Page 222 of Cloudy With a Chance of Bad Decisions
I had no idea what I’d become.
I could handle being disliked by my previous partners.
But…George?
I couldn’t survive that.
Right now, he liked me. But like I’d told him—he’d only known me on my good days. And a week was…not long enough for him to get tired of me.
Except that you already admitted you’ve shown him more than you’ve ever shown anyone else,that same voice whispered.And he’s still here. Maybe that means something.
“What if he…” my voice came out choked. “What if he decides he doesn’t?—”
The passenger door opened and my words got stuck.
“What if he decides he doesn’t what?” George inquired as he slid into his spot. His backpack was between his legs, his upper body drowning in one of my t-shirts. He’d changed clothes. Apparently. When he’d been saying hisgoodbyes. And his clothing of choice was an item of mine. That he would…clearly be taking home with him.
I loved that he hadn’t asked permission to do that.
Almost as much as I loved his flawless timing.
I didn’t want to get into this with my dad. I couldn’t believe how close I’d gotten to just that—for years I’d refused to open up to him, careful to maintain my perfect son persona.
It was exhausting to feel like I lived in a constant state of crisis. A fact, in a way, George understood. It was part of why we got along so well. He did the same thing with his family—only better.
Christ, we made such a fucked up pair.
“What if he…” I didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to pretend like I hadn’t been about to talk about George.
Dad saved the day, patting George’s shoulder in greeting before sliding back into his seat. “Alex was concerned that Roderick might not be able to make it for their next game.”
“Oh,” George frowned. He glanced at me, a worried look in his eyes.
Are you okay?he mouthed. I smiled and nodded, even though I wasn’t.
Lying.
Like the coward I was.
Lying about the big stuff, like I’d told George I hated.
Who was the hypocrite now?
“You got everything?” I confirmed, reaching over to tweak his nose. He batted me off with a grumpy sound. I felt better immediately. The unease that’d settled cold and heavy around me dissipated.
“Yes.” George’s grimple winked at me. “Not my suit though. Mom said she’ll ship it to me. And my pickles,” he sighed. “Those are at your house.”
“That’s good.” And it was. It was totally, completely awesome. Totally. Yep. Totally great that he lived far enough away that my gifts would need to be shipped. Totally awesome that the next time I opened my fridge Iwas probably going to break down when I saw his goddamn pickles. “I’d be happy to do it.”
“You’ve done enough,” George promised, buckling himself up, then turning his attention to my dad. “Don’t you dare ship my half-eaten pickles to me.”
“Well, now I want to.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. James,” George said formally—like the nerd he was. I snorted, and my dad looked amused.
“Where’s my ‘good afternoon’?” I teased. “I wouldn’t mind being called Mr. James.”
“Alex,” George growled, embarrassed.
