Page 81 of Gamebreaker

"I don't do grace and dignity. I do stubborn denial, followed by eventual bitter acceptance, followed by a strongly worded Yelp review."

"Harper."

"Fine. But I'm doing it under protest. I want that noted for the official record of our weird, complicated friendship. Future historians should know about this injustice."

"Noted. You're a gracious loser."

"I'm the worst loser,” I corrected. “I’m legendarily terrible at losing. I once refused to speak to Mia for three days after she beat me at Scrabble. Three days. Over a board game."

"That's incredibly petty."

"Thank you. I work hard at it."

I grabbed the dish soap, squirted a zealous amount into the sink, and turned on the hot water. Cam positioned herself next to me with a dish towel, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off her body, smell whatever clean, woodsy soap she used. God, that should not be legal.

This was fine. This was totally fine. We were just two adults doing dishes together. Nothing intimate or domestic about it. Completely normal friendship behavior.

(We were trying to be friends.)

(We were failing spectacularly at being just friends.)

(I didn't know what we were anymore.)

I plunged my hands into the soapy water, grabbed the first plate, and scrubbed it with more force than necessary. I handed it to Cam. Our fingers brushed. I pretended the spark of electricity that shot up my arm was static, not chemistry, not want, not the physical manifestation of sexual tension.

"So," Cam said after a minute of silence. "How's the friendship thing going for you?"

I nearly dropped the plate I was holding. "Excuse me?"

"The friendship thing. The boundaries we set. The mature adult decision we made." She was drying the plate with intent regard, not looking at me. "You handling it okay?"

"Oh, you mean the exquisite torture we've both agreed to for reasons that seemed logical at the time but now feel increasingly masochistic? That friendship thing?"

"The very one."

"It's going great. Super great. I'm very well-adjusted and normal about it. Definitely not thinking about you constantly or anything. Very healthy mindset."

Cam raised a single, attractive brow. "Liar."

"Okay, fine. It's terrible. I hate it,” I admitted, exasperated. “I wake up thinking about you and go to sleep thinking about you and spend all the time in between also thinking about you. It's a problem. You're a problem. This whole situation is a problem."

"Same."

Just that. Same. Said so quietly I almost missed it over the sound of the running water.

I scrubbed another plate, trying to organize my thoughts into something coherent instead of just screaming into the void. "Can I ask you a question?"

"That depends. Is it going to be something ridiculous?"

"Hopefully not. But I make no promises."

"Then ask."

"What actually keeps you closeted? Like, specifically. Is it the endorsements? The media? Your family?" I handed her the plate. "I'm not asking to judge. I'm asking because I genuinely want to understand."

Cam was quiet for a long moment, drying the plate. "All of it. None of it. I don't know anymore."

"That's not an answer."