Page 43 of The Best Parts of Him
Dabbs let out a short laugh. “See you in a bit.”
chapter twelve
“What the actual fuck, Kyle? That’s not a word.”
Dabbs tallied his points the following evening—fifteen for playing P-H-P-H-T plus a double word score for thirty points total—and scribbled it on the scoresheet. Did Ryland realize he’d used his first name? Dabbs couldn’t remember the last person who’d called him Kyle outside of his family. He wasn’t even sure he’d answer to it if someone called out to him by his first name in a crowd.
But it was . . . nice . . . to hear it come out of Ryland’s mouth. Like Dabbs’ name belonged just to him.
“It’s a word,” Dabbs said. “Look it up.”
Sitting on the floor on the other side of the coffee table from him, Ryland typed phpht into the online Scrabble dictionary. “Holy shit, it is a word. But what does it mean?” He did a quick Google search, then read the definition aloud. “An onomatopoeic expression used to signify mild irritation or annoyance.” He gave Dabbs a hard stare. “Seriously?”
“Mild irritation or annoyance,” Dabbs repeated, jabbing a finger in Ryland’s direction. “Just like that.”
“Phpht,” Ryland said.
“A very appropriate use of the word.”
“I’ve never seen that word before ever.”
Dabbs shrugged. “Mostly I see it in comic books. Sometimes in manga. Do you like to read?”
“Not really. I’ve never been great at sitting still.” Before Dabbs could tease him about that, Ryland added, “I listen to a ton of audiobooks, though. I just finished Martin Short’s memoir. Have you read it?”
“I . . . no,” Dabbs stuttered, surprise leaving him temporarily at a loss for words. He hadn’t expected to have books in common between them, and he honestly wasn’t sure what to do about that.
“It’s wonderful,” Ryland said. “Super interesting, plus he narrates it, so it’s hilarious. I listened to it over several days on the drive to and from the arena, then started it over again on the flight here.” He squinted at his tiles and picked one out of his pile.
“Wait,” Dabbs said, scrambling to keep up. “What are you doing?”
Ryland paused. “Um . . . playing my turn?”
“Nope. You miss a turn.”
“What?” Ryland scowled first at Dabbs, then the board, then at Dabbs again. “Why?”
“Because you called me out on my word, but it was in the dictionary. So you miss a turn.”
“Aww. But you’re, like, fifty points ahead of me.”
Dabbs played ablaze and smirked—the z was worth ten points. “Way more than that now.”
“Man. I just can’t catch a break.” Ryland’s eyes held nothing but amusement as he said, “What do you want for breakfast tomorrow?”
That had been the bet when Ryland had pulled the game out of the upstairs linen closet—loser makes breakfast tomorrow.
Why Ryland had taken the bet when he’d once admitted to being more of a trivia guy was beyond Dabbs.
“Pancakes?”
Ryland cocked his head. “Are you allowed pancakes?”
“The doctor said that since I’ve been tolerating liquids, I can slowly add bland, easy-to-digest foods. I figure pancakes falls into those categories.”
“All right. Can’t say I’ve ever made pancakes before.”
“Oh. Never mind, then, I can pick something el?—”
