Page 6 of End Game

“You know I’m going to,” Dad says. “That’s my job.”

“I’m fine. I’ll be fine,” I insist, although my eyes are welling with tears. He’s acting like this is the last time I’m going to see him. He’ll only be an hour away. That’s nothing after the last four years.

“I’ve got her,” Barrett says, squeezing my shoulder. “I’ll always take care of her.”

After my parents finally—finally—leave, Barrett helps me unpack. Basically, that means he sits on my bed, pulls stuff out of my suitcases, and hands everything to me to hang up in the tiny closet or fold into my new dresser. I have more clothes than I thought. Boston means actual seasons and weather and wearing layers. Yet another way my old life in Southern California feels a million miles away.

Barrett collapses onto my bed and tucks his arms around the pillows. “Come lay down with me.”

“I have so much more to do.” My floor is a tangled mess of clothes, empty suitcases, and discarded boxes.

He catches my hand and tugs. I half-stumble onto him, falling across his lap and his broad belly. He wraps his strong arms around me and hauls me next to him, his big body curling around me. He’s big and strong, and I’m small and strong, and this could feel like something it’s not. Instead, it feels… comforting. Natural. Almost familiar, which is crazy.

This is all new. That isn’t who we are. There have always been very strict lines in our friendship. Sure, we’ve gone to school dances together, we’ve had sleepovers at each other’s houses, but we aren’t dating or in a relationship. We’ve never shared a bed. We’re just friends. Best friends.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says quietly. “I know it’s shitty how you ended up here—”

“It’s fine,” I tell him.

“It’s not. You don’t have to pretend with me.”

I sigh. “Yeah, it’s shitty. It’s not what I would have picked. But—”

“Yeah,” he says, reaching for my hand and squeezing.

Terminal cancer. Nobody knows how long my dad has, and we all have to act like everything is fine. It’s not fine. Nothing is fine.

There’s a vibration against my hip. He groans and shifts, taking his phone out of his pocket.

“The guys are heading to the ASC in a bit. Do you want to see everyone?”

“I guess so. Better get it over with.”

“They’re looking forward to getting to know you better,” he says. He thumbs out a reply and rests the phone screen side down on his broad belly. He worms his arm beneath my pillow to curl around my shoulders, so my neck is resting on his bicep. He smells good, like his soap and cologne and a scent that can only be described as boy that doesn’t offend my nose. “But not for a little while. We have time for a power nap.”

Tentatively, I roll to face him. His arm tightens around me, his hand rubbing my upper arm. His eyes are closed, a happy smile on his face.

“Rest,” he says. “Stop staring at me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he says, his eyes still closed. “We have an hour until dinner.”

I yawn. I guess I am kind of tired. Moving isn’t for the faint of heart.

My eyes fall closed. I don’t know if I actually fall asleep or if I’m just dozing, but all too soon, Barrett is shifting beneath me. Something touches my temple.

“Wake up, Dee,” he murmurs quietly. He brushes some hair out of my face.

That feels nice.

“I don’t wanna,” I tell him, my eyes still firmly closed. I must be dreaming.

He kisses my forehead. “You’ve got to. It’s time for dinner.”

I stretch. My arm knocks against his broad chest. He huffs out a breath of laughter. I punch his shoulder, and it hurts my knuckles. Guess I’m not dreaming, then.

“Come on, sleepyhead.”