pretty boy » flamingo

3 | old beanbags

Peyton accepted my apology a lot easier than I thought he would.

"Lauren." He had held a hand up, smirking. "Mind you, I'm never gonna let you forget it, but you don't have to keep apologizing. You've done it twelve times already."

"Thirteen, actually," Finley added from the other side of the room, where she was perched on a dark grey beanbag, her body sideways so her feet were hanging off but her head was snuggled comfortably against the enormous pillow, "You're lousy at counting." She didn't look up from her phone, but it was evident that she'd overheard our entire conversation.

We were upstairs in Peyton's attic, the rec room, which we'd nicknamed the Gameroom, and for a good reason, too. His dad liked to collect old and broken arcade games, and once he fixed them, he'd moved them all into Peyton's room. Once there was no more space, Mr. Williams stuffed them upstairs, where they'd been piling dust until fateful day the three of us were puny middle-schoolers were at Peyton's house for the first time. Finley had noted during the house tour that the attic looked like it could be an arcade, but having forgotten what an arcade was called, she called it a gameroom, hence dubbing it its honorific name.

Since then, we've cleaned the place up a bit. Nobody's ever going to get rid of the dust that seemed to keep reappearing, but the place now included an old couch, couple of beanbags, an air hockey table, and a television with Peyton's brother's old Xbox console. We'd spent countless hours after school here, as well as sleepovers, all-nighters, and during exam season, study sessions. His father told us he thinks we've spent more time in this room than our own.

"Shut it, you." I scowled, reaching for a grape from the plate sitting on the coffee table in front of us. While the third of our trio was sitting farther off, Peyton and I had collapsed on the couch and flopped our legs on the table, our feet inches away from the plate of grapes. "I could've just never said sorry, you wouldn't have cared. You're lucky I'm apologizing at all."

The second sentence was a lie, but the first one wasn't, and we both knew it. Although guilt had been eating at me the entire day, the rational voice in the back of my head told me they'd forget about it the next time I saw them, and everything would go back to how it was. If just one small mistake caused a havoc in our friendship, the three of us would've never lasted until high school.

Even so, I found myself apologizing the entire way into Peyton's house, as we got grapes from the fridge, up the stairs, and even as we sat down.

"Please. You apologize to ants when you step on their little ant piles."

"That was once!" I pushed him with my shoulder.

"Twice!" He pushed me back with more force, causing me to slam into the pillow to my right.

"Three times!" Finley called as we escalated into a short shoving match, "You're both lousy at counting!"

"Oh, yeah, sorry I don't count how many ant piles I ruin," I shouted sarcastically, moving my feet onto the arm of the sofa and launching myself at Peyton, knocking him on his side. I didn't get off of him, still holding him against the couch with my arm.

"Do you yield?"

"Get off of me!" It was a muffled yell, but I could hear the touch of amusement that kept me from letting him back up. Instead, I grinned and pushed him further into the cushions.

"Know when you're beaten!"

"Oh, for god's sake. Stop acting like a bunch of horny twelve-year-old boys." I turned to Finley, who had finally put down her phone and was watching the ruckus unfold before her eyes.

"I'm not just any horny twelve-year-old boy, I'm your horny twelve-year-old boy." I flashed her a brash smile, blowing kisses.

"Finley, run while you can!" Peyton, who's face was half-buried in the old couch, gave a throaty warning, wheezing for air.