Chapter Seven

Drevin doesn’t come to dinner.

He doesn’t text me either.

By ten that night, I tell myself I don’t care.

By eleven, I’ve checked my phone twelve times.

At eleven-thirty, I throw it onto my nightstand and go to sleep angry.

The next morning, there’s a message waiting for me.

Sorry about last night. Got busy.

That’s it.

No explanation.

No stupid meme.

No Did your mom save me leftovers?

Just four words.

I stare at them until the screen goes dark.

Six days until my birthday.

And somehow six days feels like a very long time.

---

Thursday nights belong to us.

They have since I was fourteen and Drevin declared that my taste in movies was a personal offense he was morally obligated to correct.

The rules are simple.

One of us picks the movie.

The other complains.

We order too much food.

Drevin eats most of mine.

And neither of us is allowed to cancel unless someone is bleeding, dying, or actively being chased by rogues.

We added the third one after an unfortunate camping trip when we were sixteen.

So when Drevin finally texts me just before seven, I expect something normal.

Coming over.

Relief hits me so quickly it makes me angry.

I type:

How generous of you.

Three dots appear.

Missed you too, menace.

My chest softens.

Idiot.

I hate him.

Mostly.

Twenty minutes later, Drevin walks through the front door carrying pizza.

“Your favorite person has arrived.”

I look up from the couch.

“Did Logan come with you?”

His smile disappears.

I grin.

“Oh, that was easy.”

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m hilarious.”

He drops the pizza onto the coffee table.

“Move.”

“There’s an entire couch.”

“You’re in my spot.”

“This is my house.”

“And yet that’s my spot.”

I slide over.

Normally, Drevin drops beside me close enough that our legs touch.

Tonight, he sits at the other end.

Not dramatically.

Not far enough that anyone else would notice.

But there’s an entire cushion between us.

I stare at it.

Drevin opens the pizza box.

“You gonna eat or glare at the furniture all night?”

“I’m deciding whether I like the couch.”

“You’ve had it for four years.”

“People change.”

The words come out before I can stop them.

Drevin’s hand freezes over the pizza.

There.

Again.

That reaction.

Small.

Immediate.

Then he grabs a slice.

“Apparently.”

I look at him.

He looks at the television.

I hate this.

“Your turn to pick,” he says.

“You remembered?”

His head turns.

“Of course I remembered.”

Something about the offense in his voice makes me feel guilty.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did.”

“Okay. A little.”

He sighs.

“Pick a movie, Cam.”

So I do.

I choose the worst romantic comedy I can find because Drevin hates them.

Normally, he would spend the entire movie predicting the plot and complaining that everyone involved could solve their problems by having one conversation.

Tonight, he barely says anything.

Halfway through, I steal a piece of pepperoni from his plate.

He lets me.

No retaliation.

I slowly chew it.

Nothing.

I take another.

Drevin glances at me.

“What are you doing?”

“Testing something.”

“What?”

I steal a third.

“Camille.”

“There you are.”

His brows pull together.

“What?”

“You usually threaten my life when I touch your pizza.”

“You’re very concerned about how much I’m touching you and how possessive I am over food lately.”

Heat crawls into my cheeks.

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

I stare at him.

He stares back.

And suddenly the stupid movie is too loud.

I grab the remote and pause it.

Drevin groans.

“Oh, no.”

“What?”

“That look.”

“What look?”

“The one where you’ve decided we’re talking about feelings.”

“I don’t have a look.”

“You absolutely have a look.”

“Well, maybe if you would just talk to me without me having to corner you—”

“I’m sitting on a couch.”

“You know what I mean.”

His smile fades.

I put the remote down.

“Did I do something wrong?”

The question comes out quieter than I intended.

Drevin goes still.

“No.”

“Then why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

I laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

“Seriously?”

“Cam—”

“You barely come over. You leave early when you do. You keep stepping away every time I touch you. Yesterday you wouldn’t even come to dinner.”

“I told you I was busy.”

“With Felicity?”

His jaw tightens.

I immediately regret asking.

Not because I don’t want the answer.

Because I care about it way too much.

“What does Felicity have to do with this?”

“I don’t know.”

I pull my knees against my chest.

“That’s kind of the problem. I don’t know anything anymore.”

“That’s dramatic.”

My eyes snap toward him.

He winces.

“Bad word choice.”

“Very.”

“Camille, you didn’t do anything.”

“Then what changed?”

Nothing.

Drevin looks away.

I wait.

For once, I don’t rescue him with a joke.

I don’t change the subject.

I just wait.

His fingers tighten around the edge of his plate.

“Your birthday is next week.”

I blink.

“I’m aware.”

“You’re shifting.”

“Yes.”

“I know.”

“Congratulations. We’ve established the calendar.”

His mouth twitches, but the smile doesn’t come.

I lean forward.

“What does my shift have to do with you avoiding me?”

“I’m not avoiding you.”

“You’re sitting three feet away from me like I’m contagious.”

Drevin looks at the empty cushion between us.

For one second, something like guilt crosses his face.

Then he reaches over and shoves my foot.

“There. Contact.”

I yank my foot back.

“That isn’t funny.”

“I know.”

“Then stop.”

His expression falls.

The room gets quiet.

I don’t think Drevin has ever looked uncomfortable in my bedroom before.

Or my living room.

Or anywhere in this house.

He belongs here almost as much as I do.

At least, I thought he did.

“I miss you,” I say.

The words slip out before I can stop them.

His eyes lift to mine.

My throat tightens.

“And you’re sitting right there, which makes me feel stupid for saying it, but I do.”

“Cam…”

“If you need space, just tell me.”

His face changes.

“I don’t need space.”

“Then what do you need?”

He opens his mouth.

Closes it.

My frustration finally breaks.

“Why won’t you just tell me?”

“Because there’s nothing to tell.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Camille.”

“No.”

I stand.

“You don’t get to keep telling me nothing is wrong when something obviously is.”

Drevin stands too.

“I said you didn’t do anything.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“It’s the only answer I have.”

I stare at him.

“Fine.”

I reach for the remote and toss it onto the couch.

“Then go.”

His expression shifts.

“What?”

“If you don’t want to be here, go.”

“I never said that.”

“You don’t have to.”

Drevin looks almost angry now.

Except underneath the anger is something else.

Something that looks a lot like hurt.

“You think I don’t want to be here?”

“I don’t know what you want.”

The words hang between us.

Drevin’s phone buzzes on the table.

Neither of us looks at it.

He exhales slowly.

Then reaches for his jacket.

Of course.

I laugh under my breath.

“Wow.”

“What?”

“You’re actually leaving.”

“You just told me to.”

“I also told you I wanted you to talk to me.”

“I can’t give you the answer you want.”

“I don’t even know what answer I want.”

Drevin shoves his arms into his jacket.

I stand there feeling stupidly close to tears.

I hate it.

I hate that he can do this to me without even trying.

He walks toward the door.

Then stops.

His back is to me.

“Camille.”

“What?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

I fold my arms tightly across my chest.

“That’s starting to feel worse.”

Drevin’s shoulders tense.

For one second, I think he might turn around.

He doesn’t.

He opens the door.

“Night, Cam.”

The door closes behind him.

I stare at it.

Then at the half-eaten pizza.

The paused movie.

The empty cushion beside where he’d been sitting.

Thursday nights have belonged to Drevin and me for four years.

He has never left before the movie ended.

Not once.

Until tonight.