The Best of Us

two

AUGUST 2014

"YOUR HAIR IS sticking up all over the place," he murmured, reaching a swift, tender hand out to smooth it down, his palm brushing over my head.

His eyes were pearly with morning and he was wearing the same baggy, light blue t-shirt that he'd slept in. It might have been mine, but I couldn't be sure. A lip of sunlight poking between the clouds fell across his front lawn in a stretch of fuzzy light, and the rosebuds of his lips blossomed into a sleepy sort of smile. Suddenly, I had a terrible urge to touch him.

There was a brisk chill through my spine, goosebumps across the back of my neck, and a pull in my ribs when his slender fingers pulled gently through my hair. "Slept hard," I muttered, failing to suppress a yawn and trying to smile through it.

It wasn't long after eleven on the last day of August and Bradley and I were standing in his front doorway; him inside of the house, me out on the porch. The sky was a milky blue and the sun's beaming face was mellowed by the white fluff of the clouds, a patch of shade falling over the neighbourhood.

We hadn't slept long. He had fallen asleep at six-thirty, I had fallen asleep at seven; he had woken up at eleven, and I had woken up just before. We were both exhausted and I knew that if we wanted to go out then neither of us would be able to drag ourselves out of bed until evening, but that didn't bother me. I liked evenings with him as much as I liked every other time.

His palm halted in my hair, his fingers tangled in the thorns; lingering. He caught it as quickly as I did, saw the surprise that must've passed through my eyes, and briskly pulled away.

The problem with Bradley, the problem with his hands and his arms and his chest and all the rest of him, was that when he was gone or when he pulled back or moved away it always felt like something was missing.

"You're sure you don't wanna stay for breakfast?" He asked swiftly, one of his hands on the open front door as he glanced over his shoulder and back into the house. His other hand was now at his side, curled into a loose fist against his thigh.

"I'll eat later," I replied. All I was holding was my phone and a hoodie that I had left in his room at the start of summer. Everything else was on his bedroom floor.

He rubbed his eyes and yawned, then shrugged and smiled again. "Suit yourself."

As I opened my mouth to reply, he frowned and tilted his head to the right. He was looking past me; something had caught his attention. "What?" I asked, looking over my shoulder and across the street towards my house.

"Is that—?" His frown deepened, confusion stamped into his face, and his usually light, clear voice rasped. "Is that your brother's car?"

I turned my body around and away from him. There was a black car parked in the driveway of my house that was not my dad's Mercedes. I stared at it and, though its face was pointed towards our porch, I felt like it might be staring back. "Yeah," I replied slowly, brows knitted. "That is his car."

"What's he doing home?" Bradley asked, still staring out across the road.

"I have no idea," I admitted, quiet and lagging; still staring out across the road with him.

"I didn't know that he and your dad were talking again," he remarked, his voice drifting upwards with surprise. In the corner of my eye, I could see him looking at me, his brows raised and his eyes widened.