Amy drops me off at Bowie’s Saturday night.
“Have fun! Don’t eat too much candy!”
“Love you.”
Bowie’s parents have already gone to a costume party, but they left us a credit card to order pizza. Unlike Dad, who won’t let me have Bowie over if we’re alone, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson are cool with it. Granted, Dad doesn’t know: He’s with Jasmine in St. Louis for the weekend, ostensibly to visit our grandparents, but he’s no doubt going to drag her on a tour of Wash U or SLU while they’re out there.
I feel sorry for Jasmine, but only a little sorry, because her being gone means Liam is free to hang out with us.
Liam beams as he opens the door. He’s in a worn blue T-shirt that matches his eyes, and another pair of those soft black sweatpants he seems to own dozens of. “Hey! You finally made it.”
“Hey.”
Bowie orders our usual: thin crust, with pineapple and bell peppers and pepperoni. It’s a top-tier combination, if a little unorthodox.
I know there are members of the Toxic Pizza Fandom who reject adding pineapple to pizza, but thankfully Liam isn’t one of them. Besides, it’s delicious: sweet and sour and salty. Maybe I like it so much because that balance is at the heart of so much Iranian cooking.
Pineapple used to be Mom’s favorite too, before she moved out to Colorado to get away from us make a fresh start be closer to her parents, and started getting pan pizza with honey (honey!) drizzled over it. We still see her a few times a year, for holidays or summers, and despite her now-warped taste in pizza, I do miss her sometimes.
Not as much as Jasmine does. She was always closer to Mom. She took the divorce a lot harder than I did. I think in her mind, love was supposed to be forever. Indestructible. Magical.
Maybe that’s why, despite all the evidence that love is none of those things, Jasmine keeps chasing it with a never-ending list of boys at school. Like she’s trying to capture something that’s long gone.
Granted, I got sent to therapy after the divorce, so it’s not like I was entirely unscathed myself. But at least I don’t cling to the past the way Jasmine does.
We set up in the living room, using the big TV to play some Smash Bros since we have the house to ourselves. Somehow I end up sandwiched between Liam and Bowie, both their shoulders pressing against me, the smell of chlorine hitting me from both sides. They trash-talk each other as we play: Bowie’s legitimately terrible, and Liam’s pretty good. I don’t catch much of what’s said, but I’m not too bothered. Bowie will pause and tell me if it’s something important.
Sometimes it’s nice to turn my brain off and just be with people without constantly worrying if I’m understanding them right, or wondering if I’m missing things. So I relax and enjoy the body contact with Liam game, the feel of my friends laughing at my sides, the rumble of my controller as I use Ness’s baseball bat to send poor Pichu (Bowie) flying off the stage again.
I’m just about to get Liam’s last life—he’s played a passable game as Cloud, but he’s no match for me—when a phone buzzes against my hip. It’s not mine, though.
Liam pauses right before my PK Thunder hits him.
“Sorry,” he says, then signs it also. “Jasmine.”
Despite the warmth against my sides, I go cold. This was supposed to be friends time, and even from across the state, she manages to intrude. They’ve been on a couple dates now, and they’re going to a haunted house on Halloween. Despite Liam’s claustrophobia, which I’m not sure Jasmine even knows about.
I guess things are going well. And I’m happy for them. I really am.
Liam stands as he answers the phone; as he walks away, he reaches back and tucks in my tag.
Bowie rests their controller on their lap. “What’s that face for?”
“What face? Nothing.”
“Jacks.”
“What?”
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
But they keep studying me, their left hand going up to rub their right shoulder. I get this weird, quivery feeling in my chest and stomach. I glance back, but Liam’s still out of sight, probably in the kitchen or something.
“Promise not to say anything?”
Bowie nods.
“I . . . kind of have a crush on him.”
Bowie releases their shoulder. “I figured.”
“What?”
“Come on. If anyone else tucked in your tag for you, you’d elbow them in the spleen, but you just let him do it all the time. And don’t forget all those shmoodies you make him.”
“He won them.”
“You wanted to make them,” Bowie says.
“Yeah, well, Jasmine took them over anyway.” I sigh. “I shouldn’t like him. He’s dating my sister.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Nothing! He can’t know. You promised.”
“I know, and I won’t say anything.”
“Is it super obvious?”
“I don’t think so.” Bowie gives me a gentle smile. “But I know you.”
My stomach is twisting itself into knots. All the Nerds and Smarties and Snickers I ate earlier threaten to make an encore appearance.
Bowie rubs their shoulder again.
“You hurting?”
“Little bit,” Bowie says. “Two thousand yards of butterfly this morning.”
“Want me to work on it?”
They accept my diversion with grace. “Sure.”
Bowie runs up to their bathroom to grab the Tiger Balm. When they return, they pull off their shirt and sit between my knees. I squeeze out some Tiger Balm and start working it in, digging my thumbs into the crunchy spots, using the heel of my hand to work on the knots.
My hand turns cool and tingly as I work, the menthol and camphor tickling my nose as I press against Bowie’s rich brown skin. Their shoulders are broad and round, with little striations from their strong muscles. They remind me of Liam’s shoulders, the way he looked with his shirt off in the changing room, the way he looked in his underwear, and I’m glad I wore jeans today because they won’t show my embarrassing reminiscence.
I’ve worked on Bowie’s shoulders dozens of times and never gotten an erection excited. But I can’t stop thinking of Liam, who’s in the other room, talking to my sister.
I’m a terrible brother.
Bowie grunts when I hit a tender spot.
“Stop?” I ask aloud, but they make the sign for more. I dig in with my elbow, and Bowie tenses for a second before relaxing. I keep wiggling my elbow, feeling the crunch in their muscles or tendons or ligaments or whatever it is that’s hurting. I bite my lip, controlling my pressure, so focused I don’t notice Liam’s back until he blocks the TV.
My elbow slips, and Bowie arches away to avoid me hitting their shoulder blade.
“Oh.” Liam stares at us, at Bowie with their shirt off. “Uh . . .”
“Hey,” I say. Liam’s still got his phone in his hand. “Good call?”
“Oh. Yeah.” He scratches the back of his neck as I drag my thumbs along the sides of Bowie’s neck. Bowie melts a bit. Liam just stares at us, this weird expression on his face, like maybe he wants me to work on him too.
“I can do you next if you need. Bowie said today’s practice was rough.”
“Oh. Yeah.” Liam shrugs. “I’m good. Thanks.”
“Okay.” I finish rubbing the Tiger Balm in, and Bowie pulls their shirt on. “Lemme wash my hands and I can finish kicking your ass.”
Liam laughs. “Fine.”
We play a couple more rounds—I win them all—until the doorbell flashes. Bowie throws down their controller without even pausing, leaving Pichu standing there all vulnerable, and leaps off the couch to grab the pizza.
I pause the game. I might be competitive when it comes to Smash, but I don’t take cheap shots.
“You hungry?” I ask.
Liam nods. He bites his lip, then looks at me. “Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for letting me hang out tonight. I didn’t mean to somethingsomething.”
“I’m glad you could come. I wish we’d hung out more before.”
Maybe if I’d gotten to be friends with Liam before this year, things between us could’ve been different.
Then again, maybe it would’ve been worse. Maybe I’d have asked him out and he’d have gently let me down, but then things would’ve been awkward, and we’d have drifted apart.
Maybe he and Jasmine would’ve started dating way before that. Then she could’ve skipped Man Bun Nick and Stanky Tristan and possibly even Monsieur Baguette. Maybe they’d be an official couple, boyfriend and girlfriend, happy and going to homecoming and Sweetheart and prom together.
Maybe they’d have dated and broken up and I’d have an old, wrinkled list in the back of my notebook.
Liam’s talking to me again.
“Sorry. What?”
“Oh. Just, it means a lot to me. Things at home are . . .” His face falls.
“What?”
He chews his lip for a second.
“How old were you when your parents divorced?”
“Seven. Jasmine was eight. Why?”
“Mine are getting divorced.”
He says it so simply, like it doesn’t bother him. But his lip quivers. I wouldn’t notice if he wasn’t right in front of me.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s . . . I guess it had to happen. But I’m just so tired of it all. Of trying to somethingsomething all the time.”
“Sorry. Say again?”
“I’m tired of playing peacemaker all the time. And now Dad’s packing up to move out. It’s . . .”
“Weird?”
He nods. “And he keeps talking about, like, setting up a room for me at his new place. Asking me what I want. And I just keep saying yes to everything because I don’t know how to tell him I don’t want to live with him.”
Ouch. I don’t even know what to say to that. Before I can even try, Bowie flicks the living room lights on and off. We turn to find them at the switch.
“Are you two coming? Pizza’s getting cold.”
“Coming!” Liam offers me a hand off the couch, and I let him pull me up, and I don’t even hold onto his perfect hand for too long.
But he yanks me a bit too hard, and I nearly bump against his chest. I back away.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I swallow. “You know it’s okay, right? If you don’t want to?”
I didn’t want to move to Colorado with Mom.
He shrugs, like maybe he doesn’t know. Or isn’t sure.
When he saw my lists, he joked about being a people pleaser, but maybe he thinks he really is. Maybe he needs to remember it’s okay to make himself happy too.
Before I can figure out how to say that, he shakes himself off. “Sorry. I’m here to have fun, not mope. Let’s eat.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.” He gives me a little smile. “You’re a good friend, Jackson. What would I do without you?”
I blush. A good friend, but nothing more. “Win at Smash more often?”
He cracks up.