Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 80689 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80689 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Of course, I know it has to.
I usually have such a hard time sleeping. It should be difficult to fall asleep with Jonas’s heavy breathing and the position that’s so different from on my back against a firm pillow, but my eyes grow heavy, and before I know it, it’s morning, the soft light of dawn sneaking between my drapes. I only wake him briefly as I slip out of bed and brush my teeth. Then I head downstairs, where I find Nell making breakfast.
“I would have put something out if I’d known you were going to be up,” she says.
“No, no. You don’t need to do anything.”
“I can make some waffles real quick, if you want.”
“I can make them.”
“Nope. Get out of my kitchen! I need my peace of mind. Just go ahead in, and I’ll bring them to you in a minute.”
She offers a warm smile, and I head into the adjoining dining area, settling at the table. I pull out my phone and visit Apple News, scanning the headlines until I find a promising article to occupy my mind until my waffles are ready.
When the kitchen door opens, I say, “You really didn’t have to—”
“But I insist.” It’s not Nell’s voice, but Simon’s.
He pulls up the chair adjacent to mine, the legs screeching against the polished cement floor.
I hadn’t fully appreciated how rested and relaxed I was from my sleep until my body stiffens up, and as I turn my head, Simon’s coming right at me, and I can’t react fast enough to block his firm kiss.
“Morning, Ryan.” He settles in the chair beside me.
He has bags under his eyes and seems to be shaking slightly. He doesn’t look like he got much sleep. “Busy night?” I ask.
“Probably not as busy as yours.”
“Probably? What a fucking joke. I hope you enjoyed the show.”
“I have some notes, but I think that would be rude.”
“Not as rude as watching.”
Simon laughs. “Ryan, I’m only teasing. You know I haven’t put any cameras in your room in a long time.”
Though I’ve given up on looking for cameras, I recall plenty of times where he said something similar and then I discovered them anyway. Besides, I don’t believe for a minute that he’d go to all the trouble of bringing Jonas here and then not watch.
“I’m being serious.” He looks me right in the eyes—it’s how he prefers to lie.
I feel something against my shoe, and I yank it back so hard, my heel hits the leg of the chair. “Fuck,” I mutter.
“Oh, come on, Ryan. Can’t we still play like old times?”
He’s taunting me, being deliberately cruel, and I’m wondering if it’s because this twisted game he’s playing is messing with him as much as it’s messing with me.
“I think you are still playing,” I snap.
“Whatever could you be talking about?”
Reminds me of how he’d react when we were kids and he hid a toy from me. I always knew when it was him, and he’d still act totally oblivious.
“So is Jonas being as…” He seems to be carefully searching for a word. “As helpful as I’d hoped?”
“I’m not answering that.”
“I mean, I don’t have a camera in your room, but obviously I have cameras in the hallways. I know who’s coming and going. I don’t know that it’s appropriate to have this kind of relationship with someone who’s technically under you. There’s a power imbalance there. It’s really not very woke.”
As I glare at him, his mischievous smile slips across his wicked face.
“We just get together in my room to play poker,” I lie, meeting his gaze.
His eye twitches, his expression twisting into a frown, as though he’s offended that I would lie to him, despite how comfortable he is doing the same to me.
“I know you have,” he says. “I really do have cameras in your room, and I’ve seen every hand. I know he’s ready to get a full house, so I’m curious if you’ll give it to him.”
He says it so playfully, but he’s clearly referring to Jonas asking me to top him.
“Maybe,” he continues, “you could play a more exciting card game so that I have a little more fun watching. Just be careful you don’t lead anyone on,” he says between his teeth. “You know you have a tendency to do that.”
My jaw tenses, and I feel the urge to lunge from my seat and deck him, when the door opens and Nell enters with two trays. She places mugs and pours coffee, then brings us each a plate of waffles, butter, and a syrup dispenser. As she asks if there’s anything else we need, my tension ebbs.
She heads back into the kitchen, and Simon and I grab our syrup dispensers, preparing our waffles the same way—syrup, then butter—our movements mirroring each other. Hard to know if it’s that same instinct that drew us to do this back when we were kids, or if Simon’s imitating me to remind me of those days.