Page 75 of A Good Book

When I reached the top, I peeked into Tillie’s room, but she wasn’t there. I had my paperclip in my pocket, but when I tried the door handle, it was unlocked. The room was dim from the drawn shades, sans the light from his alarm clock. I softly closed the door behind me, and tiptoed toward his bed, praying I didn’t step on any Legos.

I slid into bed with him, and he jumped.

“It’s me,” I said, but he continued to back away. “It’s Gab—” I was an idiot. Why was it so easy to forget he couldn’t hear?

I guided his hand to my face and my hair, and he relaxed.

“What are you doing?” His voice was faint and raspy.

I rubbed my nose along his neck before kissing it.

“What are you doing?” he repeated.

I grinned against his skin then kissed along his jaw toward his lips.

“Gabbs, we can’t do this.” He grabbed my wrists and climbed over me to get out of bed. After plucking things from his dresser drawers, he left the room.

I threw an arm over my face and breathed slowly. What was I doing? Before the rational part of my brain could answer, Ben returned and turned on the light. He wore jeans ripped above the knee and a gray T-shirt as wrinkled as his anguished face. It was the look my parents gave me any time I disappointed them.

On a slow deflate, I stood and grabbed paper and a pen from his desk.

I need to finish my Christmas shopping. Come with me.

He shook his head while balancing on one foot to pull on his socks.

You need to finish your Christmas shopping. I’ll take you.

Ben stared at the paper with a dead expression.

It’s not about ME. It’s about YOU. Happy now?

His gaze lifted from the paper to my face, and I returned a toothy grin. As hard as he tried not to smile, the corner of his mouth twitched.

“I’m skipping Christmas,” he said.

I tapped my temple and pulled my hand away with my thumb and pinkie finger pointed outward (the sign for “why”) while saying it too.

As much as my signing seemed to irritate him, he couldn’t pretend that he didn’t understand what I asked. Once again, the unopened letter from me was on his desk. I made of show of ripping it into pieces before writing:

Why didn’t you write me back?

After a brief glance at the paper, he sighed and ran his hands through his hair. I told myself I wouldn’t be that person—the one who made everything about me. But what we did in his bed over Thanksgiving wasn’t just about me; it was about us.

Do you regret it?

Tension pulled at his brow as he stared at the paper. “I don’t know.”

What was that supposed to mean? We didn’t have sex. So why did he say that?

“We should just be friends.” Every word he spoke dug into my heart, exposing its fragility.

Again, I signed, “Why?”

“Because our friendship should come first.”

Ben always had a way of tripping up my thinking. I was a dreamer floating in the wind, and he was my gravity, my gentle anchor to reality. Of course, our friendship came first. Except, there was a “but” that came after that thought. I didn’t know what came after the “but,”butsomething did because we were friends.

Best friends.

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