, my voice getting firmer. “You made some bad decisions maybe. Trusted the wrong guy. But it’s his fault for sending the pictures. And your dad’s for how he reacted. You can’t keep blaming yourself for other people’s bad actions.”
The room stayed quiet save for the hum of the air conditioner, but I swore I could feel him over there thinking.
“It’s hard,” he said softly, pain cutting into a tender place I hadn’t realized I possessed.
“I…I get it now. Why you want to win.” It was a clumsy way of saying that I understood him better after today, got why he’d needed to escape into Odyssey. I’d let myself be blinded by his looks and popularity and hadn’t seen the complex guy underneath. I understood now why he wanted to prove himself at this tournament so badly.