“I’m used to it.”
“That so?”
“Feel free to move if you’re concerned.”
“Is that a passive way of asking me to move?” I ask.
“No.”
Okay then, I think, and then reach over to the end table, grab the remote, turn on the TV, and put on some obscure cooking show.
Good enough.
I should probably get up and move to the couch, but I don’t want to. Nah, I’ll just stay here for a while longer.
* * *
We sit like that for two hours, me half watching the cooking show and half dozing while Whit continues to read. He’s a smart cookie. I peeked at what he was reading, and it was something about the Civil War. Who would read that for fun?
Not me.
Or anyone I know, really.
But I do know he’s going to school to be a lawyer or something fancy like that. I found that out from my internet stalking. Told you he was brilliant.
I’m in college for a business degree. Not that I want to end up in a suit and sit in an office all day, but one day I’ll be running the scrap yards my uncle owns with my cousins, and I want to know what I’m doing. I don’t want to run them into the ground.
Whit moves his legs again. In the past two hours, we shifted a few times. Whit ended up with his legs sprawled in front of him and me curled into his torso. His left hand rested on my waist, his fingers stroking absently against my side. My face was tucked into his neck, and my palm rested against his chest. I could feel the constant beat of his heart against it. It was soothing.
I didn’t think too hard about it.
I just went with it.
Why couldn’t guys cuddle or hold hands? Who came up with that shit rule? Maybe we’d all be happier if we were able to show some affection every once in a while.
“You’re hungry,” Whit says when my stomach rumbles loudly.
“Meh,” I say.
“Let me heat you up the soup your aunt made,” Whit says, his hand moving up to squeeze the back of my neck.
“If you insist,” I mutter and then roll off of him. Very reluctantly.
I plant myself on the couch and feel lonelier than I should.
This was becoming a problem. One I would examine more later.
Whit stretches, arching his back, and a pop resounds from it. Then he stands up, moves to the kitchen, and opens the fridge.
A few minutes later, a bowl of steaming soup is set on the table.
“Come on, Caleb. Time to eat.”
I sigh, push myself up, and amble over to the chair, and after I sit down, I stick the spoon into the liquid. It does smell delicious. My aunt is a fantastic cook. So is Liam. I live for his culinary treats.
“You having some?” I ask, taking a heaping spoonful.
“Yeah. Your aunt insisted. I don’t want to report back that I didn’t do as she commanded.”