Page 118 of Rush
"She's a friend."
"I know you think that."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you have a blind spot when it comes to her and I'm not going to waste my energy trying to convince you otherwise."
He studies me for a long second. "You're really bothered by her."
"I'm not bothered. I'm just aware."
"Of what?"
"That she wants you, and she's waiting for me to fuck it up so she can swoop in."
"That's not true."
"Okay."
"Everly."
"Rush, I'm not fighting with you about this. You see her as a friend; I see her as a threat. We're not going to agree so let's just drop it."
He pulls me closer. "I'm with you."
"I know."
"Then why are you worried about Ciara?"
"I'm not worried about Ciara. I'm just paying attention. There's a difference."
We're quiet for a while, then he says, "Do you trust me?"
"Yeah, I trust you."
"Then trust that I'm not interested in Ciara or anyone else."
"I do trust that. I just don't trust her."
"Fair enough."
Later that night, we're back at my flat and we're on the couch. Rush is playing with the drawstring on my hoodie like it holds the secrets of the universe. He tugs it, lets it go, then tugs it again, over and over, the rhythm soft and thoughtless.
We’re curled up on the couch, legs tangled, a blanket draped over both of us even though it’s not really cold. His head is on my shoulder, and I can feel the weight of him, solid and real.
“You ever think about how weird hands are?” he asks suddenly.
I glance down. “Hands?”
“Yeah. Like, look at them.” He lifts mine, turns it palm up in his. “Bones, tendons, skin. They’re kind of gross.”
“Gross?” I laugh. “That’s what you’re thinking about right now?”
He grins. “I think deep thoughts. I'm mysterious like that.”
I shake my head, smiling as I lace our fingers together. “Your mystery is blinding.”
“Right? I’m basically a brooding novel in human form.”
