Page 77 of Just Forever

Lake snickers. “As long as you people keep losing teeth, I solemnly promise that won’t happen. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t condone violence, but I do like to see blood.”

Kian high-fives him.

It’s Saturday, and we’re watching the Knicks play the Celtics.

After spending most of the day in bed, it seemed like a good idea to drag ourselves out of it when Kian texted, so here we are.

I glance at Lake out of the corner of my eye yet again. He’s wearing a pair of dark blue jeans, a forest green Henley, and a pair of sneakers. He’s effortlessly cool and way too sexy for his own good. Or my good, for that matter, because it takes a lot of effort not to openly stare at him.

“Oh, come the fuck on!” Kian gestures toward the court. “He didn’t even touch him. You know what? Basketball would be ten times more enjoyable if we gave them sticks and had them get into an occasional fistfight. Stop glaring! You know it’s true,” he adds to the people in front of us, who are once again frowning at him.

“What are the chances he’s gonna get us beaten up before the game’s over?” Lake asks. He doesn’t look particularly worried about the prospect.

“Why did you want to come to the game if you dislike it so much?” I ask Kian.

“Please. Like I’m the only person in the world who hate-watches shit.”

Lake sends him an amused look. “Yeah, but you don’t seem like the type.”

“To hate-watch?” Kian asks.

“To hate anything at all.” Lake waves at him. “You’ve got this sunny-person energy. It’s a bit repulsive, honestly.”

“Well, sure. But there are universal things all people hate. Even us nice ones.” Kian looks at me. “Back me up on it.”

“A single hair in your mouth. Specifically on the back of your tongue, so you either have to stick your hand in your mouth to get rid of it or try to swallow it,” I say.

“Pennies,” Kian says. “Pointless fucking coins. Just round up or down to the nearest five and call it good, for crying out loud.”

“People who stand on the walking side of the escalator,” I say.

“Saying the word ‘hashtag’ out loud,” Kian adds.

“Fruit flavored water. Drink juice or drink water. Just pick one.”

“Soul patches. Learn how to fucking shave.”

“Suburbs,” I say.

Lake snorts, looks at me for a moment with that bright smile, then says, “Pan flutes.”

“Wet socks,” Kian says.

“Laugh tracks,” Lake adds. “I recognize a fucking joke. I don’t need pointers.”

The vehemence in his voice makes me laugh out loud. The people in the row in front of us jump up and cheer.

Kian snaps his head toward the court again. “Did we win?”

Lake and I look at each other, and we both grin.

It takes us a bit of time to get outside after the game ends, but once we do, Kian looks between Lake and me and asks, “Beers?”

Lake meets my gaze, and I raise my brows at him.

“Sure,” he says, so I nod. “Why not?”

We walk, since finding a cab right now is mission impossible, and while we do, Kian keeps ranting about the flaws of basketball. I walk close enough to Lake that every now and then, my fingers brush against his. It’s cold outside, and his hands are cold. I pull my gloves from my jacket pocket and wordlessly hand them over.

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