* * *
I was right.
Saturday night Netflix and Fill, and Ives, as usual, is asleep by 10:58 p.m. She’s curled up in the corner of the couch, wearing my 10th grade soccer hoodie, and snoring lightly. Jacob is sprawled out on the floor under her with a Halloween-themed blanket draped over him. I gave him that blanket for his fifth birthday. I look them over, committing this moment to memory. No matter how many times I see her asleep, no matter how often I catch her wearing my clothing, it never affects me any less. And seeing Jacob curled up in a gift I gave him fills me with so much warmth. We might not be blood, but that kid couldn’t be more my brother even if we were.
Since we came home this weekend, we did Netflix and Fill at Ivy’s house with Jacob, and we were all able to cook dinner together. These nights are my favorite, even though Ivy can’t
cook for shit. It always ends up with me doing the cooking and she just hands me the stuff I need when I ask for it. She’s got a soft spot for Italian food, so tonight we (see also: I) made spaghetti with homemade meatballs and homemade marinara sauce. She put the store-bought garlic bread in the oven (it was only a little burnt), and Jacob set the table and grated the parmesan cheese like a champ.
My chest constricts as my gaze falls to her pouty lips. They’re parted slightly, and I once more find myself sinking into the memory of the time in 12th grade when I almost kissed her. It’s my biggest regret, and not just because I likely missed my only chance to taste her, to feel if her lips are as plush as they look. I regret it because of the chain of events that followed. How it led to more than a year of silence. How for fifteen months, she was lost to me, and when I finally got her back, she was different.
She’s mine again, but not.
She’s the same, but not.
We don’t talk about that time, and I’ve never told her that for fifteen months I couldn’t breathe right. That not seeing her every day caused a physical ache in my chest that still, after over two years of strong rekindled friendship, hasn’t quite disappeared. It’s why I’ll never make that mistake again. I’ll never attempt to cross the line, no matter how badly I may want to. Because I can’t lose her. Not again.
Second semester sophomore year, when we started the Netflix and Fill tradition, we were both in student dorms and the evening usually consisted of ordering pizza or subs from a campus restaurant and watching ridiculous comedies with our roommates. My roommate would always get tanked and pass out, and Ivy’s roommate, Bailey, would usually leave around 11 p.m. to go to a party. It always ended up being just Ivy and me, if you didn’t count my drunk-ass, snoring roommate. This was before her internship and before she started really cramming for the LSAT, so we’d stay up talking until sunrise. It was therapeutic, and it patched up our broken relationship one shitty comedy at a time.
I bend down and nudge Jacob awake, and he sleepily stumbles to his room, blanket draped around his shoulders like a cape.
“Ives,” I kneel next to the couch and whisper, brushing her hair off of her face and massaging her shoulder. “Ivy, move to your room. You’re gonna be miserable tomorrow if you sleep out here.” I graze my thumb over her cheek, and she leans into the touch. She’s warm and soft and fuck. I trace my fingertips up to her ear, tucking a strand of hair, and then slide my hand back to her shoulder, giving another soft shake.
Her eyes flutter open, and she looks up at me in a way that makes my heart race and my groin heat. Her eyes are a deep, sparkling blue, and I can’t look away.
“What time is it?”
“Eleven. You didn’t even make it into episode two,” I tease, and she scoffs sleepily.
“Whatever. Math is exhausting.” She stands and stretches her hands above her head. My old hoodie is baggy and long on her, but it rises slightly, showing off the bottom curve of her ass in her yoga pants.
“Are you leaving? You can stay on the couch, you know.”
“I’m going to head out. I told Ma and Pop I’d have breakfast with them since we’re home. You and Jacob can come, if you want.”
“I think we’ll stay here and toaster some Eggos. But tell your parents we said hello.”
“Sure.”
She nods, making her way to her bedroom and doesn’t even glance behind her as she replies, “Drive safe, Kell. Thanks for dinner.” As she disappears into her bedroom, I hear her call out, “love you!”
“Love you back,” I say quietly. Then I leave, locking the door on my way out.
I do my marathon training on the streets of my hometown the next morning, making it a point to run past several nostalgic places of interest. The elementary school where I met Preston and he became my first best friend. The middle school where I discovered my love for soccer. The practice fields where I spent weekends and summers, and the arcade where Preston and I probably still hold the Mortal Combat high scores.
When I run past the high school, I’m inundated with memories of Ivy. The assembly where we met on the first day of ninth grade. She fucking wowed me, and I walked her to all of her classes for the first month of school. I ended up with too many tardy slips and Ma grounded me from video games for two weeks, but it was worth it. The first time she came to one of my games, she’d painted her face and ironed my jersey number onto her t-shirt, and I swear my chest puffed up to twice its size with pride. It was my best game that year.
And then there was Senior Prom.
I run down Main Street and turn right on Franklin Avenue so I can see the ice cream shop where she and I take Jacob in the summers. I pass the pizza place where we went after homecoming in 10th grade. I thought it was a date. I wanted it to be a date, but that didn’t end up at all how I’d wanted.
Not for the first time, I roll my eyes at myself. I need to stop fucking doing this shit. It’s borderline obsessive, and I’m pretty sure my balls are shrinking from all the mental pining.
As I turn the corner back onto Main Street, I hear someone calling after me, so I stop and turn around.
“Kap!” Preston yells from the window of a BMW. “Kap, man. Hold up, I’m going to park.”
I press stop on my watch timer and head to where he’s parking. Other than some likes on social media here and there, I haven’t talked to Preston since the summer before sophomore year of college. He went out of state to Stanford. His parents are fucking loaded, and when I said I was glad my parents aren’t the type to force me into their chosen profession, I mostly meant I am glad my parents aren’t like Preston’s.