Page 97 of Shared By my Ex's Best Friends
I always notice and I love it.
Jake walks past her this morning and kisses the top of her head, mid-banana. “You look like you were hit by a truck,” he teases.
“I’m blamingyou,” she says, voice gravelly with sleep, but playful. “You kicked all night.”
Jake holds up his hands. “Not guilty. Igently nudged.”
“You were sprawled across the bed like a human starfish,” Liam mutters from behind the paper.
Maya grins into her coffee, and I can’t help but grin too. The warmth of them fills me up like sunlight through the window.
Some nights, the four of us pile onto the couch, limbs tangled, blankets twisted, the glow of the TV across the room.
The reality show we’re watching is objectively awful—something about couples surviving in the wilderness with no food and way too much drama—but we can’t stop watching.
Maya shouts at the screen like the contestants can hear her. Jake provides running commentary in a terrible Scottish accent, mimicking the host, and Liam quietly judges the entire production from beneath a fuzzy throw blanket he pretends he’s not using.
Maya eventually ends up sprawled across all of us, her head on Jake’s chest, her legs tossed over mine, Liam curled behind her like he’s standing guard. Her phone slips from her hand somewhere between commercial breaks, and her breathing evens out.
Other nights, we don’t even make it to the couch.
We get as far as the hallway, or the foot of the stairs, or the middle of the kitchen floor after dinner, and suddenly we’re wrapped around each other, hands exploring familiar skin like it’s the first time.
There’s laughter and whispered promises and soft gasps, and afterward, we fall asleep wherever we landed, blankets pulled from the nearest room, limbs draped and tangled. Hearts beating in sync.
It’s not all sunshine and rainbows, though. Of course it isn’t. No relationship is perfect.
Some mornings, the air feels heavier. Maya’s hormones are all over the place, and some days she wakes up nauseous and irritable. Once, she asked Jake for bacon and then nearly cried when the smell hit her.
She snapped at him, and Jake, caught off guard, snapped back.
“Why did you even ask for it if you were gonna get sick?” he said, more wounded than angry.
“I didn’t know!” she barked, then immediately covered her face with her hands. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I just feel like my body’s not mine anymore.”
Jake sat beside her in silence, then gently pried her hands away and kissed her forehead. “Okay. Then I’ll just make pancakes and smell like syrup instead. Better?”
She nodded, eyes glassy.
Liam is always trying to help, but sometimes that looks like over-planning. He means well, but he’ll fill her whole week with doctor’s appointments, rest periods, meal preps, and “fun time,” which is somehow both adorable and mildly infuriating.
“Liam,” Maya said one afternoon, staring at his planner. “You scheduled when I should nap.”
“I didn’tscheduleit. Isuggestedit.”
“At exactly 3:15 p.m.?”
“…Strongly suggested.”
She tried not to laugh. “You do know I’m a human, not a conference room, right?”
He flushed but didn’t argue. That night, he cleaned the entire bathroom, restocked all her teas, and folded three loads of her laundry without saying a word. Maya kissed his cheek as she passed, and that was that.
I mess up, too. I forget things—small things, but they matter. Like her ginger chews when we go out. Or the heating pad whenshe’s cramping. I see it in her eyes when I slip up. The little flicker of disappointment she tries to hide.
“Sorry,” I’ll say, every time, pulling her into my arms. “I should’ve remembered.”
Her shoulders will slump against mine, and she’ll sigh. “It’s okay.”
