Page 29 of The Lies We Play

Around midnight, we take the back stairs.

He goes first, then slows after two steps, as if he realizes I am behind him and doesn’t want to make me feel chased. I follow with my hand on the rail, his sweatshirt swallowing my wrists, his warmth still caught in the fabric.

The stairwell smells like old paint, dust, and rain trapped in brick.

Neither of us says much.

On my landing, at my door, I stop.

Creed stops two steps below me, which puts his face almost level with mine.

That feels unfair.

He looks up at me, and the hallway light catches the tired boyishness in his face, the part he probably doesn't know he still has. The part beneath the hockey player, beneath the confidence, beneath the careful man who gives people space and pretends it costs him nothing.

“I should give this back,” I say, touching the sweatshirt.

“You should keep it tonight.”

“You said that already.”

“I’m consistent.”

“That sounds suspiciously like a flaw.”

“Most virtues do, if you look at them wrong.”

He reaches into his pocket, then stops. His eyes come back to mine.

“We should exchange numbers,” he says.

My pulse does something humiliating.

“For roof custody negotiations?” I ask.

“For that.” His mouth tips. “And in case it’s eleven o’clock and I need an update on whatever you’re currently reading—or your day.”

I look at him.

He holds my gaze like he knows better than to move first.

For one second, I think about lifting onto my toes and kissing his cheek.

I don’t.

I take his phone instead.

Our fingers brush when he hands it to me.

It is barely anything.

It is enough.

I type in my number with great dignity, meaning I only almost drop the phone once. I hand it back, and he looks down at the screen.

He sends me a text before I can say anything else.

My phone buzzes inside the pocket of my pajama pants.